Overly simple thoughts

Even My Hallucinations Are Bored

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I rarely take medications. It’s not a personal vendetta against the pharmaceutical companies, although ever since the invention of “restless legs syndrome” I’ve been kind of gun-shy on their ability to cure me of anything important. I’m also not a hippie or any kind of purist, because I’ve decided if you’re willing to put as many Doritos and marshmallows into your body as I do, a few pills aren’t going to hurt anything. I’m basically just freakishly healthy. Every time I actually get sick enough to see a doctor I end up having to fill out all new forms because their computers kicked me out of the system as probably being deceased.

That makes me pretty much a lightweight in the pill-popping department, which is probably why one of the three things I’m supposed to be taking for my neck is now in the bottom drawer of the bathroom vanity. I tried for several days to get used to the side effects, but I couldn’t do it anymore. The first problem was very real, vivid dreams, the kind that make you more tired in the morning than when you went to bed because your brain wouldn’t shut the hell up while you were trying to sleep. I distinctly remember waking up in the middle of the first night and walloping the crap out of my poor husband for stealing my artificial legs. What kind of A-hole steals a woman’s fake legs and hides them where she can’t get to them? (He’s just as confused by this as you are.)

The little pill deal-breaker for me was when I started hallucinating, which was clearly NOT written on the package insert as a possible side effect. I realize that hallucinations are ultimately a by-product of the owner’s subconscious, and therefore, things that are already manifested somehow in her brain. Sadly, my hallucinations were as boring as I am.

One of my first hallucinations was dryer lint all over my shirt. Jim Morrison gets to see rainbow colors and flying unicorns when he’s high, I just keep seeing fuzz all over my laundry. Another one was the feeling that my ponytail holder was sliding off my ponytail. That’ll keep those patients in rehab going nuts for hours. Possibly the only scary hallucination was a Jewish mother-in-law complaining about my cooking and my housekeeping. The joke’s on her, I don’t cook or clean and my husband’s not Jewish. I totally took her down with my verbal ninja skills.

Since the neck-curing pills aren’t working out I’ve decided to just keep leaning my head to one side like I’m deep in thought, so I’ve been practicing my pensive look. Unfortunately, the sideways head and the deep-in-thought face only convince people around me that I might be having a stroke. I don’t even want to think about the pills I’d have to take for that.

The Official Medical Diagnosis: Old Age

ME Overly simple thoughts

If Snooki can pull off a neck brace...oh wait, she can't.

I went to the doctor yesterday because I couldn’t stand the scary pain in my chest anymore. It was thrilling to see one car in the whole parking lot, but at the same time, wouldn’t you think there would be more patients wanting to see this person? Apparently he’s not in high demand, but that’s okay, all I really wanted out of this person was a signature on a prescription pad. If a vet could have made the pain stop, I would have gone there. So what if there’s a picture of a horse on the side of the bottle?

And even though there was no one waiting to see this doctor, I had to wait a horribly long time in the exam room for him to come in. That was their first mistake, because if you leave me in a room with lots of stuff and no surveillance cameras, I’m totally gonna mess with things. I actually started live-tweeting the appointment, complete with photos from my camera phone. The entire internet saw the blood stain dripping down the garbage can. The longer you leave me in there, the more stuff I can make up about you, Doctor. You’re only hurting yourself.

When he finally came in, he was a very nice elderly grandfatherly type. He told some jokes, asked me a lot of questions, moved my head around, poked my neck in places that made me bite the inside of my mouth, then rolled back on the chair (the one I had been spinning on earlier) and told me that I have arthritis. Of the neck. Nowhere else, just my neck.

My first thought was, “Aren’t I a little bit young for arthritis?” Actually, that was my second thought. My first thought was, “Jackpot! Handicapped parking tag!” THEN I thought, “Wait, I’m only thirty-eight years old.”

Now, I’m not sensitive about my age. I actually proudly tell my students that I was alive for the Vietnam War. I leave off the part about how we had the last soldier out of there before my little black umbilical stump had fallen off, but technically, it’s the truth. But I was really kind of weirded out because if I’m falling apart this badly at 38, sixty is going to be a real bitch-slap.

