Kennedy's scrubbin

....no, I won't apologize for this one...its MY blog, OK!

Reindeer Games

I tasted Christmas today. It smacked of subtle peppermint and cookie dough and was in the form of a star-shaped treat with a drizzle of pink frosting, compliments of Wendy's mom. It was tasty. And like a ground-hog seeing his shadow (umm, or not seeing the shadow, I can't exactly remember how that works) I can predict from that morsel of goodness that it is going to be a good Christmas season, a Christmassy Christmas season and I am going to make no apologies for what will be profound indulgence. Some Decembers in my life have come and gone with out consequence, being distinguished only by one morning in which my brother rips me out of bed at an ungodly hour to open some gifts. But not this year. My house is going to be lit up like a Vegas strip club, there will be holiday sweets and hot cocoa on hand at all times for visitors anndddd.... I may or may not invest in a holiday sweater. And not the tasteful kind, but the kind that look as though one of Santa's elves vomited on your chest — bows, trees, bells the whole works. Joy to the world.

Gobble Gobble...

It's Thanksgiving and I am sitting at the cops desk at the newspaper. But don't cry for me Argentina. I basically volunteered but it is all part of my rebellion against the institution of Thanksgiving. My problem with the holiday however, is not that it marks the beginning of a near genocide of America's indigenous. It's what actually takes place on that day that bugs...a meal of gargantuine proportions with food that is suppose to be "so good," and then an afternoon of football, for the men, while the women clean up. Well first of all Thanksgiving food leaves a lot to be desired. Consider this: if turkey, yams, canned cranberries, and stuffing is soooo good why don't people eat it all year-round. Why don't they have restaurants that serve all-things Thanksgiving? It's because the food is not that good but because it is "Thanksgiving food" it gets the obligatory oooohhs and aaaahhs. And I don't like anything that's obligatory. And pie? Who eats pie? I mean really, aside from Thanksgiving day when do you crave a healthy piece of spiced pumpkin. Really. Moreover, football games dominate a sizable portion of the day and football already has a designated day...its called the Superbowl. And I am fairly certain the pilgrims weren't running plays on the gridiron with the Native Americans. So really there is nothing about the day that really celebrates the actual Thanksgiving and when you think about it, we are celebrating the Native Americans helping and teaching the settlers to survive and grow food...celebrating the friendship and unity between the natives and the whites......and then they slaughtered them....but hey "thanks for bringing the corn!"

"Othello Syndrome"

This started out as a class project but became a haunting work that tells a tale of love, betrayal, mistrust, pain and mind boggling talent. The music video was created and produced by some good friends of mine. If you actually know them it's an even bigger kick in the pants but either way its good time. And yes, the song was actually written and performed by these guys. Got skill? These guys got it in spades and if you want more go to www.myspace.com/freemenproductions Check it out..

awwwww.

Well it's no lie. I hate baby pictures. It happens to everyone...you are sitting there minding your own business and without warning you hear the high-pitched "look at this picture of my new nephew!" Or "this is my new Grand-baby...isn't he soooo cute?" Cute? Well if you like pink, wrinkled, sleeping blobs that resemble old men then, ya, sooooo cute.
One time, a few years back, I had a co-worker I didn't even know that well who gave me monthly photos of her two kids. I would walk in and she would say "oh I have something for you." Me being me, my heart would skip for a second because in my mind the default surprise is always candy. But no. It was a picture of Sam and Ginger, or whatever the hell their names were ( I don't think I even knew at the time.)
Well now I am eating humble pie and a bit conflicted. I now have a new niece, Kennedy. The first and VERY long-awaited grandchild of the family. And while I have never been fond of children and have yet to meet this one because she is in Atlanta, I am insatiable for pictures of her. I constantly find myself having to hold back showing her picture to everyone who passes by my desk. But I couldn't bear the reluctant obligatory nod of approval that I have insincerely given to the throngs of baby pictures stuffed in my face over the years. But now I understand uncontrollable urge to share. Even so, you are safe. I will only post this one for now, but know that I have many more that I will gladly show you would like. If not, no offense taken. I get it.

"So just get over there and bang some hair!"

