Oh Utah, They're Just Jealous of You

As a Utahan, I tend to think of my state as I would a sibling or a strange second-cousin. Oh, it's okay for me to tease her and give her a wedgie or two. I may, if the mood strikes, even tell her to go suck it. But if someone else comes along and picks on her? On my Utah? Oh NO. I am not trying to hear that noise.

According to our recent motto, Utah is “A pretty great state”. And? According to our license plates (which, by the way, check it - are off the hook) has the “Greatest snow on earth!” Take that, Colorado.
Our current state motto is “Life Elevated”, and while nobody here really knows, or cares what that means, as a state, we (read: I) have just sort of rolled with it and concentrated on more important things like becoming a reoccurring sister-wife on HBO’s Big Love or finding out exactly where Apolo Ohno lives.

Because, ladies (or gentleman – if that’s the way you roll, no judgment here, only love) Apolo most definitely DOES live in Utah for part of the year. I’ve seen him. I was close enough to smell him. More importantly, I was close enough for him to hear me when I whisper-screamed at my friend, “Oh. My. GAH! How does my hair look?” My friend, brutally honest as always, looked me over and just shrugged her shoulders and said, “Meh, it could be worse.”

Yes, Utah is a strange (liquor laws) and magical (see Ohno reference above) place, but we’ve given the world some pretty stellar things too. Take Mitt Romney’s hair, for example. Have you ever seen such an immaculate head suit on anyone besides Ronald Regan, who, by the way, is most definitely Mitt’s idol both politically and hair-wise? To the world I say, you’re welcome**.

*Spoiler Alert* Old Mitt up there is planning a run for president again and I, for one, can’t wait to sit and judge both him and Sarah Palin harshly on their coifs during the primaries. Just to make it fair, I will be equally critical of Joe Biden’s hair plugs, but not his face lift, because hasn’t it settled so nicely?

Recently, Salt Lake City was named to the top 8 most romantic cities in the US. Apparently, if you buy enough Barry White CDs or romance novels (read: Twilight), you’re considered somewhat of a Casanova in Amazon’s eyes.

Utah hosted the Winter Olympics, invented fry sauce, made jell-o into unearthly creations and for the love of Donny and Marie, we gave you the Osmonds. THE OSMONDS! Have you seen their teeth? Whiter than white and bigger than life, my friends.

So, internet, I guess in a way, I am confessing my love for my state. You may point your finger at us from afar and sit in judgment of our peculiar laws, but without us, ketchup and mayo would have never found themselves together in such a delicious and unholy union.

*Technically Mitt Romney is from Detroit, but we’ll go ahead and take one for the team on this one. You’ve got enough to worry about (General Motors.)

This post was thrown up here today as participation in the ever so lovely Sprite’s Keeper and her Spin Cycle on Confessions. If you aren’t part of it, you should be. If you haven't been to Utah, well you should. The sister-wives are hotter than you think.

How Did I End Up With This Hot Dog?

Lately, Jeremy and I have been having a little trouble communicating with each other. It started a few weeks ago when he asked me if we could take a quick drive across town to pick up a spare set of car keys to his father’s Accord so he could drive it the following week while our truck was being serviced.

On my life, that is what he asked me.

Below, is what Jeremy, the Delusional One, claims he asked me...

“Jen, Sweetheart, mother of my children and favored lover of mine, would you be so kind to drive me to the Les Schwab Tire Center so I can spend 30 minutes drooling over rims and tires we don’t need, and watch me talk about transmissions, big game hunting and NCAA basketball with a stranger working the customer service counter? Please try to keep the children entertained. They like sitting still and the smell of galvanized rubber right?”

“Then, Light of my Life, would you shuttle me to the Dodge dealership to price shop for parts while I talk with a service technician named Dale and review the finer points of tying your own flies for fishing? Don’t be alarmed if I follow him into the service bay and disappear for twelve minutes. Dale, keeps his fly collection at his work station. I’ll still see you through the plexiglas window that separates the waiting room from the bay. And I’m going to think it’s adorable watching you wrestle both Henry and Reese simultaneously especially when you let them pull at your hair like that. I’ll be sure to wink and wave at you when you mouth the words ‘I want you NOW!*’ to me from across the way. Aw, Sugarlumps, after all these years, I’m hot for you too.”

* Let it be known, in reality, I mouthed the words, ‘We’re leaving NOW’. It was most definitely a threat and not a come on.