The hard part was telling my husband. Actually, that was kind of fun, too. I remember saying to him, “Now, before you even think about laughing at me, remember…you’re bald.” Husband was not laughing, he was actually very sweet. So sweet, in fact, that I felt a little bit bad telling him that the doctor said I have to see a massage therapist weekly and I can’t do any lifting at all for the rest of my life because it could make my head fall off. I think I mentioned I might have to quit my job, too, but once he started squinting his eyes at me I knew he wasn’t buying it. Especially when he said, “You went to that old man doctor again, didn’t you? The one who tells everyone whatever they want to hear?” I was busted. I tried playing it off by having a dementia attack, but sadly, I’m not quite old enough to pull that off. Maybe by next year.

Thirty Seconds of My Life I Wish I Had Back

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

Sister has a kickassedest purse...it's still a word.

I have the most kickassedest of computers (that is too a word, look it up). It is literally a mini laptop computer that actually fits inside my purse, and no, I don’t carry a duffel bag as a purse. Anymore. Not since my kids quit pooping themselves in public places. I have a typical grey leather, fairly utilitarian purse but with an edgy girly flair to it because it has several buckles. It’s like the purse a nun would carry if she were sent out undercover and needed to blend in with the rest of society, only she didn’t want to call attention to herself by carrying a big old flashy Satan purse.

So my awesome baby computer fits inside my perfectly normal purse, just in case I have a computer emergency. Believe it or not, even though I am not a high-priced attorney or a power player in the world of the stock exchange (I know so little about the stock exchange that I don’t even know if it’s supposed to be capitalized), every so often an English teacher/mommy/writer/novelist has a computer emergency, and I am ready like a Girl Scout.

But last night my baby computer turned on me. It was late, I’d only had a little bit to drink (way under the legal limit for sending emails), and I was writing the newsletter for the local running club. Yup, among my many publishing credits is the local runners’ newsletter. Suck it, Jane Austen. I write a weekly newsletter.

I wrote the entire newsletter, complete with very detailed accounts of what was happening in the local running scene, a listing of upcoming races, as well as one lost dog announcement, and the unthinkable happened. My computer got so bored with the material that it just quit. It didn’t die, or go into default mode, or start to smoke or anything, it was Just. So. Bored. I kind of was, too.

I tried for ages to retrieve the lost newsletter because I had poured an insane amount of unappreciated work into that newsletter, only to have sucked right off the screen. Well, I’m lying. I spent about three minutes looking for the lost newsletter, only to find it saved in the draft folder, which is a kind of unintentional safety net for those of us too stupid to stay off the trapeze in the first place. If I knew more about how technology worked, I probably wouldn’t have lost the newsletter to begin with, or had to spend another three minutes screaming my profanity-mantra into the microphone on my purse-sized laptop. That’ll learn me to buy a baby laptop when I really needed a huge desk-sized model, the kind more suited to inhaling important term papers or stock reports. Or Stock Reports, I don’t know which.

I Might Have to Plead the Fifth

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Handcuffs...not the schmexy kind.

Good marriages are the kinds of relationships where there is open communication between spouses, and where both partners have a clear understanding of what each expects from the other. There aren’t many surprise problems in a good marriage, because the partners discuss issues well before they come up. By that definition, I do not have a good marriage.

For reasons I don’t have to tell you about because you’re not the boss of me, I recently had a discussion with my marriage partner about how we would pay for an attorney if I were ever on trial. For anything. And nothing in particular. The discussion quickly evolved into more of an argument, because my marriage partner is a cheapskate who doesn’t see the need for paying for an attorney when he clearly heard the policeman say that one would be provided for me.

ME: What if it was, like, hypothetically, first degree murder?

HIM: Why would you have murdered someone that seriously? Shouldn’t you get your feet wet with manslaughter and work your way up?

ME: Maybe someone broke in when you weren’t home and tried to hurt us. Would you pay for my lawyer then?

HIM: That’s self-defense, silly.

ME: Well, maybe I did a really thorough job killing him and it looked a little overboard.

