If I Don't Stop, I'll Go Blind.

(The cop story's anti-climatic end.)

The problem with having no depth perception is that you spend the better part of your life with a mascara wand lodged firmly in your left retina.

The problem with being an idiot with no depth perception is that the cops keep calling your house.

See, the thing is, I have this habit of leaving things on the hood of my car. Things like Nathan Jr, things like three cell phones, consecutively. But not like hamsters and cookies, oh no. I have much more creative means of killing them off. Also, things like Gucci purses (yes, it was real and yes, it was fabulous) (was is the key word in that sentence fragment). Now that doesn't have too much to do with the fact that I can't see how deep onto the hood of the car I've left my kidnapped child, my yet again brand new uninsured phone or my designer purse that I will never be allowed to own, ever again. That just has to do with the fact that I'm really, really dumb.

Also, consistent. Bygones.

Also also, really fucking lucky.

Every time I've left my purse on the hood of my car, it's been pummeled beyond recognition, eventually pushed off to the side of the road, recovered by one of the five good people left on earth, and turned into the local police department. With everything in it. Well, except that one time that I found it before anyone else did and the answer, my friend, really does blow in the wind just like every last dollar I have to my name does. My debit card, however, just lays there and takes it like the little bitch it is.

You can totally use a smashed flat, tire-imprinted credit union debit card at all major retailers. See, you learned something today. You're welcome.

You cannot, however, use lost glasses anywhere if you never find them again. This is the second time I've lost them, and they're the second pair of glasses I've ever owned. That, friends, is called batting a thousand. You wish you were this awesome.

The first time I lost them, I was eight months into being an illegal alien and had no concept of how to use my new Canadian health insurance, so I waited months to get a new pair. This last time I lost them, I was eight months into being deported and had no concept of how to use my new American health insurance, so I've waited months to get a new pair.

Well, that and I left my damn wallet on the hood of my car again. With everything I own in it. Including my insurance cards.

But the good news is that there are 6 good people left in the world, and one of them lives somewhere in the middle of Godonlyknowswhere, Texas, and while watering his lawn one fine summer morning, what did he stumble across but a red wallet belonging to yours truly. And he turned it in. To the local police department. With everything in it. Including my insurance cards.

So the police department called my insurance company and my insurance company called me and I called the police department and now all I have to do is drive back up to Godonlyknowswhere, Texas, to claim my slightly soggy and totally recovered wallet.

Except that I can't see far enough in front of my face to drive to the grocery store, let alone the middle of Texas, and I can't get new glasses because my insurance card is in my wallet which I left on the hood of my car in the middle of the night in the middle of Texas. And my wallet is in the local police department which also happens to be the local prison and I'm pretty sure it's against several laws of both God and man to propel more than 1/2 ton of metal, without any measurable amount of vision, any further than you can drag it.

Which isn't very far. My gym card was in there, too.

Real World Killed the Video Star

I'm sitting in the same bar I've sat in every night for the past 6 nights, somewhere in the middle of Los Angeles, all by myself. I always think that these work trips are going to be so totally amazingly awesome, that I'll get so much done and enjoy the peace and quiet I am constantly begging any deity who will still listen to me* for.

And then I get here and my daughter calls me to tell me she meeds me, momma, and my middle son has emoticon text wars with me and my oldest son tells me every single thing he's done for me to keep the house together while I'm gone, and I try to go to the gym to sweat out the fact that I undeniably miss them but what I really end up doing it eating all the cheesecake room service will bring me and watching MTV all night, which doesn't actually have music on it anymore. Yo Yo Yo, MTVdumbteenagers! It just doesn't have the same ring to it.

And so I fall asleep at one and I wake up at four because my ears are ringing from the silence which is okay because in three days, when I'm home, I'm going to be bitching about how my house is clearly an echo chamber and how, though I do little right in life, I can totally make a mean pair of lungs. Three times over, in fact.

Yes, there is a point, and it is that we're talking about getting enough rest at my little review blog and it's the very last post in a series that ends in $100 gift certificate going to one of the commenters, so get going already. I'll be sitting here trying to figure out what the point of this Bachlorette show is.

*Turns out, there aren't any. Not even that delicious Flying Spaghetti Monster.