Lessons We Teach Our Children

See what I did there? I got you to click on the link to this post because you thought it was going to be touching and profound. Instead, it’s going to possibly be the most disturbing and asinine twelve minutes of your day. You’re welcome.

My daughter approached me and said, “When you kill somebody,” (yeah, let that sink in for a minute… my twelve-year-old came to me with a question about a scenario that started out AFTER having killed someone…), “When you kill somebody, why don’t you just take the body to the place that cremates people, instead of trying to find a place to hide the body?”

The most important thing I probably need to do is modify my parenting style. I’m not sure that it’s healthy for someone her age to a) assume there’s already a dead guy and b) be thinking about logical ways to dispose of him. I sat her down for a chat. Kind of like the this-is-your-period-this-is-where-babies-come-from talk, but ultimately, this chat could actually have farther reaching consequences.

“Sweetie, when you kill someone, the last thing you want to do is put him in your car,” I pointed out patiently. “The police can trace the body back to you because there will be hair, clothing fibers, or blood left in your vehicle.”

“Oh, I get it mom,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But can’t you wrap the body in a plastic bag? Like those heavy duty contractor garbage bags?”

“Well, you could, but there will be a receipt from the hardware store where you bought the giant bags. And then the funeral home where you’re trying to have him cremated is probably going to report you for having a body in your car that you’ve wrapped in a giant plastic bag.” I brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead and patted her back.

“Wow, that’s a good point. Can’t you rent an ambulance and just pretend you’re bringing him from the hospital?” I’ve never been prouder of her.

“It might be worth a try, but then there’s going to be a paper trail showing you rented an ambulance. And I’m really not even sure you CAN rent one.”

“You could hot wire a hearse from a different funeral home, one that doesn’t have a crematorium,” she suggested. “I mean, you’ve already killed someone, it’s not like grand theft auto is gonna make it a lot worse or something.”

“That’s true honey, but you’re still going to have to bring a death certificate with the body.”

“Sheesh. I can make one of those on the computer, no problem.”

“Well, actually, it’s not like creating your own Star Student certificate. Death certificates are a little more involved than that. They have to have certain official-looking features.”

“I know! I can open an internet business making death certificates for people who need them!” She brightened immediately, her braces gleaming on her giant grin.

My husband stuck his head in. “What the hell are you two talking about?!”

My daughter smiled at him. “We’re talking about trying to get rid of a body while making it look legit. I’m going to start an internet business forging death certificates!”

(NOTE: This is where my husband totally should have intervened and put a stop to this. You just can’t count on him.)

“Oh, they already have those. Google it, there’s tons of them,” he replied before going back to watching TV, crushing her dreams and making me wonder why he knew that.

I’m fairly certain this entire conversation happened because there has been a lot of talk in our household lately of having to kill certain people if they don’t get their acts together and do their jobs. I’m happy to report that at this time, my other daughter will supposedly have her special ed services for next year and no one will need to come bail me out or print me off a fake death certificate. For now.


Seriously? WHAT Were You Looking For?

I am ever so fond of every single person who reads this blog, whether they are die-hard fans who read anything I spew here or they are lowly internet people who accidentally found my blog at 2am while trying to complete their sixth graders’ homework projects. Either way, I’m glad you stopped by.

But I am going to have to start taking issue with the WAYS people find my blog. This website gives me all kinds of fancy tools that let me learn a lot of information that might otherwise be useless to someone whose technological know-how doesn’t extend past the wine bottle opener. And I am very sad that the website showed me the keywords that people typed in on the internet that brought them to this blog:

Really? REALLY? SCARY BABIES and DEAD PEOPLE? C’mon, Internet people, work with me here!

My Children Are Here to Serve Me

Oh stop it, you know I don’t make them stick their heads in the oven to clean, or anything like that. Not after that first citation we got from the judge, I mean. No, we have a far better use for our children.