HIM: Easy. Insanity plea. Did you remember to make it look like you ate part of him?

ME: Well, duh, of course I would. I’m just saying if it looked like I was a little vengeful, my craphead free attorney wouldn’t know what to do.

HIM: I’m sure it will be fine.

ME: Okay, what if I stole something and I’m not actually on trial for my life. Do I still have to take the guy who sold his soul to the Devil to pay for law school, or can I have my own lawyer?

HIM: If you stole something, you’ve got it coming. I recommend confessing.

ME: What if I stole something because we needed food? Hmm? What then, smart guy?

HIM: If we needed food badly enough for you to steal something, we probably can’t afford a lawyer then either.

ME: What if I’m actually FRAMED for murdering you because someone wanted us all to suffer? You would let our kids go to an orphanage while I’m serving twenty-to-life, all because my free lawyer couldn’t spring me?

HIM: How did I end up the dead guy in this scenario???

ME: Honey, whenever I envision going to jail for murder, you’re ALWAYS the dead guy. Remember that.

HIM: Can you please sign these legal documents?

ME: What are they?

HIM: Oh, nothing, just something I had my lawyer draw up.

ME: Holy crap! How come you get a lawyer and I have to take the free guy???

HIM: ‘Cause I’m the dead guy.

ME: They call the dead guy a “victim” on all the cop shows.

HIM: I know. I’m definitely the victim.

It kind of went downhill from there, but fortunately my husband has too much pride to press charges against me for domestic violence. He’d hate for the entire world to know that his wife wiped the floor with him. At least that’s how it all played out in my head. I lost interest in the whole conversation once I realized I wasn’t getting OJ’s legal dream team if I’m ever arrested. It just means I need to pay the Mob to do all my dirty work. Too bad there aren’t a lot of Pro bono Sopranos.

It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, It’s a Pair of Underwear

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Despite pretty much sucking at it, I really do love to write. Unfortunately, the aforementioned sucking keeps me from being paid to write fiction or novels or any of the highbrow literary stuff that gets you a seat on Oprah’s couch. I do, however, get paid to write, just not books. Or anything longer than about 500 words, because apparently my readers tend to slip into a coma if they read my work for too long.

Therefore, I get paid to write articles and even I have to admit that it’s a little bit cool and it’s actually pretty fun. Today, by way of example, I got to write an article about DC Comic’s re-release of the Justice League series. For those of you not in-the-know, that’s Superman and all of the people he hangs out with, except when he’s being Clark Kent and he has to pretend he doesn’t know them if they bump into each other at the mall. Kind of like how I cannot make myself look my gynecologist in the eye if I accidentally see her at Walmart. I know where those eyes have been.

The nice people at DC Comics sent me all kinds of useful information about their characters and the relaunch, including some really helpful artwork to go with my article. Unfortunately, I can only name about three people in the picture of the Justice League. Superman is a given, Batman is pretty obvious, and I know Wonder Woman because I had some Wonder Woman Under-Roos when I was a kid. If you were born before 1976 you know what Under-Roos are; if you weren’t, well, Superman pretty much wore Under-Roos for the last seventy years.

The great thing about the updated super heroes is that Wonder Woman finally gets a pair of pants. I don’t know how comic book illustrators or fans ever expected her to kick ass in that American-flag-slash-overblown-panties outfit she used to wear, but they’ve done away with the granny panties and given her a pair of pants. Sadly, the red bustier she’s still wearing won’t let her raise her arms over her head without popping out of it, let alone lasso bad guys with her awesome glowing golden rope, but…baby steps. In a few years she might actually get to wear a shirt over her intimate apparel.

I am also completely jazz-hands about the fact that Superman no longer wears his underwear outside of his pants. Yes, I realize the man is, in fact, an alien from another planet and even immigrants to this country sometimes don’t know our cultural norms concerning wardrobe, especially if they’re from one of the burka countries. But surely to goodness someone in the last seventy years would have pulled him aside and told him he got the steps reversed when it came to putting on his pants.

I’m still a little frightened by the massive athletic supporters that the male superheroes are forced to wear, like the sheer size of their manhood tucked safely inside a titanium cup is going to intimidate the bad guys into just surrendering. We’ll have to work on that, DC.

