steenky bee

The End

2010-09-01T14:57:00.001-06:00

Well, I guess we all saw this one coming, and I’m not talking about the Hoff as a cast member on the upcoming season of Dancing With the Stars either. But come on, it was only a matter of time before that singin’-boozin’ German made it to the dance floor. No, I’m actually talking about the end of this here blog.

Yeppers. I’m doing it. I’m officially pulling the plug. This blog has been on life support for far too long and it would just be cruel to let it flounder any further.

But before I go, I want to thank everyone who read me through the years. Thank you for always saying the kindest and most supportive things. Many of you I consider good friends and I’ve never even met you face to face. I cherish every word you left on my website and laughed out loud at your witty observations. I have been especially touched as of late by my presence overseas in Japan, China and the UK. Recently, not a day has gone by that Happy Town Good For You Products has left me heartfelt comments like, “I really enjoy reading happy observations of your criminal dogs.”

WTF Happy Town? I don’t own criminal dogs. I’m beginning to think you’re not even reading me very closely. So you know what Happy Town? This last post isn’t for you. It’s for my friends and loved ones and parole officer to read.

So I say to you (friends, loved ones and court appointed associate), thank you, thank you for everything. You will be missed on this website.

But don’t think, for one minute, that I’m planning on retiring with any dignity or grace. No. That just wouldn’t be my style. I still plan on still doing my part to clutter up the internet on Facebook with my observations on why I find bananas unintentionally hilarious and post pictures of my hair on really, really bad days.

Beef and Broccoli

2010-04-02T11:33:00.000-06:00

I'm guest posting today over at Ca-Joh's site. He's good people. He's also out of town, hence the guest posting gig I landed.

If you want to hear all about how beef and broccoli changed my plans entirely for the evening, go here. If you want to continue living an unfulfilled life void of all meaning, well, then by all means, stay here. But if I were you, I would go with the beef and broccoli thing.

Tea Baggin', Dancin' and Shaunin'

2010-03-30T08:31:00.004-06:00

It's Tuesday and I'm feeling random today. Get on board with Super Keely’s Tuesday’s Random Thoughts. If you're not doing it, you're doing it wrong. Here goes:

Yesterday, my morning Facebook status was Am I the only person who is actually a fan on Mondays? According to my friends that commented, apparently I am. I can't believe how rigorous you all are in your hatred for Mondays. Now, if we could all somehow channel that hatred into something a little more constructive, say like getting rid of pleated pants, well...then I could definitely see myself joining the bandwagon.

Speaking of bandwagons...

Today there is a Tea Bagger Express rally here in Utah. I'd really like to go if for no other reason than to get my face on Fox News and to tell the organizer folks that they should have googled the term "Tea Bagging" a little more thoroughly before they married themselves to the name. Come on people, urbandictionary.com is your friend. Use it.

Certain people have been asking me if I have given up my obsessive crush on Shaun White since I haven't talked about him for a while. Let me address those people directly:

No, Jeremy, I haven't given up on the ridiculous dream (your words, not mine) that Shaun White will stop by our house after a day of hittin' the half-pipe. I will also not give up hope that The Shaun will tell me I make the most delicious chicken curry casserole he's ever tasted and ask if he can move into our basement. It could happen. Think of the income supplementing possibilities here. I'm doing this for our family. Stop being so selfish, Jeremy.

Also, I fully recognize that "hittin' the half-pipe" sounds somewhat dirty, just like "tea bagging" did a few paragraphs ago. Believe me, the irony is not lost on me here.

Another also, this happened at work the other day during a moment of low-productivity.

Actually, this has happened many times during many days. My girl Jessica just happened to capture it on film.

I've wrangled Jeremy into watching Dancing With The Stars (DWTS) with me this season. Every time Evan Lysacek waltzes onto the stage (Get it? Waltzes?) I secretly hope that Evgeni Plushenko and his hipster mullet pirouettes in front of the camera and tries to claim victory over Evan on a reality television show. Not that I don't love The Evan, because, for the love of spray-tanner, I do. He's my pick this season, but I just can't resist beating that joke to death. At the very least, the Evgeni vs Evan DWTS drama would make for an awesome SNL skit.

Well, that's about all I have rattling around in my brain right now. I've been overwhelmed by trying to console Jeremy through the whole Sandra Bullock-Jessie James fiasco. See, besides Susie-Down-The-Street, Sandy is the other girl on his "Kitchen Pass" card for celebrity-neighbor hook-ups.

300

2010-03-24T15:58:00.005-06:00

Here is the the second half of my 300th Post Extravaganza. Today, it's all about the ladies representin' and asking questions of me...

First up is Pamela from The Dayton Time. She and I first crossed paths over soap nuts. I kid you not. She quickly became one of my favorites. Pamela and her husband The Mister are making a run to be the next Jon and Heather Armstrong.

