The Amy Binegar-Kimmes-Lyle Book of Failures: A funny memoir of missteps, inadequacies and faux pas

by Amy Lyle

  “Dear God, this is bigger than I expected.”

  “Pay attention,” he said. “Bill Cosby said he wasn’t liable, but quietly has paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars in ‘tuition assistance’ to women who have filed suits against him. You were so angry you never let them get past the ‘We’re not liable’ statement and missed the ‘But you can have a new car’ offer.”

  The regional vice president came out and wanted to shake my hand. In my mind, I was reeling from the lying and smoke-and- mirrors politics, but when he said, “We’ll find a white 5 Series with tan interior, a year newer,” I said, “Thank you.”

  THE LORD, JESUS CHRIST

  SHOCK: Carrie Underwood’s Husband Makes a MAJOR Confession{14}

  Typically, admissions in the world of tabloid news involve addiction, infidelity or embezzlement. But when Carrie Underwood’s husband, Mike Fisher, said he was a Christian, it made headlines in the world of sensational news, as did this from actor Kevin Sorbo: “I don’t know why in Hollywood you have to be afraid to say you’re a Christian, but there’s a lot of bashing of Christians going on over the last decade.”{15}

  You may be thinking, You’re damn right they should be afraid to admit to being Christian, the hypocritical lives they lead. And I would say that I absolutely agree with you—and I’m a Christian! Christians have judged, criticized and excluded others for 2017 years. My only response is: I’M SO SORRY! And don’t give up on faith because humans are reprehensible.

  If you have the slightest curiosity about Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism or any religion, study their works before you dismiss them.

  Briefly, I’ll explain why I’m a believer. My personal thoughts (regarding the contents of the Bible) are that if someone trying to persuade another to believe in the promise of eternal life, they would make up a better story than following the teachings of a penniless carpenter conceived out of wedlock by a teenager. That’s my reasoning: if it’s all a lie, why wouldn’t they make it a better lie?

  The Bible is 1,200 pages of very unsavory stories. Jesus’ bloodline is from prostitutes, thieves and murderers. Most the New Testament consists of letters (or books) that were written by the apostles (Jesus’ selected teachers) while they were on the run from Roman authorities tasked to squash those involved with messianic movements.

  All but two were murdered. Some were stabbed or speared (Matthew and Thomas), beheaded (James), skinned alive and then beheaded (Bartholomew), scourged then nailed (Philip) or tied to a cross (Andrew) to die. The other James (son of Alphaeus) was stoned then finished off with a club to his head. Peter was crucified on the cross upside down. Judas, who had betrayed Jesus, committed suicide. John was the only apostle to die of natural causes.

  Do I have some questions about some of the content of the Bible? Yes. Do I think there is some wonky s*** in there? Yes. However, if you were lying to get people to invest into your idea, why wouldn’t you present a more glamorous sales pitch? Consider the time-share: you are lured by “prestige and affordability” that are promised with free knives and toasters only to find out later that you are tethered to blackout dates and maintenance fees for life. In contrast, the Bible spells out that, as Christians, there will be “trouble” and “suffering” hundreds of times AND that Satan rules the earth. Plus, your reward doesn’t come until after you die, and no toaster. As I read the Bible, which exposes even the greatest of humans as so deeply flawed—David, a murderer; Solomon, with 700 wives and 300 concubines; Judas, the ultimate betrayer—I’m thinking, why would anyone make this up? It’s so terrible.

  The real message of the Bible, and of most religions, is to forgive and love others. If you are committed to a religion (any) and someone is trying to make you ashamed of it, you should tell them to f*** off. Bless their hearts.

  YOU HAVE THE WRONG SUSPECTS

  As a senior at Marietta High School in 1989, we were granted a few privileges. Only seniors had off-campus lunch, top-floor lockers and permission to leave school early for work. Toward the end of the year we celebrated Senior Week, Senior Snob Day and Senior Skip Day.

  A non-school-endorsed tradition was the ritual of secretly re- painting the campus “rock,” which sits at the top of a hill behind Marietta High. Officially, no one was allowed to alter the rock, but the administration would turn a blind eye for a big rival football game or end-of-the-year senior activities. So, when it came our turn, my girlfriends and I purchased our supplies and scheduled our covert painting operation with a few of our guy friends.

  The guys didn’t make an appearance until after we had finished, the giant rock now covered with our signature orange and black Tiger pride colors and giant letters spelling out:

  Seniors Rule! 1989!

  Wanting to take ownership of such a masterpiece, we had boldly signed our names—Amy, Kristin, Susan, Jenny, and Marilyn—in huge letters. The guys told us what a great job we had done, offered to carry all our supplies down the hill for us, and went off to do 360s in the now-empty school parking lot.

  The next morning after the first bell rang, our principal, Mr. Malone, called our names over the loudspeaker, requesting that each of us “report to the office.” Mr. Malone was a big supporter of school spirit, and we were thrilled to be called out of class, imagining a photo opportunity for us with the best senior rock ever.

