God’s little jokes: Spell check and Karma.

Does God play tricks on anyone else or just me?

As you all know, I have been interviewing and begging for jobs for months now.  I have appropriately laid out coffee and donuts for God so that he will forget all that “free will” crap and lay a heavy hand on my future bosses and tell me I can have the jobs that I have skillfully and professionally groveled over.

Well, since God is dealing with Amanda Bynes and her bong at the moment, I had to take matters into my own hands. (Actually, I heard God whisper the words “thank you’s” to me and so I decided he wanted me to send some follow-up e-mails to my prospective bosses thanking them for taking my time and leaving me anxiously hanging for the last week.)

I searched my Skype contact list, retrieved the names and I typed a lovely e-mail to the man and woman who interviewed me in Germany (Mr. and Mrs. Blah blah).   Then, I let spell check do its thing and I hit send.

Now, anyone who knows me, I mean really knows me, (eehem, God), knows I am not into details.  Never have been and probably never will be. And I am easily distracted.   I just get bored with things quickly and move on to another.  That’s why I make a good kindergarten teacher.  I think exactly like a five-year old.

Oh yeah, back to my point.  I mean, seriously, details are for cake decorators and maybe judges of camel beauty contest.

Yes, folks, there are camel beauty contests.  Seriously, how do you judge if a camel is beautiful?  Camel toe? Good lord.

http://cdn-wac.emirates247.com/polopoly_fs/1.330935.1292672918!/image/3535706827.gif

Oh wait, here it is:

https://nonsense2me.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/900e6-camelstandards.jpg

But, I digress.  That means I lost track of what I was saying ‘cause I’m not paying attention to the entire original point of this story.

So, after I typed this awesome e-mail to the interviewers and sent it, I reread the message.  Yep, it’s still awesome. Except one teeny tiny detail; It read: Dear TAMMY… and the woman’s name is TANJA.   God’s spell check auto correct invention changed her name and I didn’t even notice it.

Hey, I didn’t notice, so I’m pretty sure she wont either.  But people have told me otherwise.

God, you invented spell check.  This is your fault.

https://i1.wp.com/static.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/MjAxMy03OWI5ODM1NTlhODA0NzVh.png

So, I sent a follow-up message apologizing to TANJA for God’s spelling mistake.

An hour later I got an e-mail response that said:

 Dear Julie,

I can see why spell check may not have caught this – because my name is KARMA.  Our Director is Mr. (blah blah) – no relation!

Thank you for the interview. We are currently still going through the interview process.

Best regards,

Karma

 

What the fuck?  Who the hell is Karma?

Well played God.  You’re a friggin crack-up.  You have challenged me with a burnt up whooley who this week (Fire Crotch – It’s not what you think. Well, maybe it is..) and now you have Karma pissed at me.

Well folks, looks like I won’t be working in Germany.  Nor will I be sending thank you notes to anyone ever again.  You’re welcome.

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Fire Crotch – It’s not what you think. Well, maybe it is.

I’m just going to say “sorry” right off the bat.  This is probably too much information for many of you.  I know that God is on his third martini because I told him I was going to share this story with you.  And as for my father who may read this (or any family member) I’m sorry I’m talking about my crotch to the whole wide world.  Maybe it would be easier, if you chose to continue reading, to change the word crotch to privates, or whooley-who, or wooly mammoth kitty cat.

So, you’re still here?  Well, I hope you didn’t choose wooly mammoth.  Okay, well here’s what happened.

I had some muscle pain after working out.  So, I took a hot shower hoping to work out some of the soreness.  But the heat of the water wasn’t enough to work out the pain.  I got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around myself and opened the medicine cabinet to find something that might help. Ah-ha!  Tiger Balm – the magical Chinese balm that is a cure-all for sinus congestion to flatulence. (I don’t even want to know where you put Tiger Balm to aid in decreasing flatulence. Who thinks of Tiger Balm when they are farting anyway?)

https://i2.wp.com/www.tiger-balm.co/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/baume-du-tigre-blanc1.jpg

But flatulence wasn’t a problem I had to deal with today.  Maybe the next time I eat egg and broccoli salad…

So, anyway, I scooped out a nice glob of the balm and rubbed it into my aching shoulders.  The cool heat began to work its magic.  I love the tingley cool-hot feeling it has as it eases the ache in my body.

