Won't You Be My Neighbor

I may not have mentioned this before, but I love the street I live on. I know almost everyone on the block, and people actually hang out on their porches and visit… well, at least they did before the temperature dropped to 40 degrees. We have a variety of personalities on this block and it keeps things interesting.

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* We have the young professional boys that live together. They’re out of college with their first real jobs and have built a full walk up bar in the house, but still use a futon as a couch.

* The house near the main street is full of stoners, complete with annoying drum set and pit bull.

* We have the crazy old lady across the street that claims to have lived the longest on the block. Then again, she also claims to have a black belt in karate. Every day she walks to the Circle K to buy a 40oz can of beer (for her plants, she claims) and pack of cigarettes.

* We’ve got the fix-it-all nice guy next door that has repaired half of the stuff in my house I rent and even the one I own a few houses down. He’s amazing!

* Then there’s my best friend, the Korean Cardiologist that refuses to date Asian girls because he claims not to like his “own kind”. (his words not mine)

* The Mormon Bishop just moved last month and sold his house to a lesbian couple with a teenager.

I could go on and on, but you get the picture. This is obviously the perfect street for someone like me. No one bats and eye when I’m wearing a bath robe and galoshes to walk across the street to borrow a cup of sugar. They don’t care that our pumpkins from Halloween are still out on the porch being prominently displayed…in December.

Anyway, now that I’m officially done being ADD, let’s talk about my next door fix-it-all neighbor. We have him to dinner almost once a week and I’ve thought he was so amazing…until last night. We share an internet connection and it has been so slow lately. Last night I was on my itunes and realized he his limewire folder opens on my itunes since we’re on the same connection. I was wondering what he was downloading, since the signal is so slow. These are the titles I found downloading on his computer:

Adult Movies - Rape Japanese Soldier Girl

Shemale - Tranny Surprise - Bianca Freire(1).mpg 26:15

Shemale - Tranny Surprise - Christy.mpeg Continuous

Shemale - Tranny Surprise Kalena Rios.mpg 26:57

Shemale Strokers - Suck My Tranny Cock.mpg 21:24

Tropic Thunder.mp4 Continuous

Vivid-Bad .porno.fuck.fucking.gangbang.orgy.

Nubiles-Sweet Girl masturbating - small tits

Shemale - Tranny Surprise Shayene Lima.mpg 21:16

Theres Something About Miriam, Transexual, Its her or him!(shemale)

I’m not sure which phrase is more upsetting to me “Rape Japanese Soldier.” “Suck My Tranny Cock,” or

“gangbang orgy groups.” I think I’m going to go with “Suck My Tranny Cock.” What surprised me the most was the quantity of tranny porn he’s downloading. Who knew he liked trannys? I’m shocked, disturbed, and completely intrigued; I had no idea that he would watch anything like this. I would have never guessed him for this type of guy.

Part of me wants to call him out, but the other part of me says that I should leave it alone and just make sure Ikeep my blinds closed at all times. Then again, I don’t have a penis, so he’s probably not even interested in me.

PS- How awesome is the porn movie title, “ There’s Something About Miriam. Transexual”?!!

Some Diamonds Aren't Forever

Until today, I really didn't have much to talk about. I've been so bored with my own life for the past two weeks that I couldn't even muster a simple story to entertain y'all.

The best thing that happened this Thanksgiving was when my granny opened a small leather pouch filled with jewelry that she said she didn't want anymore and was going to give away to us girls. I was excited until I realized that it was jewelry that probably nobody would want...ever. There was one piece that was particularly awful. It was gold nugget necklace. The nugget was shaped like a cock and balls though. I turned to granny and said, "My my, this a little phallic."

Without skipping a beat my grandmother said in her sweet southern voice, “I like phallic.”

*This proves that we’re related.

Today I’ve been given much more fodder.

So yesterday my sister called my dad to let him know that she was going to take one more semester of college. This is her fourth year of college, and she needs a few more credits to earn her two minors to beef up her resume for medical school. My father, a man that owns a yacht and a 2 million dollar cabin, told my sister that he was, “really strapped for cash right now and can’t afford to pay another semester of her schooling.” When I cite my dad’s wealth, please understand that I’m not bragging about how rich my dad is. I fully expect to receive a bill in the mail for the casket after he dies because he’s going to spend all of his money on himself. It just made me laugh that my dad actually believes that his explanation makes a bit of sense. BYU costs under $4,000 a year, making it one of the cheapest educations available. His ex-wife gets more than that every month in alimony.

Today, in typical big-sister fashion, I called my dad to tell him that he’s a cheapskate. Since I don’t expect more than a card or a bath robe for Christmas, I know that I didn’t risk much in telling him off. My dad started listing off how poor he was right now because of the economy. When I said that I wasn’t buying it, he then divulged the fact that even the ring he gave his fiancé was a CZ. What?!!? Hold on a minute. I immediately stopped caring about my sister Laura and started wondering about the CZ. How does one get away with giving their wife-to-be a fake diamond when you’re worth as much as my dad? Does Tanna, my soon-to-be-step-mommmy, know that she is wearing a big lie on her finger? (Please notice the picture to the right. She sent this out when she announced her engagement. This doesn't look like a girl that knows she's wearing a CZ. I'd be sitting on my hand ashamed if I'd just accepted a CZ that big from a mulit-millionaire cheapskate) What would she do if I told her? Should I tell her? Should I threaten to tell her to get my dad to pay for Laura’s college?

I wasted no time in informing my sister that Tanna’s ring is a CZ. We agreed that if a boy we loved proposed with a shiny, big diamond and asked us to marry him, we’d say “YES.” If he then told us the ring was a CZ, we would look at it as if he just handed us a used tissue. I don’t consider myself a snob, but I couldn’t handle wearing that big of a deception on my finger. I’d rather have a small diamond that is real than a big one that is fake. Our neighbor, who basically live at our house because of the plethora of baked goods we have lying around, then posed the question, “Would you accept a manufactured diamond? They’re not fake, just man-made REAL diamonds.

Laura, who had pulled out her own diamond ring and was wearing it said, “I just love the blood diamond that I wear.” Once again, this is why I know we’re related.

Something Old...New...Crotchless...Blue

I went to my dad’s fiancé’s bridal shower this past Saturday. My sister, Laura, and I had no idea what to bring this woman that we’ve only met a handful of times. It was also a little odd because we didn’t know if this was a lingerie shower or not. Should we bring a crockpot or something sexier? Laura and I joked about showing up with a corset or some crotchless panties. (side note: how disgusting does the term “crotchless panties” sound? “Panties” is such a pretty word, but when you add “crotchless,” it just makes it sound gross.) We laughed, thinking about how awkward it would be for our new step-mommy to have us there at a lingerie shower. I could just see her virginal face looking at us horrified as she opened up edible body paint and lacy thongs. In my daydream, I yelled out really inappropriate comments like, “Get some,” and “I bet my dad will teach you so much!”