Overall, the updated looks and new story lines are pretty exciting. Bat Girl is no longer in a wheel chair (duh, have you been living under a rock? She got SHOT by the Joker YEARS AGO!) and can walk again, but she’s also apparently a lesbian. Not kidding. Clark Kent is now single and Lois Lane is dating someone else. Spoiler alert: Batman is still a tortured soul who doesn’t actually have any super powers, but it’s okay, the Super Friends are still going to let him hang out with them but they’re totally gonna talk about him behind his back. At least he knows how to wear his underwear.

You Are What You Eat

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I had to drop my subscriptions to several blogs and websites recently because my email inbox felt very claustrophobic. Aside from Canadian viagra ads and girls with live webcams who apparently want to meet for some strange reason, I receive a lot of shopping circulars and coupons for ten percent off my entire order of something that I don’t remember ever wanting to buy in the first place. My inbox looks like an episode of Hoarders.

One of the emails I decided to unsubscribe to was the AllRecipes.com daily newsletter, and this time it had nothing to do with boycotting the company because of their corporate policies that allow them to eat endangered wombats. I dumped these guys because I simply couldn’t keep up with their ridiculously high standards.

The mission of AllRecipes.com is really and truly to make you feel like an inadequate harpie who is starving her family into submission. These lovely people email a recipe and menu plan every single day, complete with full-color photographs taken by real-live housewives who’ve apparently made these dishes and received rave reviews from family and friends. One woman was supposedly given the key to her city for her potato salad recipe made with eight kinds of potatoes and homemade mayonnaise.

While I admit the recipes are helpful if you’re looking for the skinny on how to make something specific like Lithuanian Latke-Palooza, I don’t really get the people who take pictures of their recipes and post them online. Seriously, what kind of person not only had the time to take pictures of their dinner, but really thought that the rest of the world cares what her Macho Nacho Taco Bake looks like?

I decided to get over myself and try to make more room in my schedule to be more like these culinary teachers’ pets. Here is how my week of lunch time recipes turned out.

Day One: I got busy on a report for work and ended up eating Twizzlers and a Rock Star energy drink, mocha flavor. I still haven’t stopped twitching.

Day Two: I got on a health kick and had a diet Mountain Dew and some carrots with ranch dressing that I bought at the gas station.

Day Three: I didn’t have any milk, so I ate Slim Fast powder out of the canister with a spoon I found in the bottom of my filing cabinet. I don’t think it was my spoon.

Days Four and Five fell apart altogether and I don’t want photographic evidence out there on the internet in case I ever run for public office.

I don’t think I’m cut out for the world of gourmet cooking, especially since my children make loud exclamations at the dinner table like, “Wow! We’re having MEAT!” I hereby promise that if these kind folks will stop sending me recipes I will stop photographing my actual meals. And I will work hard on not becoming a hoarder.

Let That Be A Lesson To You

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I’ve had some dark days over the years, very real moments in my life when I’ve had to ask the universe, “WHY?” But I had a revelation today in which I had the great fortune to find something that not many people ever discover, especially at a relatively young age like I did. I have discovered my purpose in life.

I am here on Earth to serve as a warning to others. I am a proverbial head-on-a-London-bridge-pike. Listen to my tales of woe and learn from my misfortune.

When I was three, I ate some kind of weird insanity-pepper because my brothers told me it was a cherry popsicle. I think it actually scarred the inside of my mouth. I learned that my brothers are assholes and I’m not really all that smart. And that my parents are psychos who grow insanity peppers in their garden.

At eight years old, I learned never to listen to my dad because he gave me a plastic garbage sack and told me to amuse myself by picking up litter. I reached out and grabbed a dull metal cannister that happened to be an Army-issue smoke grenade and burned the snot out of my hand. Who the heck leaves those things lying around?

The summer before sixth grade my feet had a growth spurt while the rest of my body did not, and I seem to recall that just one foot grew a lot bigger at first and the other one had to catch up to it. Who knew that could happen? I spent pretty much the entire school year face down in various places and my mom had to send a note asking the office to call her if I fell down any more so she could have me evaluated for epilepsy.

