Book of Failures Read online

  A funny memoir by

  Amy Lyle

  Many stories in this book are true.

  But some are lies.

  © 2017 Amy Lyle

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: www.amylyle.me

  Cover by Andrea Ferenchik

  ISBN-10: 0998968404

  ISBN-13: 978-0998968407

  Table of Contents

  GERMAN PROVERB

  A LITTLE BIT ABOUT ME

  BLENDING FAMILIES CAN BE … PROBLEMATIC

  I’M A RIVER RAT

  WHERE IN THE WORLD?

  SAY AGAIN?

  SIDE EFFECTS

  CALL FROM SHARON THE VAGINA CALL

  GETTING DIVORCED SUCKS

  I WAS NOT TALKING TO YOU

  I CAN SEE YOUR BUTTONS

  DO YOU COME HERE OFTEN?

  A BETTER PETER

  OPPOSITES ATTRACT?

  SOMETIMES MORE IS MORE

  KIA DOUGHNUT

  DON’T MAKE ME KILL YOU

  SUMMER OF THE BURRITO

  NICE TO MEET YOU

  PROCEED WITH CAUTION

  THAT ONE TIME WHEN WE BOUGHT A PORSCHE

  YOU’VE WON, STOP FIGHTING

  THE LORD, JESUS CHRIST

  YOU HAVE THE WRONG SUSPECTS

  THE LOSER CRUISER

  WORST BIRTHDAY EVER

  COLLEGE LIFE

  JUST SAY NO

  I AM OLD. I LIKE FACEBOOK

  AMY AND ANNA GO TO CHINA

  AMY AND ANNA ARE STILL IN CHINA

  AMY AND ANNA ARE WEARING OUT THEIR WELCOME IN CHINA

  CALL FROM SHARON THE SHE’S A WHORE CALL

  ANTI-SOCIAL MEDIA

  JOHN D. BINEGAR

  IF YOU TEACH A MAN TO FISH

  QUEEN GENEVIEVE

  WE HAVE A SITUATION

  CALL FROM SHARON THE PLUTO CALL

  APOCALYPTIC THOUGHTS

  RANT: EVERYBODY’S A PROFESSIONAL

  WALMART IS AMERICA

  WE’RE OUTNUMBERED

  NO NEED TO SHARE EVERYTHING

  THE ONLY SON

  HELEN

  ATLANTA LAWN AND TENNIS ASSOCIATION (ALTA)

  HOT ITALIAN GUY #1 (NOT THAT INTO ME)

  HOT ITALIAN GUY #2 (TOTALLY INTO ME, THEN NOT SO MUCH)

  WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS MAKE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

  MAKE BELIEVE LIFE

  I DON’T LIKE REAL LIFE

  FALLING LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY

  FIFTY-FIVE HOURS A WEEK

  I GOT FIRED

  I AM AN ACTRESS

  THINGS THAT AGGRAVATE ME

  ONE SAD STORY

  STEPMOMMYING IS SUPER F******* TOUGH

  HAIR PROBLEMS

  WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE DOG?

  THE WRONG MESSAGE

  IT’S YOUR VAJAYJAY

  MY MOTHER

  WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE BAND?

  DOCTORS AREN’T FUNNY

  AT LEAST I KEEP MY PANTIES ON

  A WEEKEND IN KIAWAH

  WELCOME TO HOLLYWOOD

  NOT THAT THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT

  NOT TONIGHT, HONEY

  AND IT’S NOT EVEN EIGHT AM

  THEY GET INTO ALL THE CREVICES

  IT’S MY FACE

  TRYING TO GIVE BACK

  WOMEN’S RIGHTS

  I WOULD JUST DIE

  WE NEED PROFESSIONAL HELP

  CRUSHING YOUR PARENTS

  SQUIRREL SLAYER

  FREUDIAN SLIP

  DO NOT MOVE MY CHEESE

  DOG DAYS

  LAKE LIFE

  WHAT HAPPENS IN FLORIDA

  FIGHT FIGHT

  Finito

  Calculate Your Perseverance!

