Author: ME

Really, I Got This.

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It’s really awesome that people send me funny stuff to write about, OR, they really suck for thinking that I’m not funny enough on my own. My own sister tried to get me killed this week by having me write a funny blog post about two MAJOR rival motorcycle gangs, one of whom rhymes with Bells Pangels, getting into a turf war that ended in three deaths over who got to use that neighborhood’s Starbucks. Seriously, people, thanks but no thanks. I like my lattes and my pulse.

But someone sent me this one and it just cannot be ignored. I will shut up now and let you enjoy it. If you’re eating a meal right now, feel free to go play Angry Birds on your iPhone and come back after you’ve digested.

This Is The Proudest Day Of My Life

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Isn't she adorable? I want to punch her a little bit.

I have a stunningly fantastic child. Actually, I have two of them, but this post is just about one of them. Oh stop it, nobody’s gonna be damaged by this. They’re not allowed to read my blog and not just because I have a potty mouth.

Stunningly Fantastic Child the First has a few flaws that as a proud mother I overlook on a daily basis, not the least of which is her inability to protect herself from junior high school bullying by being as weird as possible. For example, every year she opts to dress as a literary character for Halloween, and as an English teacher I should be pressing a hand to my heart while beaming. But she picks characters no one has EVER heard of then gets upset when no one knows what her costume is supposed to be.

Last year, we worked it out so she could be Hermione Granger, and she actually looked shockingly like the character. No one got it wrong except a drunk man who gave out rolls of Scotch tape he’d stolen from work, so he doesn’t count. However, when she dragged the costume out of the storage closet to wear it to the mall when the next movie came out, I had to put my foot down. She was upset with me, and I still don’t think she understood why I would not let her do that to herself. How do you lovingly tell an innocent child that she has a future of girl-on-girl hate crimes and cutting ahead of her if her fifth grade friends see her in the food court dressed as a girl wizard?

So this morning, when I reminded her that she needed to straighten up her bedroom before her sleepover tonight, she said words to me that I will treasure until my dying day: “Can I put my wizard chess set in your office? I don’t want Amy to see it.” A great weight had been lifted from my weary shoulders…my child was probably going to live through high school.

I do have to say to the kind and intelligent readers of this blog who would like to suggest that I should foster her sense of independence and relish in her quirkiness, “Have you been to a cluster-fuck that is a public high school lately?”

Forget the 80s movies where the jocks and cheerleaders walk past the nerds’ table and fling a French fry or two, those days are long gone. Now it’s cyberbullying and Facebook posts that go out to thousands of “friends” instantaneously. It’s sexting, where a picture gets snapped in the girls’ locker room and it’s sent out to hundreds of cell phones amongst the student body before the victim even has her shirt buttoned. Stuffing the science club president in his own locker? Amateur hour. Try any screenshot from the popular video game, Bully: Scholarship Edition.

No, with the teensiest sense of shame that I’ve been able to instill in my child, I’ve just increased her chances of living to become an adult. There will be plenty of time to play Harry Potter dress-up as she’s trying to prevent her own child from wearing his Power Rangers costume in public.

I Swear I’m Gonna Quit My Job and Guess Weight at the Circus

ME Overly simple thoughts
If it just had a built-in fridge and minibar, I'd never have to leave the bathroom.

Every so often, I have a bad day at work. It happens to everyone, right? We all have those days when we want to chunk it all and live in a tree house on a mountaintop overlooking a scenic valley, except in my case I’d get so bored looking at the valley that I would start to envision a giant tidal wave washing away all the homes, while panic-stricken townspeople scramble like ants to escape the tsunami of death. Just ignore me.

But the problem with having a bad day at work is that no one has just one job anymore. On any given day, my job as a teacher might be awesome but I come home to my job as a mom to discover that the dog we’ve had for years has forgotten how to use the bathroom outside and that one of the kids has also forgotten where the poop goes. Or I have one of those award-winning Mom days when I make it look freakin’ easy, then I start working on my job as a writer and realize that I cannot spell liaison anymore, no matter how hard I try.