Oddly enough, middle school wasn’t too bad but by high school I learned that giving your kids weird names like Lorca means all the teachers are going to call the child “Orca” on the first day of school because the idiot in the office left off the first letter of her name by mistake. Trust me on this, name your kid Sam. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter.

By high school graduation, I ate what was possibly Mad Cow Disease-ly tainted beef and therefore cannot give blood anymore because I was contaminated. Congratulations, I can no longer donate a vital organ, either, even after I’m dead.

Ladies and gentlemen, that was just my formative years. Random weird crap has been happening to me ever since then, crazy things that make people think, “Seriously? What exactly were you doing when a piece of the Space Shuttle landed on your head?” This stuff keeps happening to me because I am alive just to be a professional cautionary tale. My entire life is meant for others to sit back and watch what happens to me. It’s like being a whipping boy, only my suffering comes from being strip searched in three different airports for traveling to the Middle East without any luggage but coming home with luggage. It’s a long story.

The Other Woman

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,


My husband came home a couple of days ago and admitted something horrible to me. I could see he was trying to figure out the best way to tell me without upsetting me, and as he fumbled for words my mind could only veer off in the worst directions.

I just knew he was about to confess to having an affair. Or to being a member of an organized crime ring. Art forgery? Actually had a sibling he’d killed with Lawn Jarts?

I’d seen a wild behavior begin here at home, maybe a month ago. He would come home from work, exchange pleasantries with us (you know, his family), and go turn on the video game console. He would recline on the couch with one leg propped up on top of the back cushions, playing vintage 1980s Pac Man for hours, level-after-ridiculous-level, that irritating beep-beep-beep music finally driving the rest of us upstairs.

I knew this about him and I accepted it. It was his way of unwinding at the end of a long day. I even justified it. Some men go to the gym instead of coming home. Other men can’t even loosen their neckties without pouring themselves a drink. Instead, my husband liked the sense of accomplishment that comes from eating digital pellets and outrunning cartoon paranormal creatures.
But he finally told me this week about his other “secret life.”

HIM: “I know you don’t think I’m really DOING anything useful when I play Pac Man, but I’ll have you know that all the time I play Pac Man has really helped me with my Mrs. Pac Man game.”

ME: (stupefied silence)

HIM: “Really. My score at Mrs. Pac Man is getting better and better.”

ME: (couldn’t-care-less silence)

HIM: “In fact, my Pac Man playing here at home is actually saving our family money.”

ME: (Dear Lord, please don’t let me speak. Please keep me from saying something mean. Amen.)

HIM: “In fact, I can play about eight levels on a single token.”

ME: “Wait. Token?”

HIM: “Yeah. You know, the token. You put it in the video game.”

ME: “Video game. Like at the arcade?”

HIM: “Of course.”

ME: “Oh my gosh, are you seriously telling me you’ve been going to the arcade to play Mrs. Pac Man?” (Loud screeching became involved…so much for my earlier prayer.) “Are YOU the creepy guy who hangs out in the arcade by himself playing VIDEO GAMES surrounded by freaked out ten-year-olds???”

I’ll spare you the rest of the conversation because it got really, really stupid after that. It involved a lengthy explanation of how playing video games was actually as healthy as going to work out (wrong), and how he was only spending a $1.25 a week at lunch now because he could play for his entire lunch hour on a single token (okay, he has a point), and by the time his little yellow blob finally got eaten by the low-resolution ghosts there was no time left for food (I never don’t have time for food). Sadly, the man has to pass an adult video store to get to the arcade and there’s a part of me that wishes he was stopping in there instead just because it would make more sense.

Given the wide variety of alternatives my mind has now come up with, I should probably be grateful that the “other woman” in his life hit her peak in 1983 and after all these years still wears a ridiculous pink hair bow perched on top of her head. I hope she knows this is just a passing fancy for him, and that I actually have his heart. Speaking of owning necessary vital organs, I’m gonna have his kidneys in a box if he starts hanging out at the skating rink behind my back.

Zombies: Friend or Foe?