  That wasn’t how it worked out. We huddled into chairs in front of Mr. Malone, his voice at once confirming the shockingly stern look we saw on his face. “Well, what do you girls have to say for yourselves?”

  Marilyn was the first to speak up. She was a born leader and more confident than the rest of us since her father owned a string of sporting goods stores and had been a very generous donor to the football program over the years. “What are you talking about?” she said.

  Mr. Malone raised the blinds on his office window and pointed outside where The Rock was clearly visible. It no longer read: “Seniors Rule! 1989!” Instead, to our horror, were the words:

  Mr. Malone Sleeps Around!

  Once again, Marilyn stepped up. “Mr. Malone, we did not paint that. We painted ‘Seniors Rule.’”

  Then Susan said, “We have pictures! Just let me take the film into the drug store, wait three to five days to get them developed and we’ll show you!”

  Silence. Mr. Malone looked out at The Rock, being prepped to paint by the janitor, then he looked at us in disappointment. “You have made a mockery of this school and have set a bad example for Senior Week that can never be repaired,” he said. “You have nothing else to say for yourselves?”

  Long pause.

  It was my turn. “Mr. Malone, we couldn’t have painted that on The Rock. We didn’t even know you were sleeping around.”

  Mr. Malone shot to his feet and shouted, “GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!” as he pointed at the door.

  We were not further disciplined.

  THE LOSER CRUISER

  When I was in high school, the punishment I dreaded the most was being restricted from driving the car and forced to ride the “loser cruiser” to school.

  The only time the school bus was tolerable was when we were returning from a school athletic event, which could take several hours and was often shrouded in darkness, the perfect combination for trouble.

  My sophomore year, while returning from a swim team trip, the seniors smuggled ten, two-liter glass bottles of Sun Country wine coolers in their swim bags. Sun Country, offering flavors such as tropical and peach and consisting of fruit juices, sugar and white wine, were the drink of choice for unsophisticated white women and high schoolers. The seniors were quite generous and shared their stash with the rest of us on the bus, a third of whom were freshmen. Most of us girls were new to booze, and many ended up getting very tipsy and making out with the junior and senior boys.

  When the make-out session was disrupted by Mack Copeland,{16} whose drunken, bare-assed farts on sleeping teammates’ faces turned into an accidental poop on Tyler Robbey, the coaches woke up an
d started asking what the hell what going on. In a panic, the seniors started chucking the Sun Country glass liters out the bus windows. Police sirens ensued and the bus was pulled over.

  Mack Copeland and the rest of boys were not punished for their roguery, but all the girls were kicked off the swim team and threatened with expulsion if we did not attend months of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings.{17}

  I was also back on the yellow bus, restricted from driving the car.

  WORST BIRTHDAY EVER

  I wish I had a Sixteen Candles type story of my own sixteenth birthday, one where the super-hot “Jake Ryan” was waiting for me at the end of a crappy day. But I don’t. I celebrated my birthday at a bonfire, where my nemesis, Shana Moffit,{18} tried to kill me.

  Shana and I were both “good” girls who had been elected to student council, played sports and wore tasteful outfits from The Limited or Ann Taylor. Shana, a foot taller and a year older than me, had been dating Marietta High School’s version of Jake Ryan, Devin Trent.{19} Recently, though, I had started dating him. OK … “dating” would be a strong word; Devin and I hooked up after a night of playing beer pong at our buddy’s condo and never “dated” again.

  The night of my birthday party I was hoping to get back with an ex-ex-boyfriend, Sam, who was rumored to be coming to the bonfire. My girlfriends and I teased our spiral-permed hair into heights that would rival Marge Simpson’s, reapplied a coat of black eyeliner and headed to the party.

  Within minutes, Shana had spotted me and wanted to “talk about a few things.” Normally I would have obliged because I was scared of her, but because it was my birthday and I had been sipping Boone’s Farm{20} all night, I was a little cocky and told her, as nicely as I could, to go f*** herself. Shana was not used to such defiance and got eyelash to eyelash with me to express her disapproval regarding my hookup with Devin, the love of her life.

  “Well, it seems you two have broken up,” I said.

  I was not prepared for her response. She started screaming obscenities and scratching my face with her very sharp acrylic nails. As she tried to “Mike Tyson”{21} me, I backed up, but in trying to escape I stumbled backwards over firewood and Shana landed on top of me. The crowd got really excited seeing two preppy chicks rolling on the ground. It looked like a full-throttle girl fight when really, I was just trying to push her off. A couple boys grabbed her, still kicking and screaming, and I headed home.

  The following morning was the day of my actual birthday. My dad was mowing the grass. There were no presents. He had forgotten.{22}

  COLLEGE LIFE

  At Ohio State, I lived with five of the girls I had run around with in Marietta from junior high through graduation. It was the blind leading the blind. We got a house off campus on Indianola Street—in the ghetto. We walked to the Kroger that was predominantly supported by food stamps; thus, the price for a bunch of grapes was $9.50. However, it was within walking distance and they accepted our New Mexico fake IDs.