Then I got an itch in my whooley-who area.  Instinct says to scratch the itch, so I scratched the itch.  When my scratching was complete, I did not get the relief I was usually so satisfied with.  No.  Oh, no, no, no.  My whooley-who was now on FIRE.  Tiger Balm was on my hands when I scratched.  And, I’m sorry to say, that I had an itch that required a scratch like I was searching for a gnome in grassy fields (sorry you had to hear that Dad.)

I don’t know about those ads that talk about the “heat sensation” for lubricants to enhance sexual pleasure, but if the fire crotch heat that I was experiencing was even remotely similar, then I’m going into my sexual escapades DRY, (sorry you had to hear that also,Dad. As well as my future sexual escapade’s.) or going to be celibate (you’re welcome Dad and still sorry sexual escapade’s).

My crotch burned like the towering inferno in hell.  I was hopping around the bathroom in a horse stance fanning my whooley-who – which just made it worse.  I turned on the shower and jumped in and attempted to rub out the fire, but I didn’t get the Tiger Balm off my hands first and managed to rub a nice mixture of cold water and ointment in deeper.  Holy hell!  My wooly mammoth was going down in flames.  I poured liquid honey melon scented soap into my palms and dove into the flames, rubbing and scrubbing.

I only managed to create menthol, honey, melon smelling crotch.

 I sat down in the shower defeated by the balm.  I was going to have to wait until the “sensation” passed.   It took more than 20 minutes.  Do you know what it’s like to have fire crotch for 20 minutes?

I am happy to report that I have successfully rehabilitated my whooley-who from its Tiger Balm adventure and that it is back to manufacturer recommended use.

Some male friends of mine were thrilled with this story and adamant that they could have helped and possibly have pleasurably enhanced the experience.  I don’t want to underestimate your skills, boys, but why don’t we start with you rubbing Tiger Balm on your dingleberry and you get back to me on that.

God – saint, magician or mobster?

So, I’m chatting up God and he’s all ignoring me again.  Total B.S..  Men!

I got down on my knees next to my bed and put my hands together and said “Dear God.  Heeeelllllooooo.  Eh-ehm!!  God are you listening to me?” I looked up at the ceiling.

No response.

I closed my eyes and said “God, I need to talk to you.  I have an interview tomorrow and I need you to give me all the right answers so I can leave the freakin’ desert you dropped me in.  Remember?  I asked for a new exciting life two years ago and you sent me to the Middle East.  You’re a real crack up, God.”

No response.

Then, I remembered I didn’t make his coffee or leave his donut.  I made two cups of coffee (one for each of us), put two Dunkin’ Donut donuts on a plate (one with a big bite out of it.  Don’t judge me, I’m stressed). And started chattin’ again.

“OK, God. Got your goodies set out here.  See?   Listen, I need you to take care of some things for me, Dude.  I need help with the interview questions and I need you to make one of the interviewers tell me that I’m exactly what they’ve been looking for and then ask me when can I start.  You can arrange that, right?  You can make them do what ever you want.  You can “influence” the little people.  Tell them you’ll “protect” them if they do this little favor for you (me). Thank you your Awesomeness. Amen.” I looked back at the ceiling.

Donuts for God

No response.  Is there a game on?

I ate one of the donuts and started crying.   Basically because I’m totally mega stressed over not have a decent job lined up for next fall, but more so because I wanted Gods donut too, but was afraid to eat it because He might not make those schools tell me I’m the best thing that will ever happen to them.

Awww, f@&%  it.  I took a bite of the donut.  And I kid you not, my e-mail “blipped” and it was one of the schools telling me that they have to cancel because they’ve already hired someone – their “dream come true.”  Well, they didn’t actually say that part but I knew they were thinking it.

“Oh, you’re a really funny guy, God.  This because I chomped on your donut, isn’t it?  Well, fine…”  God couldn’t hear the rest of my words because I grabbed that other donut and I shoved the whole thing  into my mouth, bawling like a baby.

