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.