Anyway, it turned out to be a crockpot kind of shower, and I was too chicken to bring her anything more scandalous than a cookbook and photo album.

Needing Normalcy

It has been a while since I’ve had a bad date, so I was probably due. After the broken rib, I’ve kind of petered out on the dating front. However, a couple of weeks ago I met a really cool girl at the gym who wanted to set me up with her brother. I said, Why not, and threw caution to the wind.

The brother, we’ll call him Jack, picked me up on time, took me to an amazing restaurant in Park City, and was just as cute as the girl described. Sadly, it was a little bit of a painful evening due to my date’s inability to carry a conversation. I had to lug the conversation around like a broken-legged five-year-old for four whole hours. It hurt my soul to talk that much. One word answer to my questions left me grasping for more to say. I tried telling stories, but he would cut me off in the middle and ask some random question. It was horrible.

When the date was over, I assumed that I would just pull my usual maneuver and not call him if he ever called again. Jack waited the standard 3 days, called, and received no response. He then texted me that he put a bid on the house in area that he had been telling me about. I didn’t want to seem rude, so I replied congratulations. Jack texted back that actually the house he was buying was way far south, to which I replied, why would you want to live out there and not downtown. (I recognize that his “he texted” and then “I texted” conversation is getting really old fast, but remember that I now teach middle school. Keep running with me on this because it gets better…I promise) He then texted: Why would I want to live around those inbred fuckers?!
What? I was actually a little appalled that he had texted someone he’d only known four hours the phrase “inbred fuckers.” I didn’t know how to respond, so I just didn’t. Sadly, that hasn’t deterred him from continuing to appall me via text.

Here are the last two text messages I’ve received from this guy:

Wednesday: I voted for the Nigger! …kill me!

Thursday: Reminder- Shave your genitals cuz today is the last day for Bush!

If I get another text message, I’m going to have to ask him to never contact me again. I’m more than a little disturbed.

In the eloquent words of my Granny, “That boy ain’t right.” She was the same grandmother that taught me how to shoot a rifle, kept frozen snakes in her fridge, and posted pictures/articles of freak accidents on her fridge to remind us children what NOT to do. She knew what was and wasn't right, and I'm sure she would agree with me on my assessment of Jack. Gosh I miss her!

Anyway, the dry spell of normalcy continues.

Got Taste?

On my way to work I cover about 30 miles of highway. I pass dozens of billboards and have taken to overanalyzing them while driving down the road at 6am. I have my favorites though. There are quite a few marriage and family billboards that are so Utah that it hurts. Lots of them feature families playing in the backyard together or girls in really modest wedding dresses.

My favorite of all times is the "Got Autism?" one.
I tried to pull over and take a picture, but the shoulder of the road is too dangerous on our freeways here. I found a copy of it online though. The difference is that one that has been prominently displayed here in Utah says nothing about the link between milk and autism on it. The one here just has the sad bowl of Cheerios on it with no explanation. I've looked at it probably 50 times and I've never been able to figure out till now what the ad was for. Do autistic kids have sad cereal? Is breakfast a really hard time for those afflicted with autism? Is autism related somehow to Cheerios? I've come up with dozens of similar questions in a futile effort to figure out what the hell this ad was about.

I'm so happy that now I know, after looking it up online to post a picture on here, that autism is related to milk! Wait, that is just silly. Everyone I know drank milk growing up and they don't all have autism. My mom fed us whole milk, which is almost the same as drinking right from a cow's teat and not a single one of her six kids have autism. I'm calling BS.

PS- I'd like to state how much I hate all the copycat ads for everything that just use "Got __________" as their campaign. Really people? You have a whole team of professional advertising agents and you can't come up with one single NEW idea. There have been copycats of that ad since I was in middle school. I think that if an ad agency ever showed a group of paying execs an ad like that, they should be fired immediately for creative retardedness.

PSS- PETA is the one sponsoring this ad. I remember when someone told me that in the late 90's when everyone was buying up all the websites that a group of funny kids bought PETA.COM and made the website People Eating Tasty Animals. They had lots of pictures of people eating different tasty animals posted. Eventually, PETA either sued them or paid them off for the rights to the website.

PSSS- I know for a fact that some sick guy bought MORMON.COM early on and made it into a porn site. I remember trying to look up something about my church and the first page featured a picture of a fat, naked Santa Claus playing with his candy cane. I'm not sure what we had to pay to get he domain name back, but it was probably worth it.

Suck My D*#@

Today was Halloween at our school. I have no idea why they decided to make Halloween on a Wednesday. Not only do they take a lot of fun out of dressing up by putting all kinds restrictions on students' costumes, but then they put it in the middle of the week.
We were supposed to pick one student from our 3rd period class that had the best costume and send them down for the school-wide costume contest.
We selected 4 students to vote on and they perfectly represented the 4 kinds of kids that dress up.

1. Slutty Popular Girl- Strawberry Shortcake
2. Class Clown- She dressed up as the Cat in the Hat complete with her whole face painted.
3. Annoying Boy That Thinks He's Cool- He bought costume that was a magnet with rubber ducks on it and was a "chick magnet"
4. Kid Who Cares Too Much- She made her own Beauty and the Beast yellow gown, hand sewn and perfect. (Sadly, I knew that she couldn't win because she wasn't popular enough.)

I could have told you that #2 was going to be our winner, but the other kids wanted to vote. I told the kids they could only vote once, so they should pic their favorite. Number 1 got 5 boys to vote for her (of course). Number 2 got 20 votes. Number 3 got NO votes and suddenly screamed, "You're all a bunch of DICKS!"

...Wait...I had to do a double take. Did a boy just scream a curse word in the middle of my class in the middle of Utah? I almost wanted to congratulate him, but instead I assigned him a one-page apology essay. I tried to scan it in, but I’m not too tech savy. Here is his letter, complete with misspellings and other beautiful teenage nonsense.

Opaligy Letter

Sorry about saying that word in class. I am trully sorry it just slipped. Normalley I try not to say things like that so I am truly sorry. I promise to you it will never happen again. Sometimes people say things on acsident that they did not mean to say and thats what happened to me. Please except my opaligy. I was just messing around and mint to say jerks. The next time this happens you can make me write 5 pages. I swear to you though it will never happen again. I even ment to say jerks in a mess around way and not even in a mean way. It is just that I know I had the best costome and their just being jerks for not picking me cuz I woulda totally won the hole contest. It is a terreble word that I never say and try to avoid saying all the time. Im notmally such a good kid and my parents would kill me if they knew I said that word. Please forgive me and except my opaligy

Is it wrong that I want to “except” his apology but make him rewrite this whole essay and fix his spelling. I love the part where he says that he never uses “dick” outside my classroom. I also like him trying to make sure that I won’t tell his parents because they’d probably do him bodily harm. Ahhh teenagers.