“Then, my love, I’ll sweep you off to a magical place, because surely you and the children will be hungry by now. Have you ever heard of Hot Dog Heaven? Well I have, and it’s delightful. Don’t let the location in a poorly lit, suspect strip mall color your opinion of what you are about to experience. Sure the guy working the counter may be a bit on the ornery and slightly unkempt side, but that’s all part of his charm. He packs a mean Chicago Dog according to Utah standards. Trust me, Snookums, you won’t be disappointed.”

“What’s that Honeybuns? You say Reese has just made a present in her diaper and you didn’t pack extras because you had no idea you’d be away from home for three hours? Don’t you worry your nappy little head. I’ll run to the store up the street and fetch a package of diapers that will be two sizes too small. I will forget to buy wipes. You just wait here with the hungry kids for our food. Go ahead and start without me…if you can. Because little do you know, I’m taking my wallet and the car with your purse locked inside. You won’t have any means to pay for the food until I return. Fifteen minutes later.”

“And Lover Nugget, once we’ve finished our slightly cold food, it’s time for the final act of the night. We just need to drive down the road to pick up the spare set of car keys from my father so I can drive his Accord while our truck is being serviced next week.”

That little misunderstanding up there? Cost me more than three hours of my life and way too many calories. But have no worries. Next week, unbeknownst to Jeremy, he will accompany me to purse party and a Mary Kay open house. As far as he knows, I just have to “swing” by a friend’s house for one hot minute.

It's Not Unhealthy If I Don't Act Upon My Obsession

So, if you follow me on twitter or have friended me on facebook, you undoubtedly know by now that I have somewhat of an unhealthy obsession with Shaun White. I lovingly call him The Shaun. I tweet and post status updates about him often and sometimes threaten to physically show up where ever he is and braid his hair. Let’s hope this obsession doesn’t turn ugly although some of you have already claimed it has.

Yes, The Shaun is a little unconventional looking, but I sort of dig that. He has a clothing line at Target, he owns his owns a helicopter and half pipe in the Colorado backcountry. But, let me assure you, those are not the only reasons I obsess over him. I respect him as an athlete, I think he's very good-looking...and I really, really want to ride in that helicopter. Don’t think this is a temporary fascination either. Every six months or so, I catch The Shaun on television during the Dew Tour or the X-Games series and I say out loud, “Oh, yeah! I forgot about him. I love him!”

Three years ago at the Summer Dew Tour here in Salt Lake City I was within eyeshot of him and nearly passed out from hyperventilating in excitement. My husband Jeremy was with me and was extremely helpful with the whole situation. In between shouting, “Jen! He’s barely legal. LET IT GO!” he also told me to put my head between my legs and take deep breaths.

In hindsight, me ducking down out with my head buried was a win-win for Jeremy. It not only saved his wife from passing out on a crowded and very littered area (I was wearing white capris, an obvious street hazard. But cute!), but it allowed him to suffer less embarrassment since I was no longer visible to the masses.

Much to my delight, my husband is down with The Shaun too. Earlier this week as Jeremy and I watched the Olympics, we bickered with each other over who The Shaun would rather hang out with; me or him? After 20 minutes of back and forth and throwing out our most compelling arguments, our “little disagreement” was settled when I trumped all of my husband’s foolish reasons by shouting, “I have cleavage. I WIN!”

Jeremy agrees. Boobs win every time.

Anyway, here’s what happened Wednesday evening when I had Photoshop and a little too much time at my disposal.

Look at it people. Don't avert your eyes. Our hair totally matches and you know it.

*******

On a separate note, I have a bit of housekeeping to take care of here. I have limited my blog stalking to two days maximum. On those two days I only give myself 70 minutes to pour through my reader. If I don’t swing by your site as frequently as you post, this is the reason why. I do love you all and appreciate more than you know when you visit me too...especially after my long absence from the internet. Your comments here crack me up and are definitely funnier and more inventive than anything I write about. I must level with you though; they are not as cute as The Shaun. It has to be said.

Love Hang-Over

Just before Valentine’s Day, the Steenky Haus was hit with a monsoon of sickness. Both Henry and Reese caught nasty colds, complete with explosive sneezing and gusts of non-stop whining. Once they hit the road to recovery, they insisted that with all-day cartoon marathons in mom and dad’s room, and unlimited access to their left over Valentine’s candy, they would recover quickly.