I told a friend of mine about my little temper tantrum and stealing Gods donut.  She was like, “Julie, God isn’t Santa Clause. You can’t leave Him treats, expect Him to eat them, and then leave you a gift of your request.”   And I was like, “Ummm, of course not. I totally know that Santa and God are different.  Santa is all flashy in his red suit and braggin’ about the presents he leaves under a flashy tree and shoving trinkets into an old sock hanging on the fireplace.  God, is slick. He does it magically like David Copperfield or a leprechaun or the Mob.”  Uh oh.

I don’t want God to put a mob hit on me or make me magically disappear. Cement shoes aren’t a good look on me.  So, I ran right to Dunkin Donuts and bought two Boston Cremes.  God digs Boston Cremes.  I know if I was God I would dig Boston Cremes.    I don’t  really think God would knock me off for eating a donut, but you never know, right?  Better safe than sorry.  Now they are sitting on a plate and I am going to pray next to them every day until my job interviews are over. Hopefully the donuts will not get any of my teeth marks in them.  Or nose prints.  It happens sometimes.

I have interviews with schools in Czech Republic, Germany, Mexico, China, and Panama.  I’ll let you know if God pulls one “outta the hat” for me or quietly slips a horse head in my bed.  Ewww.

Mars is accepting applications

Holy crap!  Mars IS accepting applications!!!  Since I can’t seem to get a teaching job on earth…  Do you think martian children are well-behaved?  Crap, alien children… Anal probing is probably part of the science curriculum.  Ewww.  Or worse a prerequisite for getting hired.

Do you think they will have TANG there?  Will my wardrobe have change to a monotone jumpsuit and silver boots? I guess I could do it,  as long as there’s a Starbucks and a great sushi place.

It’s only a $38 application fee.

Hey!  I thought this was for earthlings.  Folks, check out the application videos.  I think the Martians are just planning a trip home.

http://applicants.mars-one.com/

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God, otherwise known as “The Comedian”

I have regular meetings with God.  I chat Him up at least three times a week.  I’m sure he would rather I wouldn’t. But, I like to think he stops watching Locked up Abroad long enough to pacify my rantings to him.

I talk to God like he is sitting in my living room. I put a cup of coffee out for him (with cream and three sugars) occasionally a Boston Creme doughnut (which I end up eating) and spill my guts.

Today I asked him to fix some shit.  My life that is. I mean, apparently I cannot manage to get my life in order without a nervous breakdown.

So His coffee and doughnut are sitting on the coffee table (two bites missing from the doughnut) and I’m laying on the floor with tears running down my face and hyper-ventilating with doughnut crumbs on my chin.

I explained to God that I didn’t ask for  managerial role. I don’t want to be responsible for a life (even if it is mine).  I want the job without any responsibilities. I would much rather be doing things like drinking Bailey’s Mint Irish Creme on a daily basis.

But, God gave me the job to manage my life. Without an instruction manual.  He’s a funny guy.  Then he threw me alone in the desert to teach. What the fuck, God?

So, here is the agenda I typed up for God to read over and come ready to answer at our next meeting. I don’t want any of those off the cuff clichés He uses at church like “Trust in me, I have a path for you to follow…”  ‘Cause I’m sure He does have a path for me, but I need to know where it is already. I got shit to do.

AGENDA – MAY 2013

STUFF FOR HIS GODLINESS TO GET DONE – ASAP – Amen.

1. Dude, I need a teaching job THIS Fall – 2013. In a school with children.   (If you aren’t specific with God, he will play tricks on you. Like he will give me a job, but it will not be until Fall of 2020 and it’ll be in a zoo shoveling monkey shit).

2. I need a job That pays enough money to help me go to Grad school AND save enough to buy a house AND travel AND buy popcorn at the movies. And remember I am a teacher, but will take a writing job, or the title “Queen of Everything”. (After re-reading number one I thought I better make sure he understands that I can be flexible.)