I can’t believe that part of my job is that I still have to act shocked when I hear a curse word.

My Students are SOO Sheltered

I've had several examples of my students naivete, but I'd like to share one from my 3rd period class today. This is an all 9th grade classroom.

Utah Student: Miss, do we have to use pencil on a scantron, can't I just use my pen?
Me: (internally rolling my eyes) You can you use pen, but I'm going to give you the score you get from the scantron machine.
Utah Student: Won't that mean I'll be getting a zero.
Me: Yup.
Utah Student: But all I have is a pen.
Me: Well you better beg, plead and borrow from your fellow students to get your hands on a pencil. (I try to avoid loaning out supplies because I never get them back)
Utah Student: What if no one will give me one?
Me: Stop making a simple situation hard. Just ask kids sitting around you.
Utah Student: I like making things hard.
Me: (waiting for sniggers and laughter to break out....nothing. I snicker and turn away from the student so he doesn't see me laughing)
Utah Student: Did you hear me?
Me: Yup...You said you liked making things hard. (Still no laughter)

I finally just gave him one of my pencils and realized that my sophomoric sense of humor is totally wasted on 15 year olds in this state.

First Snow

I walked outside this past weekend and realized that, not only was it colder than polar bear’s asshole, but it was actually snowing. It isn’t even Halloween yet, and snow was collecting in heaps on my car and the roof of the house. My roommate Jody said, “Isn’t is beautiful.”
I don’t think that beauty is a term I use to describe frozen condensation hitting my face. Let me remind you all that the two areas I have spent the majority of my life are Austin, Texas and San Diego, California. I’m like a lizard; I need a heat rock if drops below 60.

I’ve gone on ski trips with friends before, but I usually just snowboard a half day and then hang out in the lodge looking for cute guys. I’m really just there to drink hot chocolate and find a place that sells soup in warm bread bowls.

I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do this winter. I did take some initiative and invested in some footie pajamas for adults. Though my sister told me that no self-respecting person would EVER be caught dead in footie pajamas, I secretly think she’s just jealous. I can sense her envy every time I come racing around a corner of the house and slide across the wood floors to where she is standing. In fact, I’ve slept the past three nights in my footie pajamas. Laura must really be jealous because last night she turned the heat up in the house and I woke up sweating something fierce.

Here is a pic of my robot footie pjs. I'm rolling around on the ground with my neighbor, Tobin's, great dane.

Here is a photo of my brother doing his velociraptor impersonation in the snow. I wish I had an explanation for his behavior, but if you know my brother, you know that no explanation is ever required.

Free Golden Showers

Have you ever been conned by a cripple? I have.

As I mentioned before, I took a job working for a paraplegic guy. I spent two whole evenings being bossed around like a field hand. Somehow, I envisioned the job would be like babysitting. I would show up, feed him, put on the adult equivalent of Baby Einstein, clean up the house a little, and then go home with some tax-free cash in my pocket. Sadly, this is not how things panned out.

The first night I went and picked up dinner. I then received hundreds of instructions on how I should puree it, heat it, display it on the plate, serve it, and feed it to him. I think that if you’re in a wheelchair, you shouldn’t get to be OCD too. Only one disability at a time please. After over an hour of the feeding process, he wanted to channel surf. By channel surf, I mean he wanted me to flip through the channels until he found something he liked for about 2-3 minutes and then change it again. It is bad enough to try and watch someone else channel surf, but to be ordered to change the channel once every couple of minutes is downright exhausting and annoying. Then he wheeled around while I cleaned up things, he had me text message his friends for him using his phone, and then it was time to pee. WHAT! I knew this was one of my duties, but I had prayed that he could hold it till the night staff arrived. No such luck. I unzipped his pants, held the pee pee jug under his penis and then he demanded that I tell him a story while he urinated. WOW. Do you know how hard it is to tell a story while someone is peeing in a jar you are holding? I do. Somehow I don’t think $12 an hour was worth this. Then he told me he was finished. As I pulled the pee pee jug away, he squirtled me with urine ON MY BARE HAND! I tried not to freak out, but I still ran to the bathroom and washed my hands in the hottest water I could find. I don’t like it when I accidentally get my own pee on my own hand, much less the urine of a near stranger. Please don’t try to tell me that it is sterile because it won’t make it any less gross.

The next visit I had to his house I fed him, cleaned, helped him pee in a jar (very carefully this time), and then was commanded to file his nails while he watched Dancing with the Stars and commented on how fat everyone was.

I was supposed to take care of him that Sunday and then get paid for the week, but he called and told me he was going to his sister’s house and didn’t need my help. I haven’t heard from him since. It has been almost two weeks and I still haven’t been paid. I can’t believe that I got a golden shower for nothing. I’ve called and texted him, but he hasn’t returned my phone call or text. After all that I did for the guy. I’m so mad!

I was trying to think of reasons for being “let go” and I couldn’t come up with anything all last week. Then, I remembered one conversation we had while watching the news.
Wheelchair: Who are you voting for?
Me: McCain
Wheelchair: Me too. I don’t want a socialized nation.
Me: I completely agree. There are already way too many government handouts. It’s like we are trying to reverse social Darwinism.
Wheelchair: (Silent)
Me: (suddenly realizing what Darwinsim would mean for someone with no use of arms and legs) What I mean is…uhh…I think everyone should work to contribute.
Wheelchair: Change the channel to 52

So yea, I think I pinpointed the moment when I was “let go.” I still feel that I should have been paid for the hours I worked though. Is it wrong to drive to his house and demand payment? Should I write an email? All I know is that after being peed on by a guy, I better get paid something.

BYU Homecoming- GO COUGARS

I know you may not have guessed this about me, but I wasn’t much of a joiner in high school and college. In fact, organized dances, school functions, clubs, and other such entities I deemed as total nonsense and avoided them like Brittany Spears does birth control. I didn’t even go to prom my senior year of high school. I know you are all thinking, “Isn’t that just because you were a loser in high school and didn’t get asked?” And the answer to that is yes, but I still like to claim that I was making a stand against the man, whoever that is.
I digress…as always.