A couple of times I heard Henry upstairs coaching his little sister on what to say when summoning me and the exact tone to use when requesting a shot of juice with a side of Sweet Tarts. In Henry’s mind this elaborate drill was necessary if the kids were to avoid the pediatrician’s office, an unfortunate lesson he learned a year ago when he pressed the issue of a stomach pain with me when, in fact, he was just trying to avoid cleaning his playroom.

Nice try little boy. I think the doctor diagnosed him with pretendanitis and told him not to play tricks on mommy.

Although, half of me is giving my son a silent high-five, because, really? He has developed deceptive organizational skills at such an early age? We have managed to raise a truly gifted child. I can’t wait to collaborate with him in the future on projects like What did daddy get mommy for Christmas? or the ever popular When did the toothless lady down the street start raising goats in her back yard? After all, I am growing very tired on being the mastermind on all these fact-finding missions. I could really use a partner.

So back to the kids…

Ten minutes has passed and I still hear Henry helping Reese go over her lines and just what to say when it becomes her turn to beg for candy. They are using her room for rehearsal since it is the only suitable area upstairs for such an activity. Reese’s area has all the princess dress up clothes and the lighting concept in that room? Is. To. Die. For.

A few minutes later, Henry and Reese emerge. (slowly, very slowly with blankets in tow - Henry has now incorporated props! I am so proud!) They come downstairs (still very slowly) to hit me with their plan. But before Henry, who is clearly leading this thing, even gets a chance to begin, Reese interrupts and excitedly shouts, SUCKER! SUCKER! over and over again.

I can only assume she was referring to the candy stash and she hasn’t picked up name-calling at such a young age. Although…if Henry and I ever find ourselves in a situation where we need a third man to get the job done, we could use Reese to run interference.

If I'm Coming For You, You'll Smell Me First

I’m participating in the web’s most popular meme today. It’s Random Tuesday Thoughts, the brainchild of Keely aka The Unmom. But, I’m sure you all already knew that. She’s blonde and famous, just like the sun.

Here goes random…

I just bought a bottle of SJP/NYC perfume and I can say that it has officially become my signature scent. Not because it speaks to my personality per se, but more because the bottle exploded in my purse after it suffered severe trauma in our office parking garage. Now, everywhere I go, I emit not-so-subtle notes of strawberries and gardenias.

On a related note, the aforementioned disaster makes it difficult for me to sneak up on strangers on the street and steal their candy while lugging around my purse. And if you didn’t already know, strangers in Salt Lake City carry thee best candy.

The other day I zipped through the drive-thru window at McDonald’s. When I pulled up to the menu board to place my order, the attendant (Hi, I'm Jarrod!) sang the McDonald’s jingle “Bah-dah-buh-bah-dahhhh, I’m lovin’ it!” before he chirped, “How can I make YOUR day!” I told him he could make my day with a fruit parfait and a rendition of “Walking on Sunshine”. Let’s just say the fruit parfait was passable at best and Jarrod! has no clue who Katrina and the Waves are.

And now…and now I just really want to watch Secret of My Success starring a young Michael J. Fox.

I am mildly obsessed with Tabatha’s Salon Takeover on Bravo. She is the definition of bitchy and honest. I wish Tabatha were in the fitness training biz. Because honey, bitchy and honest is what I need at the gym right now.

Do people still say the “fierce”? Because, I really like that word. I’ve been apprehensive to use it because I think it’s circa 2006, which doesn’t make it vintage enough to be cool just yet. It just makes me sound a little dated.

My mother gave me a little wake up call this week. I mean this literally. She actually called my phone while I was sleeping and it woke me up.

I received the Beautiful Blogger Award this week from Jessica at La Fin DuMond Farm. Thank you, Jessica, but clearly you didn't see my extreme bedhead when you threw the award my way. I was anything but beautiful that day, my friend. (I've tucked the award away in my awards page if you want to take a peek. I've contacted a local Chocolatier to have a 2/3 replica made for my sweet tooth. Delicious) Grab the Beautiful Blogger badge for yourselves!

Well, that’s it for me folks. I’m off to hopefully jump an unsuspecting stranger on the street and shake him down for a Snickers bar…without my purse, of course.

Bad Romance

I tend to write in a memoir style over here. I admire the bloggers out there that dabble in fiction. It takes dedication and imagination. I have one of those things, but not the other.

So, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d share with you all a rare treat. Today, friends, I am going to publish my first ever short story of fiction. And by short, I mean really short. I can’t stress enough just how short it is.

Disclaimer: When I said “rare treat”, I may have been a little cocky. Those words just went nicely together. They in no way represent what you’re about to read.

Second Disclaimer: I’m sorry for what you’re about to read.

Bad Romance – by Steenky Bee

He looked at me, tears in his eyes and said, “Maybe we should just be friends.”

Shocked, I gathered my fist up to my heart and begged him to reconsider. “Please, oh, please! Don’t take this all away.” I sheepishly tilted my head and looked at him coyly from the side, “Maybe we should be friends with benefits.”

His face broke free from its rigid lines of determination. “What do you mean?” he countered looking confused. I could tell he was becoming increasingly intrigued.

I batted my eyelashes at him and whispered, “I thought we could be friends, but you could pay for my health insurance. With dental. Don’t cheap out on me now, sailor.”

{The end.}

This post was thrown up here today as participation in the ever so lovely Sprite’s Keeper and her Spin Cycle on all things Valentine's Day. If you aren’t part of it, you should be.

Your body is a temple, but how long can you live in the same house before you redecorate?

I don’t have a tattoo. I don’t think I want one either. It’s not that I don’t like them, because I do…sometimes. I appreciate them, especially a quality one. I abhor the cheesy ones.

Now, before you get all uppity up in here, let me say that I don’t mean your tattoos or your friend’s tattoos. Those? Are bitchin’ as hell.

Some of my dear friends have the ink. Take for instance, this guy, Captain Dumbass, famous to tens of people on the internet and always first in my reader. He’s got himself an entire mural going on.

(FYI: The Captain is famous to thousands on the internet.)

This next tattoo belongs to Miss Grace. She is not only one of my favorite bloggers, but she has THEE best tat in the functional/literary category. (I guess the Captain's would be first place in the scary mythical creatures that breathe fire and will most definitely kill you category.)


(In case you can't quite make out exactly what her tattoo is, it's a scene from Where The Wild Things Are.) I imagine if Miss Grace ever gets really tired when she’s putting her son to bed, she could just roll over and let her back do the talkin’. How cool is that?

Even my daughter’s cute little birthmom gave herself a tattoo as sentimental reminder of Reese to carry with her always. (It’s on my facebook photo page if you’d like to see.) To be clear, I don't think she gave the tattoo to herself. I'm pretty sure she paid someone to do it....

I’m just too fickle to get tattooed. I can't make my mind up for more than a minute. I once indulged in a Henna tattoo at a carnival and wished I could change it moments after the seemingly buzzed and definitely sweaty guy began painting it on my arm. Although, it could have been the mixture of the suspect corn dog I had just eaten and the mustard stain in sweaty guy's beard from the corn dog he had just eaten. We will never know.

Last week, Jeremy and I were talking about the flesh ink and we began throwing out ideas for tats that would be fun to see on someone else, someone more secure in their choices. We have assembled a short list of five designs below. Any feedback or suggestions you have are welcomed:

1) A beautiful, but barely legible script font along the back neckline that reads: I have made a huge misteak.
2) A smallish representation of The Simpsons Comic Book Guy with a thought bubble coming from his head with the words: Worst tattoo ever.
3) A lower back tattoo, or “tramp stamp”, if you will, that reads: You’re welcome.
4) Another lower back option. This time it would be a simple, yet noticeable red dot with the words: You are here written next to it.
5) And finally, in bold sans-serif print, anywhere on your body: Love lasts forever, but a tattoo lasts six months longer.

Special thanks to the Captain and Miss Grace for letting me use their backsides in this post!

Why Are People So Down on the Emos?

Whenever anyone asks me what my pet peeve is my first instinct, and always my initial answer is, “My pet peeve is when people ask me what my pet peeves are.” I tell you, when I nail the delivery of that line just perfectly, it gets a laugh every time. Mostly from me, but still, it’s a laugh.

In all honesty, I am so intrigued by other people’s pet peeves, especially when they are either extremely particular or completely random. So, I googled “Pet Peeves” on my computer thingy to see what things were bothering people on the internets and I found myself mildly fascinated by what others had to say. I’ve listed a few I found at The Top Tens, a site that allows users to vote, comment or add their own grievances to thread groups.