3. This being single crap has to end. I have kissed enough frogs, understand? And as for the men you have put on my path – I think you can do better. Don’t you have a Rolodex full of men that don’t feel the need to talk about the magic in their pants? Or delve out bacon in proposal attempts?  You’re funny God, but comedy hour is up.

CONCLUSION: Thank you for skipping your “shows” to listen to me.  Please do not get together with Satan and come up with anymore pranks until you get the above three requests completed.  Could you make a concerted effort to complete this no later than June 30th.  It would really help me out.  Like I said, I got shit to do – like find that damn path.  Very funny putting me in the desert.  Do you know how fucking hard it is to find a PATH in the desert?  Do you realize how much  damn sand YOU put out here? Yeesh!

P.S.  If you could get me a camel, Bailey’s, and Jolly Time White Popcorn kernels, I promise to leave you alone for a whole month and eat more vegetables.

Thanks a bunch.  You rock!  Amen and all that stuff we need to say so you know we’re serious Christians. 🙂 Peace.   Julie

I’ll keep you folks posted on what he comes up with.

Why am I single? You tell me.

This  is kinda a long story, so, either get something alcoholic ’cause it’s gonna be a bumpy ride or just move on to something easier like watching Keeping up with the Kardashians.

I was invited over to have a beer by this new teacher at my school who carpools with me and two other women.

He says I should come over for dinner and a glass of wine -“But don’t get any ideas, I’m not asking you on a date or anything.”

Ok, first of all, that’s totally insulting, Dude. I mean, why aren’t you asking ME on a date. Secondly, get over yourself, you self-centered ass; I didn’t think you were asking me out, even though you should because I’m totally awesome.

He tells me he has an interview for a tutoring job at 7pm, but he will text me when he’s finished and I can come over. “I mean, if you want. I don’t know what time you go to bed…” he says. Umm, dude, you never are going to know when I go to bed.

Anyway, at 8:15pm he called, but I didn’t answer. I think I deserve a better invitation. Preferably one with an awesome light show.  Besides, I wasn’t in the mood for dinner. And, it was a school night. Whatever that means when you’re a grown adult.

After I didn’t answer he texts me, “Are you alright?” And I’m like, “F@#§!” So, I lied and said I was on a Skype call. And he was all like “You can still come over if you want.” And I’m like, “What the F@#§? Take a hint, dude.” But I didn’t actually say that; I did the opposite of what I wanted and said, “Sorry, rain check?” Seriously folks, there is something wrong with my brain. But, then he says “OK, when?” Pushy little bastard… And I’m like, “How about Happy hour this weekend?” I mean at least I would be in public, right? I don’t know why I felt I needed witnesses, but, I guess you never know, huh? And maybe there would be an awesome light show. So, he says, “Sure, why not.”  So, now I am dreading the weekend.

The next morning he gets off the elevator with his bicycle. He is going to ride it to work, so he won’t be in the car with us.  (So, God does like me after all).  He says good morning to one of the women in the lobby then just looks at me and keeps heads out the door. Whatever, dude. At least I don’t have to ride in the car with him ’cause now I think things are awkward. But not ’cause of me. I mean he’s the one that doesn’t want to date me cause I’m awesome.

Well for the rest of the week he wasn’t in the car with us and I didn’t see him at school or around the apartment building. But I still dreaded the weekend. Then on the last day of the week I walked to the car by myself and guess who was already waiting in the passenger seat?  Him. Ugh.

When we got home, I jumped out of the car and pretended to go another direction so I wouldn’t have to ride in the elevator, get insulted with a bad dinner invitation (without an awesome light show) and have to lie about my plans for the evening. So, after five minutes of wandering around my apartment building in the sweltering heat, I sneaked back into the building, onto the elevator, and into my apartment. SAFE! Score: Julie 2. Him 0.

At 7:15pm I got a text from him. “What are you up to?”

F@#§! I panicked and hid my phone under the sofa cushions. I guess I thought if I can’t see my phone he would think I wasn’t home. Then I ran into the bathroom and closed the door and hid in there for 20 minutes.  When I thought it was safe I came out of the bathroom and dug my phone out from under the sofa cushion.  His message was still there.  I guess I better grow up.   So, I sent him a message saying, “Hey there. I just finished working out.” OK, so growing up doesn’t mean I can’t lie.  I mean, what was I supposed to say,  “Hey there. Sorry for the delay in responding, but I hid my phone under the sofa and hid in the bathroom for 20 minutes so you would think I wasn’t home.”