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgements

  About Amy Lyle

  GERMAN PROVERB

  As my husband{1}and I planned our wedding, my grandparents were celebrating sixty years of marriage. My grandmother, a woman of few words, offered me esteemed advice: “Let it be known. There will be very good decades and very bad decade” And there were.

  A LITTLE BIT ABOUT ME

  I’ve been married twenty years, not to the same people, but twenty years nonetheless. I understand that a successful marriage requires being a good listener, showing sensitivity toward others’ needs and wants, and practicing unconditional love. I really struggle with being a good listener, showing sensitivity toward others’ needs and wants, and unconditional love. I do, however, offer loyalty and humor and I am a real wildcat in the bedroom.{2}

  Everyone tells you to marry your best friend but I take exception to this advice and have the divorce papers to prove it. Your best friend knows who’s on the list of people you wish you could stab in the face; knows all your aches and ailments; is the one that helps you try to narrow down whether you have diverticulitis, irritable bowel syndrome, or a tumor in your digestive tract—things you tell your best friend, not the person you're having sex with.

  Before we got married, my second husband, Peter, asked me if I was certain I could handle four children.{3} “Sure!” I answered confidently. I was a corporate trainer for one of the biggest staffing firms in the world and thought, They’re just kids. How difficult could it be? In hindsight, I gravely miscalculated the prospect. I imagine it’s like Katie Holmes agreeing to marry Tom Cruise. She presumably thought, So he believes in a Galactic Confederacy where people arrived on a DC-8-like spacecraft seventy-five million years ago … he’s adorable!

  Sometimes you just get swept away in the moment and think you can handle anything. It was only AFTER Peter and I got married that I realized that four kids are way too many kids.

  I knew I could succumb to defeat or keep trying. I opted for the latter and now live by the motto: I am not a failure. … I’m just having a little bit of trouble right now.

  BLENDING FAMILIES CAN BE … PROBLEMATIC

  Peter’s Approach:

  Peter to kids: You lied about picking up your room. You have broken trust. I think it was Luke—let me look it up (looks up verse on phone)—yes, Luke 16:10. “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much.” Do you understand what that means? If I can’t trust you to make your bed, how can I trust you to drive a car? Or go on a date? I lied to my dad once and our relationship was never the same. We are all citizens in this house and you have a very small, yet extremely critical role in this household. One day, you will have your own house. Hey! Did you roll your eyes? That is disrespectful!

  Kids: You—

  Peter: Do not interrupt me. Let’s discuss why I must tell you a thousand times. When I was a boy—

  Kids: Oh my gosh.

  Peter: Are you interrupting me again? I’m taking your phone for the day.

  Kids: What?

  Peter: Oh really? Now it’s two days …

  My Approach:

  Me to kids: Hey, where are you going? Kids: Out.

  Me: You didn’t clean your room so you’re not going out. Kids: What?

  Me: Clean your room or you’ll be in tomorrow night too. I’m going to the movies. See you later.

  Peter and I may not agree on the process of discipline but we have common ground on a consequence that works—manual labor.

  Issue

  Consequence

  Sassy

  Scrub the baseboards

  Fighting with siblings

  Wash the windows

  Bad language

  Mop the floors

  Lying

  Scrub shower grout

  Late for curfew

  Detail the cars
>
  Our neighbors ask us, “Why do your kids always smell like Windex and Lysol?”

  I’M A RIVER RAT

  I grew up in Marietta, Ohio, which is in the thick of the Appalachian region. It has been suggested that it’s an area filled with people that are partial to moonshine and prone to acts of violence. I don’t disagree. However, I believe if you go fifty miles outside any major city, you’ll find a similar crowd.

  Marietta is a beautiful town known for its haunted hotel, The Lafayette, outstanding antique shops and the headquarters of Bird Watcher’s Digest.