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I know what you’re thinking. “Here we go, ANOTHER post about the zombie trend.” Way to judge the book by its cover. Or the blog post by its cover. I mean, title. Just keep reading.

Like many of you, I’m a little tired of zombies. ‘Course, I was tired of them after the third reference to the zombie apocalypse. It felt so forced. First we had the vampire craze, but I kind of got that because people have thought vampires were sexy ever since Bela Lugosi fanged his way into Hollywood (we especially like vampires with receding hairlines and incomprehensible accents). Then the werewolves came along, thanks to one particularly bad series of teen heartthrob movies that shall remain nameless.

And just like all things American, once we got tired of the shiny (or fangy/furry) new toy, we went on to the next big thing. Zombies. Or functionally deceased, as they apparently prefer to be called. You couldn’t swing an undead cat without hitting some reference to the coming zombie apocalypse. Don’t believe me? Check out the CDC’s guidelines on being prepared for the zombie uprising. Wish I was kidding there.

And while all of the crowd-followers were peppering their daily conversations with zombie references, nobody even gave a second thought to how these monstrosities are going to affect our daily lives. As if the economy isn’t in bad enough shape, people want to go bringing extra mouths to feed into it? Zombies had the courtesy to die off once and make room in the population, and society wants to bring them back? That is going to shatter our unemployment rate.

Our schools are already over-crowded, but now we supposedly need undead children taking up more space. And since they are technically not living, I’m willing to bet the government is going to consider zombie babies to not be actual members of the student body, meaning there will be no hiring of additional teachers to handle the overload.

And where are the environmentalists who should be protesting on this issue? Not only are the zombies going to add to the carbon footprint (those things are slow movers…they’re going to have to drive to the ends of their own driveways, just to get the mail), the methane given off by hordes of rotting undead corpses is going to blow our greenhouse effect into epic proportions. And now that these creatures are not in the ground where we left them, effectively fertilizing the soil, our plant life is going to go down the drain.

If there has to be an upside to zombie invasion, there are some potential benefits if we take full advantage. The real estate market could benefit, since these things will have to live somewhere. And if we could put the undead to good use in our law enforcement and criminal justice areas, it could result in a drop in the crime rate. If we could just convince the fashion industry that zombies already don’t eat and don’t need to be paid much, we could potentially see the end of those supermodels. (I’ve already thought of that…we can’t feed the supermodels to the zombies because the undead apparently subsist on brains. Ditto Congressmen as a food source.)

The truly alarming thing about the trend is if we will willingly embrace rotting monsters as the next It Girl, it kind of makes me fear what we’re going to glorify next. Aliens? Sea Serpents? Republicans? I shudder to think.

Read Anything Good Lately?

ME Overly simple thoughts


I am finally a published author. Well, I’ve been a published author, ever since that first poem appeared in the fourth grade newsletter. What I meant was I have finally published my first book to Kindle and Nook (insert shameless plug for book sales…here). And I’m very proud to say that I sold my first copy within an hour of publication. To my mother.

And that is precisely how I always envisioned my writing career going. I actually called my mom after my book was bought again, just to make sure she didn’t accidentally buy it again while having trouble getting her e-reader to work.

It’s not that I think I’m necessarily a bad writer, but there’s just so much good content to read out there. When the site stats to this blog show up and I see that seven people actually read it, my mind starts to tabulate how much it would cost me to mail those seven people each a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, just to give them something good to read.

Of course, there’s just as much crap out there, if not more. Apparently someone named Snooki has written a book and I cannot fathom that reading her book would kill fewer brain cells than inhaling gasoline straight out of the pump. Paris Hilton has written a book AND a sequel, which I’m pretty sure is mentioned in Revelation as one of the signs of the apocalypse.

My book, however, has one thing going for it that many other works of completely crap don’t have: it’s incredibly short. It’s completely worth the read because maxes out at just over 30,000 words, making it shorter than most television scripts. And that’s for the hour-long shows. If reading it is root-canal-quality agony, at least it will be over far sooner than the aforementioned root canal unless you really struggle with reading. Besides, my mom highly recommends it.