Well, I guess I could have said that, but I don’t want him to think I’m crazy; that’s none of his business.  So, he replies with “Wow. I didn’t think you had any energy left to work out.” And I’m like, “What the f@#§ is that supposed to mean?” Only I didn’t say that. But I totally wanted to. Since he wasn’t asking me for a drink, and that’s good, so I could say something casual. So, I said, “I didn’t. haha” I don’t know what that means either, folks. But, it seemed to appease him because I didn’t get a reply.

Only I did get a reply. It just took a while. “You can come over for a beer if you want.” And then I was telling myself,  “Why not?” and then I answered myself, “Because you don’t want to be alone with some dude from England who doesn’t want to date you, even though you are AWESOME and even if you don’t want to date him and think he’s a moron and going to say more stupid sh*% that will piss you off, and he still didn’t produce an awesome light show.” And then I was like, “But, it’s free beer.” And then I answered myself and was like “Yeah, it’s free beer.” So, I asked for his apartment number and went down for some free beer.

But as you ladies know, it’s never a free beer if you are meeting the guy alone in his apartment, unless it’s your brother or cousin or some family sh*% like that. But this guy is nowhere near as cool as my brother.

I knocked on his door and was about to turn and make a run for it back to the elevator when he opened the door. He was wearing a polo shirt (with the collar up) and running shorts.

Anyway, he showed me around his apartment and went to the family sized refrigerator that was next to the sofa and grabbed two Carlsburgs. I sat on the end of the L shaped sofa and he sat on the opposite side.

Me: “So, how did you manage to acquire beer and wine?”

Him: “Someone gave it to me.” I give my beer a questioning look.

Me: “Someone? Just gave you beer?”

Him: “Yeah. And bacon too.”

Me: “You have bacon? I love bacon. But I hate that we need a license to buy it here.”

Him. “Yeah. Lots of it. You need a license?” He opened his freezer and looked in. I assumed staring at the frozen meat and wondering if it’s “licensed.”

Me: “Yeah.” I sipped my beer thinking how jealous I was that he has been here a week and people were giving him liquor and pork products.

Me: “Wow. No one was that nice to me when I moved here.”

Him: “Why not?”

Seriously? Was he seriously asking me why people were not giving me beer and pork? Because normal people don’t do weird sh*% like that, dude.

Me: “I don’t know.”

Him: “Hmmm. So, you worked out?”

Me: “Yes.”

Him: “Why?”

Me: “I want to stay thin.”

He gives me a strange look.

Him: “I don’t think you’re thin. I mean you’re attractive and everything but you’re not thin. It’s nice to see a girl with curves on her body.” He takes a sip of his beer and looks me up and down. “Sit back on the sofa. You look uncomfortable. Don’t worry I wont look at your ass or anything.”

My skin crawled and then I got pissed. What the F@#§? Is he calling me fat? And what does he mean “attractive and everything?  I thought, “Throw your beer at him and leave.” But then I was like, “Finish you beer. You are not going to waste a whole can of beer.”  So, I sat there in stunned silence, sipping my beer.

Him: “So why are you single?” I hate that question because I don’t know why.  I mean I’m quite certain it’s because I’m too awesome and that intimidates men.

Him: “I don’t want to scare you or anything but I’m in the market for a wife.” I could hardly swallow my next sip of beer. I was like, “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, DUDE? Yeah, that scares the ever-loving sh*% out of me.” But I didn’t actually say that cause I was looking around his apartment for the deep well he was going to throw me into with bottle of lotion.

Me: “Oh.”

Him: “Yeah, I am. I am a good catch. I’m 47 years old. I have a good job. I’m a nice guy. I don’t know why I’m single…” He looks at me like I am supposed to have a response.  I just take a big gulp from my beer can. He gets up, opens the freezer door, reaches in and pulls out a half pound of frozen bacon, and tosses it to me. “Here. Take this. You love bacon. I have a lot of it. See, I’m a nice guy.”