Dear Girl in the Parking Elevator that Held the Door Open While Talking to Your Equally Clueless Friend About Nonsense While Holding the Rest of Us Up Forcing Us to Listen to Your Mind-numbing Conversation,

Let me just first start by saying I don't like you. Are really that inconsiderate or just really dumb and blind to what is and what is not a social foul. First of all, when there are four people on an elevator you need to learn to do yourself and everyone else a favor and keep the convo to a dull roar. Secondly if your little friend is getting off on a floor below you but you still have something to say, kindly step off and finish your conversation and allow the rest of us to get to our floors and our cars. I know the parking garage has been letting idiots in there lately but you've truly shown that a lower level of intelligence that I didn't even know existed absolutely is out there and alive and well. But aside from my disapproval of your behavior, something about you has left me feeling confused and lost. While I was trying to set you on fire with my mind while you were gabbing away with your arm holding the door I was puzzled by what was on your head. Anyone can see you have a blond head of hair but the protruding mystery mass that was on the top back of your head was mind boggling. I have seen my fair share of Utah hair. But I have never seen anything ratted so high. The big question is why? Why would you do that to yourself and what is the appeal. Clearly, judging from the four layers of makeup you had on you take your time on your appearance. But what do you think is attractive about the ratted mass atop your head. Anyone can see it took you a fair bit of time to accomplish it...but why? Who was it that lied to you...that told you it was attractive. You never see the Utah "hump" in magazines or fashion or anything related to beauty. I applaud your....ummm originality...but it just isn't working for you....or for anyone else for that matter. It's even harder for me to personally understand this "Utah hump" phenomenon when I spend a large part of my life trying to strap my hair down. So maybe it's just me. Like the mob on "Beauty and the Beast" "we don't like what we don't understand, in fact it scares us and this monster is mysterious at least." Well that is what I feel about the style misfiring atop your head.

A new day has dawned

Well for all those Airborne believers I have some news....the Airborne seltzer has saved me from many a cold by nipping it in the bud at the earliest onset. But it's sometimes as high as $7 a tube and in the coming winter months when I will be fighting the yuckies off the most I don't want to drop a lot of cheddar just to sidestep the sniffles. So last week when I was coming down with a sore throat — most likely the same thing that took Amelia down for a few days — I decided to try the generic stuff. I had always avoided it even when it was sometimes $4 cheaper because I wanted to make sure I was getting the hard goods. Well I am here to tell you that not only is the generic make cheaper but it is yummier while still packing the same punch. May I recommend the lime...

This has been this weeks Reviews by Jacelle

Curled toes and other woes

I am back from all my vacations folks. I am done until dare I say December. The first week back from the beach brought with it some high highs and even lower lows. The good news is that I got to fly a plane this week. It was so much fun and when I wasn't clenching my butt cheeks, curling my toes, forgetting to breath or peeing a little I was giggling with glee and not dying. Like a lot of people I have never been in love with heights so looking about 1,000 feet down with nothing but an inch thick door separating you from your seat and a free fall to a certain death wasn't the easiest thing to deal with, especially when your instructor makes you fly the plane. "Ok Tiffany now head to that peak and when you get over that tower turn a sharp right"..."oh when you turn the plane wants to go down so pull the nose up a bit...pull up!" "Ooh look at that house with a pool." My knuckles were white the whole time and when we were landing I thought I was going to hurl from anxiety but it was a huge rush. Awesome experience.
As for the bad news. My dearest friend, co-worker and lover Doug is moving to D.C. and his last day of work was yesterday. Doug is truly one of a kind and irreplaceable and there will be a big hole in my life when he leaves because I love him and his little bubble butt to death. He is quirky, kind, hilarious, smart, my favorite snuggle, a true wordsmith (despite a number of disagreements over the phonetic pronunciation of "FYI) and one of the most thoughtful considerate people I know. I'll miss you Dougy-digs.