Walking away starts to look really good sometimes.

What really stops me from quitting my job as a writer is NOT the desperate hope I cling to that someday I’ll be a famous published author who flies from book signing to book signing, pausing to approve the screenplay and attend Julia Roberts’ audition for the lead role.

It’s my dream toilet.

I don’t dream about being a famous enough writer (ahem…wealthy enough writer) to quit my day job. I actually really love my day job. I just want to be rich enough to own my dream potty, specifically the $6000 one I saw in a magazine.

This potty has it all. It has foot warmer vents, ambient lighting embedded in the base, an automatic seat warmer, even speakers so you can plug in your MP3 player to enjoy some soothing music. Or drown out the, um…sound. This potty-from-above even has a sensor that can tell whether the user is standing or sitting, and therefore will flush accordingly from either the Number One tank (less water) or Number Two tank (more water), all automatically, of course. It has an automatic deadly-accurate bidet feature! It has an iPad dock and desktop! It is poo-nirvana!

Even though I write fiction, I write enough non-fiction to realize this potty is not likely to happen in my bathroom any time soon. There are so many things we need before we need an ergonomic toilet with lumbar support. Right now I’d settle for a bathroom door that locks for those times I’m utilizing when my children suddenly remember where the poop goes.

Incandescent Burning Question

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How am I supposed to have a great idea with THOSE hanging over my head?

I read an article in Wired magazine last month that said light bulbs are about to be banned, by order of the government. No, I wasn’t drinking. At the time. Apparently, back in 2007 some energy committee banned light bulbs, probably while we were asleep. I think I would remember seeing news reports that light bulbs had been declared as illegal as weed (that’s pot, to people born before 1970…the young people call it weed now), although with enough weed you kind of don’t need light bulbs anymore.

My really burning question that has been bothering me ever since reading that article is this: how are cartoon characters supposed to get ideas now? Wil E. Coyote has had a hard enough time catching that friggin’ bird as it is, and now you want him to do it with a spiral tube over his head? The whole point of light bulbs is that they actually give off light, but you want him to come up with a brilliant plan and signify it by having a slow flicker eventually achieve full brightness?

I think we’re not supposed to panic about this congressional energy bill. We’re supposed to all happily make the transition to the $4 swirly bulbs by 2015 as the government and bulb people slowly start phasing out light bulbs. Hording has been discouraged, as has looting. Outright stealing of light bulbs from the supply closet at work is still okay.

The article actually was about the newfangled light bulbs that scientists and lightbulbologists have been working on, a design concept based on row upon ugly row of LEDs wedged inside a bulbous thing. Working on? As in, haven’t perfected yet? As in, what the hell are we supposed to do in 2015 for light? Yes, according to the article, the government went ahead and banned light bulbs (I really hope I read that wrong) without a working replacement invention in place. Maybe if they’d had an incandescent bulb over their heads instead of a swirly bulb, they would have had a better idea.

Go Ahead. Bet me MONEY This Isn’t Real.

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You KNOW I'm gonna wear these to Walmart. And to church. And then probably to Hell.

There is a website called TamponCrafts.com. It is an entire piece of the internet, accessed via valuable broadband, that is dedicated to making kitschy crap out of tampons. If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.

I want you to picture the scene where I send my child to school with a diorama of the first Thanksgiving made entirely out of tampons standing up in a cardboard shoebox. Or where we patiently arrange the tampons to represent the eight planets in the solar system (yeah, I was totally on board with kicking out Pluto). Or how we make an Inuit igloo out of the cottony middles, cutting off the strings to weave friendship bracelets for Field Day.

Then I want you to envision the school calling Child Welfare on me for using insertable feminine hygiene supplies to help my daughter with her homework.

I will freely admit that my real problem with TamponCrafts.com, besides the obvious shunning of the Instead plastic cup, is that I didn’t think of it first. Go ahead, give me a glue gun, various sequins, and a box of Tampax, and I will prove to you that I could come up with some really cool shit. Only no one’s gonna pay me to blog about it.