Yeah, a real man of the year, I thought. Now, I’m not sure if he was proposing with the bacon or not, but if he was, I would have to think about it. Bacon, bacon, bacon. I could always divorce him when he runs out of bacon.

Him: “So, why do you think that England and the United States think they have the right to invade other countries?”

Now folks, I do not have a mind for politics. I hate discussing anything political because people have very strong opinions and I usually disagree or don’t care. Don’t judge me. It is what it is.

Me: “I don’t know.” I mumble and sip my beer and shake the can. It’s empty.

He gets up and fishes another beer out of the refrigerator, cracks it open and hands it to me. I take another giant guzzle.

Him:”No, tell me. I want your opinion.” ”

No you don’t.

Me: “Yes, I think they have the right if the people of those countries are at risk.”

Him: “What people?”

Me: “The citizens of the country we invade.”

He is now on his third beer.

Him: “They didn’t ask us to invade their country.”

Me: “What country are we speaking of?”

Him: “Any country.”

I’m getting confused.

Me: “Oh. Then I don’t know.”

Him: “But there are no weapons of mass destruction. We don’t have the right to be in Iraq.”

It’s not that I don’t care about world affairs, it’s that it is most political situations (especially involving war) are much more complicated than my brain can comprehend and I prefer to talk about the color of JLo’s dress for the Grammy Awards.

Me: “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Him: “What? You didn’t know that we went to war because there were rumors about weapons of mass destruction? I mean, it was in the papers!”

Now, those of you that know me, if I feel attacked, my temper will flare. I could feel the heat boiling in my gut or maybe it was because I guzzled another half can of beer in less than five minutes.

Me: “What are you saying? That I’m an idiot?”

Him: “I didn’t call you an idiot. You need to stop, think and listen to me. The poppy-seed market is destroyed. We invaded a country for no reason and now the poppy-seed market has plummeted.”

I had no idea what the f@#§ he was talking about. But my bitchy girl brain was too close to practicing her new P90X Kempo karate moves on his face.

Me: “Thank you. I can’t do this,” I put my flip-flops on grabbed the now defrosted bacon and walked towards the door. “Really, thank you. But I need to go now.” I rush to open the door.

Him: “Enjoy the bacon.”

Me: “Yep. Will do.”

So, why am I single? Perhaps it’s because I don’t know what going on with the poppy-seed market.

The bacon was delicious by the way.

Into the Middle East without a Camel.

I live in the Middle East. Why?  I don’t know… please don’t ask me such difficult questions.

So, here I am in the middle of the desert, working as a teacher. I just might be crazy. I talk to myself. I talk to myself to figure out what I’m doing working in the Middle East at this random school. Well, I don’t talk to myself out loud.  At least not when people are around.

It wouldn’t quite so bad if we had our own camels. I mean, camels are totally cool. If I ran a school, I would give all my teachers camels. But, I’m just awesome like that.

I’m loosing my mind. I am trying to get out of this school, primarily because they REFUSE buy me a camel.  Anti-camelists.

Not only am I trying to figure out what I was thinking to get me to the Middle East, but now I am trying to find a new teaching job ANYWHERE and I’m stressed to the max! U.S.A., China, Prague, Germany, Mars? I’ve applied. Except to Mars. They aren’t currently excepting applications.

TO ALL SCHOOL EMPLOYERS: I know I don’t have Nanny McPhee’s skills, but I’m a good teacher.   OH, I get it, you don’t want to hire a crazy person that talks to herself and wants a beast of burden as part of her contract. Hey, come on, kids love that shit. Crazy people I mean. And beasts of burden. Seriously. I would be an asset to your organization.

Well, there you have it employers. The rambling unfiltered thoughts of a soon to be unemployed crazy teacher in the Middle East who wishes she had a camel. Hire me!  I’m awesome and kids love that shit.  Totally – just ask them.

And, for those of you not reading this blog to recruit a teacher (which is weird, ’cause blogs are way better than LinkedIn), enter at your own risk. You’ve been warned.