Once we learned that our offspring want to grow up to be a) a nail salon owner and b) a fashion designer for dog clothing, respectively, we realized that they were never going to support us. We’re going to be shoved in the crappiest nursing home they can find. So why not have a little fun along the way?

That’s how the kids became the very butt of every joke told in our household. And I don’t just mean the knock-knock kind, although those are really funny.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“One of our kids.”

“One of our kids, who?”

“Are you kidding me? Knocking on the door would take ambition and a little bit of training! Our kids can’t knock on the door!”


(voice from the other room): “Would you two please stop laughing at us?”

Mostly, whenever we laugh at our kids, they totally know we’re doing it out of love and not because we’re secretly afraid that they’re never going to leave home ever. Mostly.

But sometimes, the kids really, really deserve to be laughed at, and I really wish I didn’t mean the pointing-and-laughing-and-holding-your-crotch-so-you-don’t-pee kind of laughing. It’s usually when they walk in the room with something stuck in their hair because they were trying to reach something out from under their beds without actually getting off the bed.

UPDATE: the kids have learned about revenge and I found a plot notebook where my oldest has been plotting ways to either get even, or get money for the insults she’s endured. I’m going to have to be more stealth. Or hire a ninja for a babysitter.

I would have made my kids wear this just because I would giggle every time I had to change their little diapers.

UPDATE: In Which I Seriously Make You Look at a Commercial

UPDATE: My book-book is ready, too! The ebook is available and people have taken to it like flies on poop, for which I thank you (if for no other reason than I just got to use the phrase, “flies on poop.”) But now, the promised print edition is also available! Or, the roach-smashing edition, as I like to call it. It’s available if you click HERE to get it from Amazon.

If I can pull off being serious for just a minute (I swear I feel like I should change my font, or something…this part isn’t funny), I’ve had more than a couple of people tell me they wish they could have given my autism book to someone they know who has a kid like my daughter. There are two ways to do that: first, the autism book also has a book-book edition right HERE, but what about that pretty link over on the right of your screen? Yeah, the second way to share that with someone is to either a) “gift” them a copy of the ebook and help them read it on the free Kindle app on their computers, or you can actually give your Kindle copy away once you’ve read it. I set it up that way on purpose. I really do want a lot of people to know about autism so they stop rolling their eyes at my daughter in the grocery store. Thanks!


So all along, my goal has been to be a writer. Since no one really thinks I’m that good at it and since I’m always a little surprised when people tell me they read my book (and I start thinking, “Wow, let me buy you a different one at the store so you have something good to read”), I started this blog so that I actually can write about things that make me giggle and not worry about the fact that the reader just wasted an entire 99cents on the Kindle edition of something I wrote. That 99cents could have paid for one-tenth of an eyebrow waxing, or something important like that.

I went ahead and wrote another book just to give people an option. At least now when they say they read my book, I can reply with, “Oh, you didn’t like it? Yeah, you totally should have bought the other book. It was way better.” It doesn’t matter which book they bought in the first place, I can always use that line. If they happened to have bought both books, I’ll just fake having a stroke until they go away.

Having said all of that, my second book is now available on Amazon. Yup. You totally should have bought this one instead of the first one. Actually, if Amazon will let you, you only really need to buy maybe a third of it because (depending on how long you’ve been reading this blog) it’s mostly a compilation of a lot of the funnier posts that appeared here, with a bunch of extra stuff thrown in and some new content. It’s like you had secret backstage access to the book before everyone else in the whole world! Cool, right?

Pretty sweet cover, if I do say so myself. Good grief, if I'm this unhumble now, wait 'til someone actually buys a copy.

Now for a commercial break: If you would like to purchase the ebook of It Was Like That When I Found It, click right here. The book-book will be available in March, but it’s heavier than the ebook. You can use it to prop open windows or to kill roaches. Either one works.