But the tampon-slash-doily site isn’t really the only missed opportunity on cyberspace. I really, really, REALLY wish I owned this one website whose URL I came across purely by accident, I swear. This one sticks in my craw so badly that I can’t think about it without wanting to take off my earring and cut someone:

DiscountStripper.com. Go ahead, click that link and see where it takes you.

Yup, there is a website devoted entirely to the tear-away spandex garments, f***-me pumps, and shiny tension-mounted poles (shut up, that wasn’t a dick joke) that strippers apparently need for their daily 9-to-5 jobs (pm to am, that is). Do you know what kind of money there is to bed made in French maid outfits with Velcro tabs? Or 120mm stiletto pumps that are still safe for walking the stage several times a night?
Instead, I caved to the pressure from my second grade nun and made this site, lorcadamon.com, a perfectly white-bread kind of website where no one has thong panties that rip off in time to the soundtrack from Boogie Nights. The joke’s on you, Sister Catherine, I fully intend to have my own herd of male prostitutes available for escort duties on my new site, herdofmanwhores.com. I have to pay for all those tampons and glue sticks somehow.

I Got Mugged on the Train to New Jersey

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I have spoken about my trip to New York for so long that the rest of you have probably grown a little tired of being jealous of my awesome life. Well, I’m here to tell you that it’s not all White Album martinis and library cards. No, I made the mistake of falling asleep on the train ride back to my hotel and when I woke, I realized I’d been robbed.

One of my contact lenses was missing.

Somehow without the other passengers noticing (or maybe they did notice and they all fell prey to Awkward Bystander Syndrome), the thief pried my eyelid open and took my contact lens. Fortunately, the approach of the train conductor scared him off before he could get the other contact lens.

Here is an artist's rendering of my contact lens in case you see it. REWARD: the other contact lens.
Here's what it will look like if my contact lens develops Stockholm Syndrome and helps the bad guy kidnap other contact lenses.

I know you might be wondering, “Is there really any street value in used contact lenses?” And I would have to say the answer is: “I don’t know.”

And though you might doubt my story, I will tell you that this HAS to be the truth. The only other explanation is that the contact lens migrated to the back of my eyeball and is permanently stuck there, melting into the surface at this very moment and causing eyeball cancer. Somehow, I would rather believe that a street person actually stuck his fingers in my eye and took it to wear like an invisible monocle.

Really, How Much Can Posting Bail Cost?

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If you are a follower of this blog, or even if you’ve accidentally clicked on it because you thought I might be married to Matt Damon but you’ve started to notice that not all is right on this website, then I want you to close your eyes and imagine what exactly could happen to me if I’m left to my own devices for an entire day in New York City. And I have a credit card. And half a sandwich in my purse.

I got to enjoy an entire day after my latest conference because my flight wasn’t until 6:00pm, so I used it the only way a freakishly skewed person like myself knows how: I went to the library.

Yeah, I said it. I had a day to kill and a really amazing credit limit and I went to the library. But the fun doesn’t stop there, my friends! I also saw the world’s largest Toys R Us (I’m sorry, Toys R Us, I realize your corporate branding is very important to you, but I can’t make my letter R turn around backwards like you do). I walked around Times Square a little bit, I saw the Empire State Building—twice, because I got turned around and ended up back at Penn Station—and went to the world’s most expensive flea market where I helped one junk dealer fix the antique piccolo he was selling because he couldn’t get it to play.

I did almost get kicked out of the library and maybe arrested and banned for life for trying to obtain an illegal library card. I wanted to fill out the form to get the card, but the only address I knew in New York was my parents’ first apartment when they got married.

SWEET LIBRARIAN: Yes ma’am, I’d be happy to help you get a card. Just fill out this form and sign here.

ME: Sure! Then I get my card?

SWEET LIBRARIAN: We’ll issue a temporary card today and then you’ll get your permanent card in the mail.