Anyway, it all started when my brother, another facebook junkie, saw that a learning disabled girl from our church back home had written “Lauren…is waiting for someone to ask her to homecoming” on her facebook profile. Lauren is a 22 year old that is mentally about 13 and attends BYU. They let her audit her classes but she only really takes dance and some art classes. Her parents just wanted to give her the college experience for a while. Soooo Ghent, my angel of a brother, sent her a message on Facebook asking her to the BYU homecoming dance. Once my sister, Laura, and I learned that he’d invited Lauren to homecoming, we knew we would have to get dates and make it a GROUP activity. My brother is sweet, but he’s not really social or the best dancer. These are both huge understatements. It is like saying that Posh Spice looks thin, when in fact she makes Ethiopians want to give her a dollar-a-day to go buy some food. So Laura, Jody, my other roommate, and I all decide to get dates and tickets to the BYU homecoming dance.

There are some major problems with this scenario. First problem is I don’t go to BYU. I graduated almost 9 years ago. Second problem is that I was going to have to convince someone to go with me, that probably also graduated a decade ago. I know that I’m a fun date, but if I couldn’t talk a guy into going to prom with me when we were both in high school, chances are I can’t talk a 30 year-old in to going to a homecoming at a college we both don’t attend.

Luckily, I found out that Roy was coming in town. I knew that if I was able to sucker him into going to a folk festival in Colorado, then a meager dance would be no problem. It ended up being a lot of fun, and I think the kids just thought we were chaperones for the event. Ghent and Lauren had a blast, and I recently noticed that Lauren has changed her Facebook picture to the cheesy one we took before we left for the dance. Awwwww.

Here is a photo of Ghent putting on the corsage he bought for Lauren.

Here is a photo of all the couples before the dance. I’ve blocked out my face (I like to be mysterious), Roy’s face (just trust me he is hot), and my sister face (because she looks like me). Okay, I’m still a little terrified that my students or possibly people I write about here will find out about this website. I like to do my smack-talking anonymously. I am aware that I’m a coward.

* I contemplated going into detail about being really freaked out at the dance that I would run into former students that would question why I was at their college homecoming with a date, but I decided not to mention it. I also left out the part where I tried to dance to Thriller in line-dance fashion and made a fool of myself.

My Dad is Engaged

I’m not sure if you know this, but my dad has been divorced for like three whole hours and now he’s engaged again. In all seriousness, he has honestly been single for probably two months and he’s ready to take the plunge again. I can’t believe we are even related. I’m more of a cat in relationships; I don’t like getting wet, much less plunging into anything. (Please insert tons of naughty jokes here using the word wet…as soon as I wrote that last line I knew my perverted friends would start formulating their racy comments) I can’t commit after 5, 8 and 10 months, and my dad has literally been on 5 dates with this girl, and he’s ready to tie the knot again. I want to say something is wrong with me, but who am I kidding- my dad is a freak!

I found out because I got a frantic phone call from my sister Fran telling me to check my email. On it, was this picture. It is my dad’s new girlfriend showing off her humongous engagement ring.

I know the following facts about my new soon-to-be mommy:

1. She is 45. My dad is 55, so this doesn’t seem like a mid-life crisis decision.
   
2. She has lived in Utah her whole life. I don’t know if y’all know anything about Utah, but being 45 and single in Utah is like being 75 and single here. No one, unless you are riddled with issues or riddled with acne and love handles, waits till they are 45 to get married in Utah. I’m considered a spinster there and I'm only 29.
3. She is virgin. I know that I shouldn’t know this fact, but I do. My dad is a chronic over-sharer. I don’t know what the age is when being a virgin goes from “wow, I’m so proud of you for holding out for the right man” to “Gosh, you must have some serious issues and/or no libido,” but I’m sure that 40 years-old may be the virgin limit (and that is being VERY generous!)
4. She is already trying to dress my dad like a douchebag. She bought him several dress shirts that feature golden dragons and Chinese symbols on the shoulders and back. I feel I should reiterate that my dad is 55 and has 5 children. He doesn’t need to be wearing anything with dragons on it or anything that shows off his chest and arms.
5. She is very sweet and seems really nice. She told me the engagement story and started crying. This was the moment when I knew my dad wouldn’t be sensitive enough for her. She tried to turn into his shoulder, so we wouldn’t see her crying mid-story. My dad promptly put both hands on her shoulders, turned her around to face us all teary-eyed, and made her finish the story.My dad is a nice guy, but he's never been that sensitive or "aware" of things.
6. She just sent me a “cute commercial” that featured a baby driving a car to the beach. I’m certain that I’ll get some more that have puppies and kittens doing cute things in them later this week.

I’m working on being accepting. I keep reminding myself that there is NO WAY she could be worse than my last step-mom of 13 years. We lovingly referred to her as the Megabeast.

I’ll be posting wedding pictures come December, so be on the look out for them.

No One in Utah Thinks I'm Funny

I went to a party with a bunch of people I didn’t know this weekend. This is never a good scenario because I forget that no one knows me either, and I randomly spout off and offend people without realizing it.

Case and point:

Some girl keeps telling how horrible her job is and how difficult it is to boss people around all day.

Girl: And I’m all, noooo you cannot have a two hour lunch.
Me: Where do you work again?
Girl: I’m an employee manager at the University of Phoenix.
Me: (Without thinking) Is that REALLY a college?
Girl: (Totally offended) Of course it is!!! It is a formal college. One of the biggest in the nation that allows….blah…blah…blah
Me: (Totally not paying attention and thinking that it is still a BS college)
Girl:… and it is so organized and blah…blah…blah.
Me: Oh, I had no idea.

So today at lunch I start to share this story of putting my foot in my mouth around the teacher’s lunch table. There are about 7 people in the room and I’m trying to get off the topic that is usually the focus of our lunchroom banter. I call this topic: Why My Kid Is Cuter Than Yours. I never share and have almost stopped going in the lunch room because it SUCKS. Sadly, I was so hard up for adult contact at work that I went. Plus, I needed to use the microwave. Anyway, I begin to tell my funny story about the University of Phoenix. In my head, I expected people to join in and agree with me that the University of Phoenix is some online school where you basically pay for your diploma. I get to the end of the story…

Me: …so I ask if it’s even a real college and she goes on this whole rant about it being one of the biggest colleges and I’m just sitting there thinking, Don’t you just pay and get a degree?
PE Coach at lunch table: OF COURSE IT’S A REAL COLLEGE! I got my masters there and it was really hard.
Me: (Thinking here we go again. Of course the coach got his degree there!)
PE Coach: I had to turn in every single assignment. I had classes online…Blah…blah…blah
Me: (Thinking- I HAVE TO GET OUT OF UTAH!)

So yea, I stuck my foot in my mouth twice on the same story. What are the odds? Then again, this is me, so the odds are probably pretty good.