  Growing up in Marietta, crime was never an issue. We slept with our doors unlocked. There’s only one murder about every thirty years and most of the crimes listed in the paper deal with stolen mail and people shooting deer within city limits.

  Marietta has two large hospital systems, several manufacturing plants and a small liberal arts college. It’s a great place to raise a family.

  Oddly, when I searched Marietta’s crime data online, NeighborhoodScout.com ranked it in the lowest 90 percent of safest cities in the United States{4}, placing Marietta’s safety between Compton and Detroit.

  I’m here to tell you, that’s a damn lie.

  WHERE IN THE WORLD?

  In the early 1980s, if you needed to research a project for school, you went to the library to check out books or use the microfiche machine which was needed to read microcards. Documents such as old newspapers were imaged onto small cards that looked like negatives from an old camera. The microfilm card was placed into a microfiche reader to display the data. You couldn’t make a copy of the information on our machine; you could only LOOK at the data and take notes, in a notebook, with a pencil.

  Microfiche reader

  My assignment was to research a country in Africa. I’ve never mastered the Dewey decimal book classification system that’s required to locate actual books in a library, so I stuck to microfilm and the Encyclopedia Britannica.

  I picked Rhodesia so I could share my outrage regarding how the British were presiding over their property, metals, and resources and how the Shona tribe had been unsuccessful in their revolts.

  Preparing to present to my class, I set up a huge map that I had drawn using two poster boards, markers and Elmer’s glue (to add texture to the topography).

  The morning of my presentation, I passionately spoke of how the Rhodesians had been trapped for so long under the thumb of the British and how the United States should step in to help them gain independence. I implored my fellow students to write their senators, Howard Metzenbaum, George Voinovich and John Glenn, as I had done, asking for an end to the oppression of the Rhodesians.

  My social studies teacher asked me to stay after class. I thought for sure she was going to nominate me to represent our school in some sort of state or maybe even national social studies capacity. Instead, she shared that Rhodesia had gained their independence from England in 1970 and was officially renamed Zimbabwe in 1980.

  Africa before 1965

  Africa after 1965

  My local library was built in the early 1900s with Andrew Carnegie funds and was behind on updating material. The map and encyclopedias I had used were over twenty years old. I had missed the news of the brutal civil war and eventual official independence, as well as the changing of the name “Rhodesia” to “Zimbabwe” by a few significant years. Even with my Elmer’s glue added for topography texture, she gave me a D.

  Senators Metzenbaum, Voinovich and Glenn never replied to my “Free Rhodesia” requests.

  SAY AGAIN?

  From my parents, I inherited a love of reading. A few years ago, I set a goal to read more of the classics, and since then I’ve read many of the works of Plath, Faulkner, Hemingway, Charlotte Bronte and Salinger. I loved Steinbeck’s East of Eden, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and War and Peace, Fitzgerald’s Gatsby and every book by or about Jane Austen. I made it through Melville and Dickens but would not recommend them. I also read contemporary fiction: Toni Morrison, Wally Lamb, Jennifer Weiner and Rick Bragg are a few of my go-to, current-day authors. I’m obsessed with comedy books. My favorites are by Jenny Lawson, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened and Furiously Happy; as well as works by comedian/authors Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Carol Burnett, Judd Apatow, David Sedaris, Ellen DeGeneres, Roseanne Barr, Jim Gaffigan, Rachel Dratch, Aisha Tyler and Jerry Seinfeld.

  Being such a voracious reader, it doesn’t make sense that I cannot pronounce anything. Researching this issue, I found possible causes in an article entitled “Common Speech and Language Disorders.” I cannot pronounce my disorders, which are aphasia and dysarthria, but here are the causes:

  Aphasia

  Dysarthria

  Alzheimer’s disease

  Alcohol intoxication

  Brain tumor

  Diseases such as cerebral palsy, myasthenia gravis, or multiple sclerosis (MS)

  Dementia

  Dementia

  Stroke

  Facial trauma

  Transient ischemic attack (TIA)

  Head and neck cancer surgery

  Head trauma

  Head trauma

  Neurological disorders such as Parkinson’s disease or Huntington's disease

  Poorly fitting dentures

  I do suffer occasionally from the dysarthria explanation of “alcohol intoxication,” but I have just as many issues when I’m sober, which makes me sound permanently mentally impaired, not drunk. My SAT scores would prove that I’m completely average.