  We had made our fake IDs with poster board, laminate and an iron, using alphabet stickers to change the name of each ID, but we were too lazy to change the address. When my high school posse showed up together at a bar at Ohio State, you would have thought the bouncers would be a tad bit suspicious: ten people whose names on their driver’s licenses were Tara Coler, Kara Poler, Pam Cole, Tam Cole, Tim Cole, Tom Coler, Brin Cole, Brian Cole, etc., all with identical addresses in New Mexico. Miraculously, none of us ever had our fake IDs confiscated.

  Anyway, our ghetto apartment in Columbus was less than twenty yards from a fire station, which made us feel much safer: a small price to pay for the sirens that went off incessantly, scaring our visitors to death and invoking lots of “What the f**k is that?”

  Our neighbors were a group of cute boys, also OSU students, who were paying their way through college as drug dealers. None of us suspected a thing, despite the fact that all night long we could hear people coming and going, ringing their doorbell or knocking.

  It was 1991, and Nancy Reagan’s War on Drugs was still in full swing: it was not unusual for antidrug protesters to march down our street with Just Say No signs. One Tuesday night the sirens were not from the fire station, but from a police raid with officers wielding warrants and busting drug dealers. In clear view of our windows we could see the nice boys next door being escorted out in handcuffs, never to be seen again.

  JUST SAY NO

  I’ve been lucky enough, if that is even the right term, to have never been swayed into doing drugs, though my hometown was less than an hour from the weed capital, Meigs County, famous for its Meigs County Gold. I was never into pot and was not exposed to any other drugs until I went away to college.

  At Ohio State there were two, twenty-three-story dormitories, Morrill and Lincoln Towers. On campus, they were referred to as “The Towers.” The most famous resident of The Towers was Jeffrey Dahmer, the mass murderer. He lived on the fifth floor of Morrill Tower in 1978 for less than one academic quarter.

  My dad lived in Lincoln Tower in the 1960s, and not much had changed in thirty years. Each suite crammed sixteen kids into four bedrooms, one bathroom and a tiny living room, complete with orange shag carpet. Pack over 1,000 eighteen-year-old kids into one building and you get what you would expect: a 24/7 spring-break environment and a drop-out rate of over 50 percent.

  A few guys from my high school lived in The Towers and invited my lady squad to hang out. After about an hour, with twenty people crowded into the living room, drinking Schlitz, a wait began to grow for the bathroom. Two guys suggested we head next door to their suite to use their bathroom, if we wanted. “The door was open.”

  We knocked, then let ourselves in. Several girls started screeching. The draft from opening the door had blown the cocaine they had been snorting off the glass coffee table into a fog. The girls were waving their arms around trying to capture the floating powder and snorting the cocaine off the thirty-year- old orange shaggy carpet. I knew that drugs were not for me.

  I AM OLD. I LIKE FACEBOOK

  I like the extremes of the posts. The optimists: Make today a great day! and the pessimists: My cholesterol levels are still too high, another doctor’s appointment today. ☹

  It may seem silly that I spend so much time on Facebook looking at videos of kids trying to talk after they have had their wisdom teeth yanked out of their heads, but it gives me a reprieve from laundry and having to have sex with my husband.

  My favorite FB posts are guinea pigs in outfits, toddlers dancing

  to Michael Jackson, people falling, baby otters squeaking while lying on their mama otters’ bellies, bunny rabbits and puppies snuggling with other animals like birds, lions and cats. ADORABLE!

  The I’m better than you! posts are annoying. We are blessed that Julie has college scholarship offers from Yale and Brown! Look at my new Mercedes S Class! We are eating at a restaurant that none of you can afford! We used to be subjected to those sorts of announcements only once a year, getting the obnoxious gloating Christmas letters; now we’re bombarded daily.

  Facebook demands are the worst: If you love Jesus, you will like and share this post. If you do not share this post, you do not love Jesus, or I want to see who is reading my posts, so leave a word that starts with P and then cut and paste onto your own timeline. DO NOT JUST SHARE! If you share, I’m going to know you did not read the post and you are not my friend.

  I have a word that starts with the letter P for these people … P- r-o-z-a-c. If you need that much attention, get a puppy. Facebook is supposed to be recreational so quit bossing me.

  AMY AND ANNA GO TO CHINA

  Recently, my daughter and I went to China to visit my friend Kristin. Flights to China are expensive, thus I kept playing with the arrival and departure dates until I saw a fare I could live with. I informed Kristin that we would be staying for eighteen days. I realize that eighteen days is overstaying a welcome by about twelve days, but Kristin is very polite and replied, “Great!”

  The
re are many myths about China.

  Myth

  TRUE

  FALSE

  DETAIL

  The food is bad.

  x

  The food is different. They have over a billion people to feed. They eat snakes, frogs, silkworms, sea horses, baby duck embryos, turtles, cats and dogs.

  Everybody smokes.

  x

  But the people that do smoke, do so incessantly—even while they are eating dinner.

  The people are mean.

  x

  The people are aggressive.

  They’re horrible drivers.

  x

  Kristin’s advice: “Close your eyes.”

  Everything is cheap.

  x

  Housing is extremely expensive. Purchasing an imported car will cost you an additional 50 percent in taxes.