PS- Do any of you agree with me that University of Phoenix is just a made up school that hands out degrees to anyone that pays for them?
PSS- If you did get a degree from University of Phoenix or work there, I don’t want to hear about. You have already learned that I won’t listen to you and will probably just end up making fun of you later in another blog.

It's Sexy Time

http://www.monkeysee.com/play/3099-full-sexy-dance

Please check out this video before you read this post. I wish I were technologically advanced enough to figure out how to download it onto my blog, but alas, I'm not. I look at other people's blogs and wonder how they can get the cool, personalized heading with their own graphics. Sadly, I think you are all stuck looking at my dark confetti configuration until I befriend someone who can figure out how to make my blog look unique.

ANYWAY, you have to check out that video. It is a woman that is teaching a sexy strip routine in a black tank top, horrible 90's heels, and legging with no panties. The music is so soft, you get to hear her breathing heavy and the noises she makes scooting around on her carpeted living room. I'm not sure which is my favorite move, the butt slap or the African-Anteater air hump. One thing is for sure- IT IS AWESOME!

Whoring Myself Out for Cash

I got my credit card bill a week ago and realized that I needed a second job. Not only did moving to Utah kill my social life, but I just figured out that I took a 10K pay cut to move to God’s country. I didn’t realize how much I needed that extra 10K. My paycheck arrived, and I shed big tears realizing that not only would I not be able to afford stylish winter boots, but I may not be able to afford to heat my house when the cold weather sets in. I immediately got on craigslist and started looking for a second job.

I applied for a job as a cook and helper for a guy in a wheelchair that lives in my neighborhood. It seemed like the perfect job. I get to cook, it is only in the evenings, and I get paid $12 an hour under the table. The guy, we’ll call him Wheelchair from now on, called me and asked me all sorts of questions about my views on politics, Mormonism, marriage, etc. None of which were really interview-type questions. My favorite dialogue went like this:

Wheelchair: So I have to ask everyone this question, so don’t get offended: How much do you weigh and how tall are you?
Me: I’m about 5’11 and I weigh about 150-155 depending on the season.
Wheelchair: So you’re a thick girl.
Me: (feeling insulted by someone that can’t even brush his own teeth) I workout a lot and I’m really tall. (I don’t know why I’m even trying to justify my weight)
Wheelchair: I just needed to know that you could put my chair back up if I fell down, and it sounds like you’re big enough to get the job done.
Me: (thinking- first I’m thick and now I’m big…maybe I don’t want this job after all)

I let the issue drop, figuring that I’d let my appearance speak for itself when I went in for the fact to face interview. I had that interview on Monday.

On Monday I learned that Wheelchair is not a quadriplegic. He has minimal use of his fingers and toes. He can’t lift his arm or his head, but be can talk longer and louder than should be allowed. He also has what I like to refer to as Wheelchair ADHD. As he asked me questions, he would wheel himself all over the room. I was sitting on the couch trying to talk to him about where I grew up, my goals and dreams while he was doing donuts around the coffee table and then wheeling himself forward and back in a sort of electric-slide sped dance. It was so distracting. He never just sat still in his wheelchair; he, like most men if they were allowed, kept playing with his little joystick.
Speaking of joystick, let me relate to you the best dialogue of the interview.

Wheelchair: I have someone come and bathe me and change me for nighttime. Your only responsibility in that personal area would be to help me go pee, if I need to. Can you do that?
Me: (thinking: what exactly does this entail?) Of course
Wheelchair: You’ll only have to unzip my pants, pull me forward, and hold a plastic container up to my penis.
Me: (WHAT?) Okay
Wheelchair: You won’t have to actually touch my penis. Can you handle that?
Me: (wanting to point out the joke of him asking if I “can handle that” but trying desperately to control my facial expressions and come across as professional) Of course. No problem.

I know that you are shocked, but I got the job. Yea me! As I write this, I’m beginning to think that I should have just gotten a job at JCrew with my roommate Jody. It is less money, but I don’t have to unzip anyone’s pants and hold a piss cup. Plus, I’d probably get a pretty good discount on clothes. Arghhh. At least this will probably produce some awesome blog material.

Thanks for Playing.

This was written last Thursday. Sorry for the delayed posting.

Even in my weakened condition, I decided that a date last night was better than staying home. I know it is cheesy, but I met this one at the gym over a week ago…back before I broke my rib, when I could move, bend and tie my own shoes. We were in the same weight training class. I kept looking over my shoulder, thinking, I’ve met or seen this guy before. I walked up after class and said the most typical of all pick up lines, “I feel like I know you from somewhere.” I know, I’m so creative and sly. The only one less creative is, “Hey, do you know what time it is?” I was being serious though; I really did know him from somewhere. We talked briefly and he asked if he could get my number. Since we were both wearing a combo of pocketless spandex and dri-fix fabrics, we obviously had no pens. He then said “Hey, mine is easy to remember. My phone number just spells cranberry.” Not thinking twice, I went ahead and committed the word “cranberry” to my short-term memory. Only later, on my way home, did I realize that it is either not enough numbers, if you consider that you need an area code, or it’s too many numbers, if you assume it is an 801 area code. I tried dialing a variety of combos till I figured out that you need to dial 801-cra-nber. Yea, I was bored…stop judging me!

So last night we went to dinner where I learned the following facts:
1. He is 40.
a. A little old, but he still looks young. I let it slide.
2. Not a Mormon.
a. This has proven to be a big issue in the past, but I’m still intrigued by him.
3. He has two kids. One is 15 and the other is 13. His ex wife is a lesbian and has been living with her partner for the past 5 years.
a. I’m becoming a little less interested with him. Then again, I love kids. 13 and 15 are the ages I’m teaching right now.
4. We do know each other from a cruise we both went on in February called Cayamo. He was with a girlfriend on the cruise, while I was with my mom and sister.
a. See…I didn’t just make up the part about knowing him from somewhere
5. He had been dating said ex-girlfriend for four years and just broke up a month ago. He still talks to ex-girlfriend on the phone almost every day. He describes his ex as “perfect” but claims that he broke up because he felt that he never really got to “date around” after his divorce.
a. When guys say something like that, I immediately replace the words “date around” with “sleep around”.
b. We’ll call this fact the GAME OVER moment in the evening. Thank you for playing.

It's a Miracle

I loved the fact that after I wrote my last blog I was flooded with calls, texts, and emails of friends willing to ship me pain pills. You know you have a true friend when they volunteer to overnight you some hydrocodine. That is what friends are for!