In my extreme laziness, instead of whipping up a post of my own, I’ve decided to copy a few of the entries and add my two cents next to them in italics. I hope nobody out there lists laziness as one of his or her hot buttons….

Here goes:

1. Mouth noises/chewing with mouth open – Yawn (with mouth covered, of course). Way too common and goes without saying.
2. Not washing hands after using the restroom – Um…this is a given and really doesn’t belong here as a pet peeve. It belongs in a life-manual. Or written in all caps letters in the unisex bathroom at Jose's Burritos up the street from my house.
3. Bitchy school girls: you are not prettier than us, and you are CERTAINLY not smarter than us, so get over yourselves!!!! (Look at all those !!! marks)– This one was my second favorite and prompted me to immediately add Mean Girls to my Net Flix cue.
4. Screaming children/Temper tantrums – Well, then don’t come to our house.
5. Thugs – Again, don’t come to our house.
6. Overuse of the word “actually” – I’m actually guilty of this.
7. Emo bands – Aw, come on. Pete Wentz is still considered mildly attractive, isn’t he? (Even without the make-up, no?)
8. Skinny jeans on men – How can Emo bands, let alone Pete Wentz, exist without the skinny jean?
9. People who post pet peeves on a forum page – My favorite by far.
10. Sisters: they bug you all the time!!!! – I’m betting the person that posted this and #3 are one in the same. I’m also betting this person is an angsty tween who is way into Emo music.
11. When your kids sneak bottles full of water into their bedrooms, stand toe to toe with each other and spend copious amounts of time taking sips only to spit the water back out at one another – Okay, this might only be me. This is a brand new pet peeve I discovered yesterday when I found my children half-dressed, each holding an empty water bottle, soaking wet, standing in a puddle of water in Henners' room.
12. No Spoons at fancy restaurants – I totally agree. I'm looking at you, KFC, and your unholy union that is the "spork".

This post was thrown up here today as participation in the ever so lovely Sprite’s Keeper and her Spin Cycle. If you aren’t part of it, you should be. It's a pet peeve of hers.

Wait. Loss. Black. Ice.

I forget what week, or year even, it is for our HASAY Challenge update. I haven’t participated in an update since April. For those of you who don’t know, HASAY stands for Half as Small as You and it is a fitness support group founded by my dear friend Casey over at Half as Good as You after a bunch of her readers mocked her relentlessly about placing her dog Chloe on the treadmill as a form of outsourcing her own exercise needs.

Don’t judge. I’d do the same thing too, but my dogs aren’t coordinated enough to work the controls on our treadmill and complain about the workout music I've downloaded on my iPod. FYI, canines are not down with the GaGa.

For my fitness regimen, I’ve been braving Utah's bitter cold to run/walk the nature trail near my house. The trail system, in its entirety, is about nine miles long and laced with patches of black ice. I’ve managed to navigate three or four miles of it before I; a) Slip and break a hip, or b) Lie down and writhe around in pretend pain in the hopes that I can convince the middle schoolers on the path that I have slipped and bribe them with the left over Kit Kat candy bards I carry in my fanny pack to give me a ride back home on the handle bar of their bikes.

That's right. I jog with a fanny pack. How else am I supposed to carry my candy?

So I’m back on the exercise kick and I am in it to win it. And by “win it”, I mean an all expense paid vacation to Florida to be with Casey herself. And by “all expense vacation”, I mean whoever wins the HASAY Challenge must foot the bill for their own airfare, lodging and meals to make the “prize vacation” actually happen.

Casey hasn’t exactly agreed to host the winner, and she doesn't even know there is a contest at stake here, but I really, really need there to be some sort of carrot dangled in front of me in order to be successful. Sooooooooo, I have taken it upon myself to carefully hammer out the details for the HASAY Challenge winner below. I call it The Tiger Woods Odyssey Experience.

Casey will pick you up in her brother’s ’93 Toyota Corolla and after you swing by the McDonald’s drive thru, she will chauffeur you and her two small children on the open road for three full hours of driving by the infamous locations of Tiger’s favorite haunts. She claims she knows a guy who knows a guy who kinda-sorta knows where the gate entrance is to one of Tiger’s many Florida mansions. Casey will drive by slowly for photo op here as well as the bars, pro shops, pancake houses, etc. where Tiger spent a good deal of his time. The tour winds down around 4:00 because, according to Casey, that's when her brother's classes are finished at the community college and he needs his car back for his night job.

So, who else is with me?