Gods next task

So, God and I had a fight.  Well, actually, I threw a fit because I wasn’t getting my way. Hey, I don’t think it’s really fair because God is supposed to know what we want and need and he knows very well I want and need a job.  He has let me feed him delicious doughnuts and cinnamon rolls and continued to leave all the work up to me.   I decided he was being a typical man.  He sits back and watches angels fly around, eating the food I serve, and letting me sweat, so I decided not to give him anything this week.  No coffee, no sweets. So there!!

And guess what?  I got my first job offer in six months.  Ha!  I think God decided he better “man up” if he expects free treats.

So, our little spat is over, but I’m sure we will have others because now that have a job in the fall, I have picked out his new task – finding me a suitable significant other.

So, look out single, available, straight men who are not living with their parents or in an insane asylum.  (I realize that still leaves a wide girth of men that will NOT be favorable.  But, I have to start somewhere.) God has armed a cupid or two (or probably a flying monkey) and is picking your name from a Goblet of Fire.

Let the comedy of dating begin… “May the odds be ever in your favor.”


STOMP – Do not attempt this at home.

So I finally did something really fun in this sandy desert; I went to see STOMP.  For those of you who are not familiar with STOMP it is a unique musical percussion show that uses different objects, including the body, to make different percussion sounds. https://nonsense2me.files.wordpress.com/2013/06/356a6-brooms.jpg

Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=8CEwnXt-zk4

Totally contagious!  I mean, I could not wait to get home and get my floors as clean as the STOMP crew.  My normally grueling and boring Friday morning cleaning was revived when I tapped and stomped my mop against the two potties in my bathroom.  The sound was groovin when I decided to do a little spin and rap on the shower curtain rod hanging behind me.


Well, it was hanging.  And so was the toilet paper.

They really need to put a disclaimer in the brochure: These are professionally trained sweeper-mopper-stomppers. Do not attempt this at home.

On the bright side, I may have come up with some new “tones” for the show.

No job God

Well folks, it’s the first week of June and I’m still waiting to hear if I will be teaching in the fall. 

I know you will all be as shocked as I was when I got this e-mail from the school in the Czech Republic. 

Dear Julie,

Thank you for being patient.

I regret to inform you that we will be proceeding with another candidate who has recent experience teaching in classroom with 3, 4 and 5-year-old students at the same time.

Thank you again for your interest and best of luck to you.

Best regards,

Seriously? I am still reeling from disbelief. Was that was the job I interviewed for?  Was I drunk when I did this interview? 3, 4 AND 5-year old’s? 3,4, and 5-year-old children? At the same time?  And, there are actually people out there have done this and are willing to do it again?   I mean really folks, I must have heard that one of the benefits was that I would get a bottle of rum each day just to cope with the madness.  Really, who ever accepted that position is insane or drunk.  Or happily both.

Speaking of insane or drunk, I interviewed for another job in China that asked me to do exactly that – teach 4, 5, and 6-year old’s – at the same time.  Not drink rum all day.  (But wouldn’t that be awesome? Rum all day.  But, I’m pretty sure that job is taken already. Lucky ducky.) 

Seriously folks, where was that little voice that talks you outta stupid shit you think you should do and you shouldn’t.  You know the one, the voice of “reason.”  The voice that would have said to me: “They are small and wiggley. They NEVER stop moving. Or talking.  And they are always sticky.  And, they almost never have money or liquor to share.”  If I had heard that voice I might have reconsidered and become the next American Idol – boom operator.  Are American Idolian’s sticky? Crap.

Hey, here’s what needs to happen; You guys need to pass my blog around, brag about it and get me famous so I can write a New York Times Best selling book that will become the next summer blockbuster, where Nicole Kidman plays me and George Clooney plays God, and save me from the sticky booze-less children. 

In the meantime, I am taking my friend’s advice and upgrading my “gifts” to God. 


That’s right folks, those are two delicious smelling, massive, walnut Cinnabon cinnamon rolls with extra icing.  Now, I was hesitant to dish out the money for these magnificent treats to God because I am pretty sure he will say, “If you can afford goodies like this, chickee-poo, than you can solve your own problems.” 

But, I will have a little faith and believe that God is a slob like one of us, will gorge on these delectable treats, go in to a sugar induced frenzy and start granting all of my wishes like the good God that He is.  And probably get sticky.  Crap.


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.


Oh wait, here it is:


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.


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,



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.

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?)


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.