I stayed pretty immobile all weekend. The doctor that lives across the street came back from Italy late Saturday night. I was practically waiting on his doorstep when he got home. He told me to take some anti-inflammatory drugs and start alternating ice and heat packs every few hours. By Sunday afternoon I felt like a new woman. I felt so good that I talked my sister and friend Jody into going to a dessert meet and greet party. I wasn’t dying to go, but I’d been cooped up in the house for days and was going a little stir crazy. I knew I was bored when my biggest event of the whole weekend was when I took enough painkillers to walk around Ross Friday night to browse around.

My sister, Jody and I walked into the dessert party last night and of course I see the guy that broke my rib. I tried not to be noticed, but when you are almost 6 feet tall and the guy is 6’7, it is pretty much impossible. I had been avoiding his calls all weekend and said I was way too sore to move or have company over to the house. Yup, There I was…walking, talking, and wearing makeup. I tried to tell him that I felt miraculously better just hours before due to my doctor’s advice, but I think we both knew what was really going on. Awkward.

Anyway, I’m feeling better and am at work today. I don’t think those things really should go in the same sentence, but oh well.

It's Only a Date Faulker

I know it has been a long time since my last installment. Truthfully, I just haven’t been on any dates to write about. I was talking to Betsy yesterday and informed her that I finally had a date, so I’d hopefully get a good story out of it. I wish I had no story though.

My date seemed nice enough. I met him at a church party this past weekend and he got my number. We were doing the typical dinner date on a Wednesday night. During dinner he spilled his guts about his years of drug addictions and his return to church in the past year. When asked what kinds of drugs he did, he went into detail about all the pain killers, acid, coke, meth, and crack. I’ve never even known someone that did crack before, so this was a whole new world for me. How does someone keep a straight face while eating a salad when their date announces that they did crack for a certain period of time in their life?

After dinner, he said he wanted to show me his remodeled house and give me a chance to meet his dog. It seemed harmless enough. When we got to his house, we talked, shared stories and watched his little mutt do all of her tricks. At one point I got up and my date tried to tickle me. I’m not a fan of being tickled because it makes me spaz out. When he started tickling me, I tried to wrestle him off and wound up putting him in a headlock. He reared up and we both fell backwards on a chair with a metal armrest. It was one of those retro chairs and the armrest was a thick pieces of metal with a 90degree angle on it. He fell on top of me and my back hit the armrest...HARD. I’m not sure what it feels like to be stabbed, but I think I now have a pretty good idea. I had the wind knocked out of me and I lay on the floor mouthing silent screams while tears welled up in my eyes. My date panicked and started asking me if I was okay. When I finally got my breath back, I whispered, “I’m not dead yet, but I’m very badly hurt.” I tried to start moving around and it became very apparent that I had broken a couple of ribs. I consider myself pretty tough; one has to be when you’re as clumsy as I am. I’m not exaggerating when I say that this is the most pain I’ve ever been in in my whole life.

Luckily this is the only time in my entire adult life when I don’t have medical insurance. The new school I work at told me that I’d have to wait two months for the insurance to kick in. As an added bonus, I don't know a single doctor or person that could help me that lives in the area. Sooooo…I had my date bring me home crying. All I could find when I got home was a few aspirin, which would be like putting Neosporin on a broken arm. My recently recovered drug-addict of a date couldn’t even get a hold of a hydrocodine. What kind of drug addict are you when you don’t have at least a few pills lying around the house or a friendly junkie that could hook you up? Anyway, my sister’s friend was able to spot me a few pills and now here I sit, bandaged, grimacing, and telling yet another horrible date story. I’ve called a few doctors, gave them my symptoms, and they all said it was definitely a few broken or cracked ribs. The good thing is that when you wrap your lower torso tightly with an ace bandage to hold the ribs in place, it makes your boobs look huge. I know...I'm such a Pollyanna.

I hate Utah! Honestly, who breaks ribs on a first date?

What's that again?

My grandfather has been in town for the last two days visiting my sister and me. He has Alzheimer and is losing it a little. This means that he is able to talk for hours about his career as a doctor or tell funny antidotes about going on blind dates in college. The giveaway is that in-between his talking, he will ask me where I teach, how many students I have, and what subject do I teach, several times over and over again. I’ve gotten used to this, and really do love spending time with him. I’m not sure if it is the disease or old age, but my once regal grandfather known to everyone as either Bishop Graves or Doctor Graves has lost his filter for what is socially acceptable and what isn’t.

Example #1- We are sitting at dinner in a fancy restaurant in Park City and there are lots of people within earshot. My grandfather launches into one of his random rants about society and says, “When I grew up we didn’t have any queers; we had boys called sissies. A sissy was just a boy that had a really overbearing mother and didn’t play ball with the rest of us. The sissies back then just wound up getting married to someone like their moms. I don’t understand all these queers nowadays. It seems like they just want the attention.” While this is taking place, Laura and I are trying to make him change the subject and looking around to see if anyone overheard him. We have the same reaction when he starts talking about “colored” people.

Example #2- We are playing miniature golf up at the Park City resort. My grandfather says he going to find a bathroom and starts walking off behind the family maze, another attraction. My sister Laura tries to tell him where the bathrooms are on the other side of the resort. My grandfather calmly replies, “I’m pretty sure I can find one back here.” It is hard to describe the horror and shock that overcame us when we both realized that my grandfather was going to pee right behind the family maze. The only thing worse was when we realized that the mountain biking trail came out right behind him, so lots of other people got to share in our shock and disbelief.

First Day at School

Teaching 7th and 9th graders in Utah is probably the equivalent of teaching 5th and 7th graders in Texas. They are so emotionally stunted that they don’t even get half of my jokes.
Today we played the name game. This is a game where you learn all the names of the students by having them find something that rhymes with their names or is alliterative. I may be able to learn their names in a few months, but I will never be able to spell them all. People in Utah feel the need to either make up names or misspell common names to confuse future generations of people.

Examples:
I have many girls by the names of Kaylee, Kaylie, Kaleigh, Kaileigh, and Kayle.

I’ve got Braiden, Brayeden, Braydeen, and Braden.

My favorite names are Precious, Charlin, Mysti, Shanica, Aubrie, Sault, Darger, Meriken, Mcky, Mattiliynn, and Oakley. I have literally dozens of random misspellings of normal names, but I won’t bore you with them. I know what you’re thinking…these are all WHITE, suburban kids with screwed up names. I only have two Hispanic kids out of 170 students and their names are Maria and Michael.

My favorite quote of the day: It’s always best if you can do it without using a lot of strokes.
Some 7th grade kid was trying to explain his summer playing mini-golf to the class. BTW- NO ONE BUT ME LAUGHED AT THAT.

SIDENOTE: “Roy” sent me flowers to school today. How cute is that?!