  Currently, I’m reading a remarkable book by Vikram Seth titled, A Suitable Boy. I’m only halfway through and already have a list of words I can’t pronounce:

  colloquy, grandiloquent, irascible, avuncularity, cyclostyled, ignominy, obsequiousness, puerility, licentious, myocardial, cognoscenti, ameliorative, perennially, querulous, labyrinthine, imbued, wastrels, thumri, perspicacity, censorious, bharatanatyam, angarkha, vociferously, invigilator, jodhpurs, insouciance, superciliously, promulgated, desiccated, pincered and obstreperous, bumptious, blancmange, voluble, ecumenical and pabulum.

  I emailed my friend Kristin, who is a speech pathologist, asking why I can’t pronounce anything. She immediately replied:

  1) Being Appalachian

  2) Articulation Disorder (can’t pronounce certain sounds/substitutes some sounds for others)

  3) Anomia (can’t remember the names of things/objects)

  4) Apraxia (problems coordinating muscles to make sounds)

  You can take the girl out of Appalachia … you know how it goes.

  SIDE EFFECTS

  The day my first husband, Mr. Kimmes, and I decided to get divorced was a Sunday. I remember because I looked forward to the HBO lineup of The Wire, Sex and the City and The Sopranos on Sundays. We were putting clean sheets on our bed when he said casually, “I think we should separate.” After five years of dating, eight years of marriage, one daughter, two cats, two dogs, one failed business and sheer exhaustion, just like that, it was over.

  We had stayed together so long after not wanting to be together that neither one of us had any fight left in us. It took all of a minute to split up what we had accumulated in thirteen years. “You take the Bernhardt furniture; I’ll take the Ethan Allen.” I got the china and nice silverware; he got the riding lawnmower and wine collection. The only thing left was the formality of standing in front of a judge and admitting that when we agreed to the “until death do us part” part, we had lied.

  My lawyer’s paralegal called and asked me to come in to “look over some papers.” I booked the appointment for one o’clock, right after my OB-GYN appointment because the offices were less than a mile apart.

  While I was on the examining table in the OB-GYN’s office, my doctor said, “You seem really stressed.” I’m not sure how she picked up on that by examining my cervix, but I guess going through a divorce, moving out of my house, going back to work full-time and having my daughter only part-time was taking its toll, even on my insides.

 
“I’m getting divorced,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re planning on having another child, you had better hurry up. You’re already almost forty.” Crying while a speculum is inside you is never a good idea; the more I whimpered, the more pressure I could feel. The second she exited my cervix, she gave me a sample pack of Xanax.

  “I don’t do well with any medication,” I told her. “You have a lot of anxiety. This will help you.”

  I read the back of the Xanax box: affects chemicals in the brain that may be unbalanced in people with anxiety. I was unbalanced. I took one tiny pill, paid the copay and was off to the lawyer’s office.{5}

  Waiting on my lawyer, I helped myself to a few of their magazines. I don’t feel that taking magazines from lawyers’ offices is stealing because they have multiple copies of each publication and they charge $240 an hour for their lawyering. Anyway, as I was trying to pretend like I was straightening my purse to hide confiscated copes of Architectural Digest, I heard my name.

  It’s so embarrassing when they call your name at a divorce attorney’s office: everybody knows you have made a monumental mistake. Their looks range from “you poor dear” to “you probably deserved it.”

  The paralegal sat down next to me and flipped through a set of papers: “Sign here, here, initial here, sign here and ... you’re divorced.” She could tell I was shocked—she’d previously told me nothing would be final until we sat in front of a judge. “Everything was so amicable, the judge signed it. Congratulations. You’re a divorcee.”