Never trust a Filet O' Fish

My brother is good at a lot of things. He's a referee, a Marine, a world traveler, a politics whore, at one time he could run a mean 440. But one thing he as never been able to demonstrate any sort of prowess is keeping "it" in. The "it" can represent a number of things. For example after trotting halfway down the mountain on the way back from hiking Diamond head in Hawaii his bowels could no longer issue further restraint and we found him minutes later crouched in the weeds - minus a pair of soiled superman underwear that may or may not be there to this day. The 'it' got the better of him that day. Then fast forward years later. After finishing a race he was exhausted,
struggling for breath and near exhaustion when a lady he had made friends with during the race bent down near him to see if he was ok. He threw up in her hair. The Diamond head poo had taken place when he was 9, the hair hoarking was when he was 13.
And let's not get me started on his regrettable proclivities to flatulate at the drop of a hat - a store, a church, a restaurant - he doesn't discriminate. He even used to hold back scratching in church for ransom with his farts. He would purposely sit by me and make me scratch his back. If I refused or grew tired he would whisper "I have one locked in the chamber" and if I continued in my defiance he would then let one go. Thankfully his reign of terror at church was short lived since my parents granted us liberties to sit with friends.
But the latest incident of Trevor not being able to keep "it" in had me laughing until I almost passed out.
He was returning from a date in Atlanta with his wife Mande. They had gone to dinner, visited the Georgia Aquarium and even taken a romantic carriage ride before heading back Kennesaw, which was about a 30 minute drive. A magical night? Probably, but Trev made a horrible mistake earlier that afternoon - he scarfed a Filet O' Fish sandwich from Micki D's and the then downed a steak dinner.
It wasn't long into the drive when the urge to engage in a violent poo hit. But Trev is a soldier. He is not going to let that stop him from a timely arrival home and plus he thought he could make it.
By the time he pulled into the apartment complex he was in bad shape. Mande was on the phone and he grabbed her keys without shutting the car off because "he didn't have time to turn the car off." After bounding up three flights of stairs liberation was so close he could taste it. If he could just get in the door. But the effect of his desperation reared its ugly head and his shaking hands dropped the keys. He bent to pick them up. It was over.
If you want the gory details of the henious event that followed the key retreival as Trevor likes to explain it, which may or may not involved the words 'corn' and 'nuts,' feel free to call him. But I am a lady and will stick to the basics. I will say however that there was a trail of poo from the front door all the way into the bathroom. It was in his shoes, down both legs and all over the toilet.
Mande had walked up stairs, followed the trail and found him still going strong with the door agape on the John.
"Uhh, Becky, I gotta go."
His only explanation said it all "honey, I pooped my pants."
"Ya, no shit."

It wasn't lambs and flowers...

Everyone has fears. The type of fears that are for a large part unfounded....being robbed, burning alive, an intruder hiding in your back seat, losing a limb, air travel or even alien abductions. I even have a close friend who refuses to drive anywhere without emptying her bladder because she heard that if she were to get in an accident her bladder could explode.
I pride myself on being level-headed and not subscribing to even more sensible fears that could potentially alter my level of comfort or peace of mind. But there are two fears I have failed to escape: hitting someone with my car and being attacked by aggressive sea life i.e. shark, octopus etc.
My fear of hitting a pedestrian started with I was 15 years old in drivers education when my teacher, the awkward Mr. Tilley who was well known for his in-car flatulence, distinctive breathing pattern and monotone directives, told us about his daughter hit a college student when she was in Pocatello. The deep mental anguish and that he explained she went through has stuck with me for years.
Where the fear of ocean life attacking stems from, I don't rightly know. I fight the urge to beach myself even if I am in a lake, river or pool that is not lit because its the unknown — what is swimming under me that I can't see — that gets me. One time I was swimming in a canal with Ange. It was around midnight and the water was really dark. Out of the blue she said "what if there was a 'Jaws' in here." I freaked. We were out of there in an instant.
Well last week I had to meet my fear head on. I had decided to solely re-enact the famous last scene in the movie Gattaca where Ethan Hawk swims out in the ocean as far as he can. I hold to my assertion that that scene is the most powerful and moving scene in the history of moving pictures. But, I digress. As I was well away from shore I had slowed my strokes down and was taking a bit of a breather when it happened. Pain shot through my foot and I was certain my little toe had been bitten off. I don't think I have ever swam so fast in my life. I was pretty much just waiting for what would surely be a subsequent bite but I had to try and get away. Only the Christmas of 1989, where I received a giant Barbie house, a bike AND an Easy Bake Oven, can compete with the happiness I felt when I reached the shore with my leg still attached. And though it was covered in blood, so was my baby toe.
After a humiliating ruckus on the beach that may or may not have involved a beach jeep, three fine lifeguards, some crying and intermittent expletives, it was determined that I was nailed by a stingray. And should I not get to a tub of hot water to put my foot in to break down the poison then the searing and excruciating pain that I was feeling then would double — something I couldn't even imagine.
I haven't gone through anything overly traumatic. I have jacked my ankle more than a few times and wrecked on a dirt bike, dislocated a shoulder and had my lower back go out a couple of times. So yes. I have a limited frame of reference but I have honestly never been in that kind of pain in my entire life. People keep asking me how it feels. I think the best explanation is imagine setting the top of your foot on a hot burner for 4 seconds. Then take it off and constantly rub a rough washcloth over the burn for three hours and there ya have it. There were times I was pretty much sobbing and just wanted to crawl out of my skin. Thankfully the hot water helped substantially. As long as I kept my foot emerged then the pain was bearable. After about 3 hours I was able to walk again and it just turned into an ugly bruise with puss pockets covering the puncture wound.
So now I am among the elite few of 1,200 to 1,500 people in the US that get barbed by a stingray each year. But my toe is still sore and I still haven't been able to wear real shoes so I am yet to wear the designation with pride. It was an experience that I don't want to have happen again and thanks to the fact that I subscribe to convenient and twisted rational I am confident there will never be a repeat incident — kind of like chicken pox. The way I figure it since people seldom have to face their deepest fear and I have already faced off with one of them I both a) will never have to go through it again and b) are exempt from facing any other of my deep-seeded fears. Armed with that logic the next day I took to the waves worry free since I have already paid my dues. That was the best boogie boarding day I have had to date.