Having a Folky Good Time

Last weekend my cousin was playing in a folk festival in Colorado. She entered the Folks Festival (I didn’t spell it wrong, that is the name of the festival…creative, I know) contest last year with hundreds of other singers and won. You may be picturing middle to late-aged woman with long unkempt hair sitting on a stool and denouncing the government, but Sarah is actually a young girl with styled blonde hair who struts her stuff while she sings. Her prize for winning was her very own stage at this year’s Folks Festival in lovely Lyons, Colorado ( I say lovely because it is a beautiful place by the mountains with water flowing through it…I also say it ironically here as a bit of foreshadowing of events to come). My mom, cousins, and sisters have long planned on attending her debut on a main stage. Sadly, my sister Fran couldn’t make it because she was preggo. I say “was” because she had the baby the same morning that my cousin Sarah performed on Saturday. My sister Laura was supposed to accompany me on the 7 hour drive from Salt Lake City, but she backed out days before. I was left contemplating the cross-country trek by my lonesome. You all know how love to be alone, so since I didn’t want to make the drive on my own, I roped a date into coming with me. My date is someone that I’ve known for a long time and recently started dating. He is cute, normal, witty, but sadly isn’t Mormon. Anyway, for the sake of brevity and secrecy we’ll call him “Roy”.

Roy arrived promptly to drive to Colorado with me and attend the folk festival. I had built the trip up as a couple of days in the sun listening to good music enjoying the festival atmosphere and camping under the stars. I don’t think either of us knew what we were getting into. Let me start by alerting all of you who don’t know me that I’m the worst passenger on long car trips. The minute the car is in motion, I get sleepy and pass out; I’m like a 2 year old in a car seat. If I’m driving, I’m a road warrior and could stay awake all night. If I’m sitting next to the driver, I start nodding off before I’m out of the driveway. Anyway, Roy insisted on driving my Civic, something about men and the need to show their ability to drive long distances in short amounts of time that I will never understand. Unintentionally, I put him to an early test of his mettle… I think I woke up about the time we reached Colorado. I took the wheel for the last couple of hours and noticed the weather getting increasingly bad. My hope was that this light sprinkling was just a passing squall. Well, by the time we reached Lyons, the temperature had dropped from 90 to 50 degrees and it was pouring rain. As we neared our destination, I caught myself sneaking more and more glances across at Roy; one because he is cute and I felt a growing attraction, and two because I was curious to see if the weather was dampening his usual smiling disposition. I was surprised to find he was taking this all in stride. We arrived at the campsite (more on this “campsite” in a moment) around 7pm on Friday night, just in time to see Patty Griffin play. Her lyrics and amazing voice energized an obviously tired audience. Of course her magnificent full-length bedazzled jacket probably helped.

Alright, let’s talk about he audience for a second. I want you all to picture what it would look like if you crossed Lillith Fair and Woodstock. It was a mud soaked campground and outdoor theatre completely overrun with lesbians and bearded folk festival men. And when I say ‘soaked’, I mean you had to choose your footsteps carefully or find your shoes completely underwater! I saw a few average ‘folksy-people’ as I glanced around, but I think the rain had scared most of the “fair-weather” fans back to their tents or hotel rooms by the time we arrived. Luckily, I had a poncho in my car, but I had nothing for Roy. We had planned for 90 degree weather sitting comfortably in small lawn chairs, so we each only packed a light sweatshirt. As we neared the actual seating area of the outdoor concert I noticed the rain was soaking through Roy’s gray sweatshirt. I had brought my wide-rimmed hiking hat that repels water fairly well and had this pulled down over the top of his hoodie. What a sight he was! I was amazed that he still smiled while swinging his arms and saying jovially ‘this is awesome!’ He was redefining what it means to be a good sport and endearing himself to me at the same time. We eventually ran into my cousin equipped with an extra clear disposable poncho and I quickly pulled it over his head as commented on the 90 degree weather, smirked, and shook his head. I can’t do the scene justice, but I will forever have the priceless image of Roy standing in front of a stage with a funny hat, watching Patty, drenched, in an ill-fitting poncho completely surrounded by lesbians singing and dancing.

We were originally supposed to camp walking distance from the stage in a grass parking lot, but my saint-of-a-mother got us a room at some place with cabins. I think setting up a tent in the rain in a small inundated spot tucked next to every other festival goer may have caused my date to drive off in the middle of the night without me. So, after leaving the festival grounds (there was actually not too much ground left that was above water) we sloshed our way to the car, picked up some treats from an always entertaining Wal-Mart and found our way to the B&B.

I called the woman who owns the cabin on the way and she gave me directions. She told me to keep driving along the property until we saw a sign that said “The Fishing Lodge.” I can’t express the warm thoughts that accompanied the idea of a big bed and room to stretch out. We drove past many nice looking expansive cabins on the property, and finally caught sight of the sign that read “The Fishing Lodge”. We thought there must be some mistake as it was hung on the back porch of the main house. We parked the car and walked into the “Lodge.” I’m not sure that you can wall in a 5’x12’ porch off the back of your house and call it a “lodge”, but they seemed to have done a masterful job of it. I wanted to check in with the owner, so I pulled back the blinds of our “Lodge” avoided the doorbell that was strangely mounted on the inside of our room, opened the sliding-glass door, and walked into the main house. To my surprise, the whole family was sitting right on the other side of the glass door watching the Olympics in their living room. It was like a seen out of National Lampoon’s Vacation. I kept waiting for the husband to pull out a slice of watermelon and spit seeds while we were conversing. It was another one of those moments that seemingly only happens to me on my dates.

Trying to sleep in a twin bed that night with Roy, a 250lb guy that likes to sleep on his stomach was almost as uncomfortable. Arghh. Normally, I would have complained, but after what I put him through, I had to shut my mouth, flatten myself against the wall, and try to picture myself riding shotgun in a Honda Civic in order to get to sleep. I did this with the knowledge that I was going to ask him to trudge back through the mud and slop in his tennis shoes again in the morning to see my cousin. Poor guy.

Stairway to Hell

Sorry it’s been so long. I’ve been on a few more trips collecting stories. Two weekends ago I went to Yosemite to hike Half Dome. Actually, I originally just went to hang out with friends, but my pride got the better of me and I wound up hiking 18 miles up to an elevation of 8,646 feet. I made the mistake of bragging that I’d hiked the Peruvian Andes around the campfire the night before. I said that since I’ve climbed the Andes and the tallest mountains in both Utah and Colorado, how hard could some little hill in California be? I couldn’t figure out why the boy I was relating my previous hikes to was just nodding with a smirk on his face. Later that night, as I was once again spouting off about how easy this alleged hike would be, when my friend came up to me, clasped me on the shoulder and whispered that I should ease back as it really is a difficult hike and that I might not even be able to finish it. He added that the boy I was talking to didn’t finish the hike the previous year and actually bled from every single one of his ten toes, his heels, and the tops of his feet. Since the my friend runs about 5-10 miles a day without sweating, I realized I might want to tone down my usual competitive banter.