In case you didn’t know, my first book is available as an ebook and as a book-book now, but it’s not funny. It’s a really mean book where I yell at you for being a completely inept parent. I’m just kidding. I would never yell at you. It’s really about working with autistic kids and some things that I know have worked with our kid. The ebook is HERE and the book-book is HERE.

I feel like one of those timeshare breakfasts where they feed you and offer you a free television but first you have to sit through an eight-hour presentation and then all the other people who got suckered into it develop Stockholm Syndrome and they start pressuring you to buy a vacation week in Omaha for the rest of your life. The only difference is I didn’t hold your children hostage during this commercial. Like I need extra children running around.

Really, I Got This.

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.

They Make Pills For That

It’s shocking how rampant hypochondria is in this country. It’s so widespread you would think one of the pharmaceutical companies would develop a pill to treat it. Just imagine the commercial campaign:
“Do you suffer from feelings of feeling ill or injured? Are you unable to sit through an evening of television viewing without relating to and developing every single symptom presented on the forty-three drug commercials you will see throughout the evening? Talk to your doctor about Urnotcrazy for the treatment of mild to moderate hypochondria. Urnotcrazy is not for everyone, especially if you suffer from feelings of pregnancy, high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, boredom, lethargy, or stupidity. Side effects may occur, including development of actual symptoms of actual diseases.”

Hopefully it will never come to that, but we have started to throw around medical terms without any basis. Of course, we’ve had school children who toss the word “retarded” into everyday conversation to indicate that something is stupid, as in, that shirt is so retarded. “Lame” has been used in much the same way. I never realized it was a problem that your shirt was unable to walk.

But now adults have dragged the medical dictionary into their outlooks on life. I’m more than tired of hearing fully developed adults claim that they are “a little bit depressed today.” Really? Overnight and without warning, you developed a chemical imbalance that is preventing the synapses in your brain from doing their thing? Holy crap!

Now, college-educated people will forget to bring their grocery lists with them to the store and whine, “It’s just my A.D.D. acting up.” Maybe this is why we’ve started building walk-in medical clinics in strip malls, just to encourage these quick-and-easy diagnoses that everyone seems to have.

My favorite, though, has to be the fully-grown and supposedly capable adult I met for a work event. Her bio information clearly stated that she has Asperger’s syndrome. It also states that her ex-husband, her current boyfriend, and her son all have Asperger’s as well. First, let me tell you, if you ever go visit her house DO NOT DRINK THE WATER. There’s something wrong with the well at her house if that many people come to the property and end up with Asperger’s. Maybe Stephen King can write a book about this lady, where she opens up a bed-and-breakfast with the sole intent on genetically altering people with the lemonade.

I met the woman, got one question out of my mouth, and met the real crux of the problem with her diagnosis. Not only had she self-diagnosed, she was also sadly mistaken in her official diagnosis, which even the best of doctors can do when dealing with an inexact science like psychiatry. This woman didn’t have Asperger’s, she was just a bitch. Pure and simple, she’s just a hateful, thoughtless spewing person with absolutely no filter on her mouth. That’ll be $630 for my services. You’re welcome.

I’ve therefore decided if everyone else can lay claim to sundry ailments without any kind of rational basis whatsoever, I am now afflicted with M.A.D., or Multi-Attentive Disorder. Yeah, I totally just made that up. The serious diagnosis of M.A.D. means that I’ve become so conditioned in this environment we live in that if I don’t have two televisions going, my cell phone ringing, a pot boiling over on the stove, and three kids talking to me (which is really weird because I only have two kids), I can’t concentrate on anything. You can’t know the pain I endure of sitting on my porch overlooking my serene back yard in the early morning, hearing only the birds chirp while I drink coffee; it’s brutal. I can’t concentrate on anything that I have to do when I’m sitting there in the quiet. It’s gotten so bad that when I lie in bed in the dark at nine pm, I immediately fall asleep. I can’t even stay awake long enough to focus on my to-do list for the next day. Fortunately, I’ve sought help for this and scientists are creating a pill as we speak.