Let 'er buck

I have been mad at my father for years. But events in the past week may have rendered him off the hook. I have always loved horses, almost as much as I loved rocks, but that's another story. My dad was a cowboy back in the day, the real kind that ride the range and herd cattle. He grew up on a ranch and to this day sits spellbound in front of any movie or show where a horse is involved. (He may or may not have a posthumous man-crush on John Wayne) I could point out just about every kind of horse there is and have always dreamed of having one of my own. It would be a 16-hand palomino with a white blaze and socks on the two front feet. He would be a gelding and I would somehow shorten his long registered name to Sox. In my earlier years - pre-high school - I lived in the suburbs of Nevada that would not be conducive to any beast of burden. But when my parents high-tailed it to Idaho in my teens I thought that my consolation prize would somehow be a horse. No dice. To add insult to injury of the three houses that I lived in during my stint in Idaho each of them had a pasture fitting for multiple equine. Well I am 27 and I have resigned to the fact that I will never own a horse. And after Courtney's accident last week I am finally OK with it. She grew up In Bear Lake with horses in her backyard but never really rode them. (If I was her I would be in a white dress riding bareback on the beaches of Bear Lake on a daily basis -- at least that was how my adolescent day dreams played out with Sox). Well she hopped on a horse named Earl last week and after getting spooked he ran full speed towards two parked trucks and then came to an abrupt stop. Courtney didn't stop but flew face first into one of the trucks, breaking bones around her eye socket along with a couple ribs. Though her pictures would indicate otherwise, it could have been much worse. In talking to the doctor in Evanston WY hospital where she was taken, he said horse accidents are more than common. He claimed that statistically every five minutes someone is admitted to the hospital due to a horse accident. And every 5 hours there is a fatality due to a horse related accident. Now call me cautious but under those stats ummmm why do people have horses? I get that they are great for recreation but I mean if that's the case then buy an ATV, get a jet ski, invest in some dirt bikes. They may be equally as dangerous but you don't have to feed them all year, give them shots and take them to the vet. Plus ATVs don't get moody and decide to throw your ass off because they see a snake. So Carl, I ain't mad at ya anymore. Thanks for helping me keep my bones in tact.

Well come on in and take a load off..

First of all I have to say I don't like the term 'blog.' To me it sounds like onomatopoeia or a fake word. But I do like the idea of putting my opinions that I pretty much have on everything out there for those who I can only assume have enough of a misguided fascination to mull over. Next I must defend my decision to choose pink/violet/rose as my background color. In early high school most girls of my ilk (sporty, sassy and somewhat driven) started to reject pink because it was a sign of girly-girliness which could imply weakness, flightiness or lack of conviction. Years later those same girls often start to reject the idea of cooking for similar reasons. Well I'm Spartacus. Purple is my favorite color, I often wear pink and just between you and me, I can cook. Sometimes I even enjoy it. I like boys, flowers, shopping and even a good cry now and then but that doesn't mean I don't kick ass. Welcome to my blog.