The maps say that the hike usually takes about 10-12 hours. We woke up at 4:30am so we’d be there before the sun heated up the rocks and the cables become crowded. We also were trying to beat the group of marathon runners from our campsite that were waking up at 5am. I won’t detail the lack of sleep from the night before as I slept upon rock hard dirt with no pad and was entertained by screaming kids for most of the night. The grueling start of the trail was three and a half miles of stone stairs. I started mouthing “I HATE YOU” to my two guy friends every time they turned around to see if I was keeping up. I think it was the combo of the strenuous hike and the fact they were crop dusting the trail with noxious fumes that were probably the result of cheap beer and too many smores the night before. The first nine miles are really just straight up. There are a variety of terrain changes throughout the climb like stone steps, a million switchbacks, and then just basically just scaling a rock using a cable. I honestly thought I was going to die. The only thing that kept me going was my bad 80’s mix on my ipod and the fact that I’d bragged so much the night before that I couldn’t possibly swallow my pride and quit.

The only part of the whole thing that I enjoyed was the last quarter mile when you have to scale the dome using gloves and holding onto a cable while tackling the 70 degree incline on one large rock. The only reason this was fun for me is because I’m not really afraid of death. Those of you who know me have seen me drive and can vouch for this fact. I don’t care about dying, and if I were to have let go of a cable or slipped, that is exactly what would have happened. Plus, I rock climbed in college and got over my fear of heights. The boys, however, were both terrified of heights and that mere fact almost made it worth the trip. That last quarter mile I got to mock them on the cables while they shook and looked petrified. I basked in their fear and shaking limbs while they clung to cables with poorly fitting gloves…it was almost worth the 8.75 miles of the grueling climb in their jet contrails.

In order to keep our lead on the marathoners that were close behind us, we ran back down the trail after we finished the assent portion of the hike. My legs were numb at this point, so it wasn’t as bad as I thought. All in all, we did the whole hike in 5 hours and 30 minutes. I’m not one for marathons or triathlons because that kind of punishing race doesn’t appeal to my lazy nature. After this hike, I feel like I can understand the kind of satisfaction that comes from completing one of them. Of course, I couldn’t walk for three days and still have blisters that are healing on my feet. Sometimes I think of myself as tough, and then I remember who I really am. I am the girl that only does about 45 min on the elliptical and watches the calorie counter the whole time trying to figure out how many cals I have to burn to cover the roll of Thin Mints I ate for lunch. I’m not the sleep- on-the-ground-and-run/powerhike-18-miles kind of girl.

Cellf Reflection (It's not a typo but a bad pun)

I know it has been a while, but I’ve been away from my lovely laptop for way too long. I’ve recently spent a week pseudo-camping out in Grass Valley, California and am now headed to Yosemite for the weekend of real camping and smores. Grass Valley was a beautiful escape for me. I was surrounded by friends, people who actually know my first and probably my last name. They only stayed for the first two days of my trip because they have something called jobs, but those days were pure bliss. They were people that I could talk or not talk to for hours. We all liked snow peas and board games. (If you haven’t seen Best In Show, you probably won’t get the above reference. In fact, even if you saw the movie, it still won’t be funny to you. I’m currently just writing to amuse myself right now.)

This was the little cabin we stayed at in Grass Valley. My dad actually built this with

his bare hands...and a few helpers that didn't speak much English.

I realized three important things about myself after spending 5 ½ days in Grass Valley.

1. I need my cell phone! It is no longer just a want; it has become a necessity to have my cell phone in range of one or more Verizon towers. I am able to go without my cell phone for a day or two but not any more than that. I knew it was time to go back to civilization, when I found myself crawling on the roof of the cabin searching for a single bar of service so that I could get at least one text message. It was an all-time low for me. Don’t worry, I have self-loathing knowing how shallow and ridiculous it is, but that didn’t change my urge to call someone. After 5 ½ days, it made me have a whole new respect for the movie The Shining. I bet that if Jack Nicholson would have had text messaging, voice mail, and the opportunity to just call someone to help him with his issues, he would have been just fine.

2. I’m probably the most competitive person I know when it comes to board games. I’m a competitive person in general, but board games bring out a particularly brutal kind of cutthroat spirit. I promised myself before the game that I wouldn’t take anything seriously and I’d try to just have a good time. Then, once the game began, I became a Mr. Hyde version of myself. I knew it was time to stop playing games during Scategories when I cursed out half the room. I’ll lay out the scenario for you. The category was “Things Found in the Sea” and the letter was “F”. I decided to forgo the obvious answers of Fish and Fire Coral and went with something original. I was so excited to announce “Flipper” and then heartbroken when it was vetoed on account that it was a fictional dolphin’s name. This is ludicrous because everyone that has a dolphin near their house in Florida or California calls it Flipper. It is the dolphin equivalent of Fido for the dog or Blackie for the stray, black cat. Anyway, it was vetoed. I was trying to get over my anger and quietly seethe in my corner, when the person to my left said that he put down Fisherman. Everyone voted and agreed that he got a point for “Fisherman.” Fishermen aren’t found IN the sea unless they are dead. Fishermen are ON the sea IN a boat. How did I lose with Flipper and he won a point with Fisherman. *Please note- I am working myself into a raging mad-on just thinking about this again. I now need to stop, breath, and crawl into child’s pose. See…I have definite competitive issues that I need to work on before I’m allowed to play with others.


3. I desperately need a hot tub for my house in Utah. I forgot how amazing a hot tub is while living in Texas. In Texas, there are only about 5-10 days a year where you could actually use a hot tub for its intended purpose. I’ve mostly seen hot tubs used as summertime kiddie pools and, in a couple of white trash instances, I seen them filled with ice to cool down large quantities of beer for a backyard party. A cool mountain evening borders on perfection when you have an accessible hot tub. I’m getting on craigslist as soon as I get home.

Well, I hope to have many more stories to share when I get back from Yosemite. Is it wrong that I’m hoping the fires up there will keep everyone from wanting to do the 7 hour dome hike? I know that I’m a wuss, but 7 hours of hiking seems awfully long. Maybe I can stick around camp a guard the tents; I hear the bears are particularly intrusive this time of year. I also could volunteer my cooking skills and maybe opt out on the hike so that I could prepare the after-hike meal. Let me know if y’all can think of any other excuses to keep me out of 7 hours of mind-draining heat.