ME: Oh. So I can’t have my official card today?

SLIGHTLY LESS SWEET LIBRARIAN: No. That’s why we issue the temporary card today.

ME: I completely understand. But is there some way I could maybe give you a self-addressed, stamped envelope so my official card can be mailed to me?

IRRITATED LIBRARIAN: Do you happen to have a self-addressed, stamped envelope with you?

ME: No, but I could run get one.

SUSPICIOUS LIBRARIAN: I don’t think we’ll be able to do that.

ME: Um, does it matter that I don’t know my apartment number? I just know my street number. It’s the really tall building on West 75th Street.

IGNORING ME LIBRARIAN: Please fill out your form completely.

ME: Okay, okay. Jeez, it’s not like anyone wants to steal the books. This is the Fort Knox of libraries!

BITCHY LIBRARIAN: I’ll have you know, that we lose approximately 300,000 dollars’ worth of books every year to patrons who don’t return the books!

ME: Oh yeah? Well, you let those losers have a library card! See what knowing your complete street address will getcha???

Then she reached under the desk and tapped a button, so I left. But this isn’t over. I know people who know people and I am totally getting that library card. Bee-yatch.

I found the library! on Twitpic

Don’t Make Me Quisle You

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Even as a youngster, I was a bad ass.
On a really good day in the right near-dark ambient lighting with the help of a team of highly trained ninja-like beauticians, I can pull off…cute. Hello Kitty shoelaces would help the illusion, but a pair of patent-leather blood red stilettos would just confuse people. I would look like I had stolen someone’s shoes. This isn’t a self-deprecating blog post or a dig for followers to jump up with nice things to say; I’m really fine with this. I’ve been trying to veer toward “cute” since the day I was born.

The hardest part was back in junior high school. All of the kids were adorable in kindergarten, got a little bit awkward looking by middle school, but junior high school and high school were where the girls started to look pretty, then beautiful, then by college they were working in the realm of stunning. I got stuck somewhere between adorable and awkward.

That’s pretty much why it makes people laugh when I threaten to roundhouse kick them, sweep their legs out from under them, and pin them face down on the floor. It’s really bad when it’s an inmate I have to threaten, because he usually starts laughing. Luckily, once he’s doubled over holding his sides, that’s an excellent time to knee jab him in the face.

So I’m amassing an entire collection of words that sound just cute as a button but that can really screw you up in a monumental way. Darkle is a cute word, because it sounds like a nice word an older person might say instead of “urinate.” It really only means to make something darker, but if I were going to darkle you, it would be by using my mind powers to take away your eyesight. Dark now, isn’t it?

Another great one is quisle. Quisle (quiz-ul, not qwy’le, we’re not Celts) means to betray you in a terrible way. Can’t you just see the Godfather bringing in someone and having him shot right there in front of him, but first telling him, “You have quisled me. You quisled the whole family. I bring you in, I take care of you, and you repay me by quisling me? Make him disappear.”

And the mac-daddy cute-but-badassest word of them all, extirpate. It means to kill you. I completely picture my middle-aged soccer mom self, all five and a half feet of me, looking the gigantic bad guy in the face and saying, “I’m gonna extirpate you like no one has ever been extirpated before!” I totally envision my little fists on my hips when I say that.

Hopefully he will pass out from lack of air while doubled over laughing at me.

Hollywood, You Lied to Me

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There had better be a Starbucks there when I crash.

I am not ashamed to admit that every so often I get so wrapped up in a good TV show that it becomes nearly a medically diagnosed obsession. I have given up tickets to concerts, passed up camping trips, and even secretly skipped an obscure relative’s wedding (oh c’mon, we all know what a fruitcake she is, surely this won’t be her only wedding!), all because I was going to have to miss a new episode of my favorite show.

Netflix saved my sanity—and all future Christmas dinners with obscure relatives—by offering complete seasons of TV shows on disc. No wait, on streaming. No, back to discs. Nope, it’s streaming, I’m sure of it.

Even better, I’ve learned that I don’t have to actually watch shows on any given network time slot because I can just watch the entire series from start to finish without ever having to suffer a rerun or cliffhanger. So when I saw the show LOST being advertised on Netflix, I decided to never watch a single episode until they had pulled the entire series off the air, then I was going to watch all of the episodes at once while on vacation from work or the next time I’m laid up in bed recovering from hernia surgery. It made complete sense at the time.

Alas, it is not to be. I won’t be watching so much as the opening credits. Here’s why.

I’m currently typing this from somewhere over a stretch of land fairly close to Detroit. I’m in the smallest of passenger planes, wedged amongst a college guy who yells loudly while playing Angry Birds on his iPhone, an older woman who hasn’t stopped coughing since we left Atlanta, and a man who does not understand that the armrest marks the official border between the Land of His Seat and my own Seatopia.

I saw the commercials for LOST when it first came on the air and I am here to tell you with full authority that there are never that many beautiful people on one airplane. They lied to me.

Am I the only one who thought it was kind of strange that the survivors washed up on the island already haggard and stubbly, like they hadn’t shaved that morning before heading to the airport just in case they were going to be marooned on an island and wanted to look the part? And as the season wore on, why were all of the gorgeously stubbly-faced hottie men STILL stubbly faced? Unless someone had snuck a communal razor in his carry-on bag and the bag magically washed ashore, how were these men not sporting ZZ Top beards?

And is no one else worried that by the middle of season three the lone fat guy was still supremely overweight? Was he eating the extra cast members? Shouldn’t more people have been disappearing off the island as he struggled to maintain his Rubenesque figure?

Nope, the reality of airline travel struck and I’m done with pretty people masquerading as actual TSA passengers. It does kind of explain the government’s rush-job to develop, “I can see you naked through your clothes technology,” but that’s a whole other channel you’re not going to get me to watch.

I’m Going to New York and You’re Not

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Don't worry, while you're staying in Newark these gentlemen will watch your car for you.

Thanks to this really cool website who lowered its standards enough to let me write stuff on their news feed, I’m going to New York. More specifically, I’m going to this really cool, really hip, NEW part of New York called Newark. I’ve heard really awesome things about it.

According to everything I’ve heard, they’re really into safety there, which is why there’s barbed wire all over the place. The vending machines even have barbed wire around them, and it’s to make sure that when you go to get yourself a soda, it doesn’t just take your money and not give you a drink because someone has stolen all the sodas from the machine.

There are these really cool parking lots all over Newark, and people are paid to just stand around the parking lot and watch your car for you. All kinds of different people, which makes me really appreciate their sense of equality. The parking lot owners don’t discriminate on the basis of looks, because even the most hardened of criminals can find gainful employment working for the parking lot people.

It’s really cool how all the women feel super safe in the city, because there are always women just walking around. They’re not even doing anything, they’re just walking up and down the sidewalks, talking to people in their cars, calling out to each other. It’s really great.

I am a little bit concerned that I haven’t been able to find any libraries or museums in Newark when I looked on Google, but that’s okay. They’re so close to New York that there’s probably no point in building ANOTHER opera house. They choose to spend their money on these really quaint buildings called Shelter. Shelters are everywhere in Newark, which is practically like that poem on the bottom of the Statue of Liberty, where it says, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.” The whole freakin’ city is one big welcome hug!

Probably the best thing about the whole new part of New York is the name. NEWARK. Like, New Ark. It’s Biblical! It’s the New Ark, like the one where Noah rescued all the animals, except New Ark is going to rescue all the people who wear all of their clothes at the same time and push their groceries in shopping carts everywhere they go.

It’s got to be just the bestest city in the whole world, and I get to go there this weekend! It’s okay if you’re jealous, I’ll bring you back a souvenir. One place I saw even sold friendly balloons in the bathrooms and syringes are available, like, EVERYWHERE, just in case a diabetic shows up and forgot their kit. It’s gonna be so neat!