Pamela’s Question: I would like to know if you, yourself, have ever fried sausage in bacon grease?

My Answer: Honestly, reading this question, let alone envisioning the prospect, made me dry heave a little bit and caused my cholesterol to shoot through the roof. This also sounds dangerous. All I'm sayin' is I hope Pamela and The Mister were fully clothed when they attempted this culinary feat. I mean, think of the splatter in unfortunate places people.Tracy of Kaply, Inc. and I go back well over three years. She’s sarcastic, feisty and awesome all wrapped up in one hot package. She describes herself as witty, humorous and almost creepy. Honey, I couldn't agree more.

Tracy’s Question: What or who was it that made you start blogging? Did you read others before you began writing?

My Answer: Like everyone else, I set out to be a blogger because I heard it would clear up my skin and bring me instant fame and fortune. Sadly, only one of those things has happened since I began writing on the internet. I had no idea that I would find such a wonderful network of people whom I consider close friends even though some of us have never met face to face. Too bad, you should really see my skin up close. It’s soft and supple now, or as Henry calls it, “squishy”.

Jen of Blissfully Caffeinated and I found each other four years ago. She has given me friendship, joy, coupons and some questionable birthday greetings over that time period. If you ask her what I’ve given her, I’m sure she’d tell you that I’ve given her a complex and an unsightly rash.

Jen’s Question: Can I be your sister wife? Also? From one curly headed gal to another, what hair product/routine do you use to tame that mane? How did you and Jeremy meet?

My Answer: Phew! Jen sure is curious isn’t she? Well, I am always searching out additional sister wife. So, welcome aboard. Girlfriend, I look forward to braiding your hair after our delicious casserole dinner.

As for my hair? It’s simple. Minimal shampoos, maximum leave-in conditioners and I love, love my diffuser. I use an old jersey t-shirt to towel dry my hair so as to not break the natural curl pattern and I pray every night before bed to the picture I have of Diana Ross, the Patron Saint of Curly Hair, to have a good hair day the next day.

And as for how Jeremy and I met? Well, like most couples, we met at work when he caught me making multiple copies of Diana Ross’ picture on the office copier. In order to distract him, I asked him on a date to Lagoon (a local amusement park). He said Maybe. I laughed and said, No really, what time are we going? We ended up hitting it off and kept our “romance” a secret from everyone but a few people in management. When we mailed out our wedding announcements, I kid you not, most people at work thought it was a joke. They couldn’t understand what a quiet, intelligent guy like Jeremy was doing with a quirky, frizzy chick like me.

We had a massive turn out at our wedding from the office folks. I think they came just to see if Jeremy would actually go through with it.

Thank you to everyone who participated in my questions and thank you for reading me. It means more to me than you know.

299

2010-03-22T12:42:00.001-06:00

Today marks my 299th post. Not very impressive if you count the fact that I've been blogging for 4 years. I wish I could say it's all about quality, not quantity, but who am I kidding? You've read my stuff. It's not quality.

I decided to call upon my oldest bloggy friends, the ones I first met on the interweb and asked them to help a sister out. I asked each blogger to send me a question, any question, and I would answer it on site to commemorate my 300th post milestone. As is typical, my responses are a bit wordy, so I've divided this post into two portions. The sacred 300 will be up later in the week.

1. The first question comes from one of my dearest friends, Captain Dumbass of Us and Them. He is the third blogger I ever commented on. The first person ignored me. The second person ignored me WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE. (I still haven’t gotten over that one.) But the Captain? He replied right back and the rest is history.

Captain’s Question: Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Osmond family?

My Answer: All Utahans can either trace their lineage directly to an Osmond or they become what is known as a “Naturalized Osmond”. This event happens unknowingly when you cross the county line into Utah County, childhood home of Donny and Marie.

Of course, if you can directly trace your lineage to either side of the Osmond family (you’re either a little bit country or a little bit rock-n-roll), you are considered sort of pseudo royalty here in the land of Zion.

2. The amazing Kat of 3 Bedroom Bungalow was my first girl bloggy friend. I may have loved her too hard because she found it necessary to pick up her family and move across the pond to a foreign country to get away from me. Le Sigh.

Kat’s Question: What are the best and worst parts about living in Utah?

My Answer: I would say the worst part is the fact that it is still not legal to own a monkey or even transport a monkey in the state of Utah. But I hear the State Legislature is going to debate this soon in an upcoming joint session so, let’s hear it for the primates, people.

The best part of about living in Utah would have to be what I call the “3 Ms”; Mommy Bloggers, Mountains and, *fingers crossed*, one day, Monkeys.

3. During our first email correspondence, Jen Cohen, aka, Sprite’s Keeper, told me she didn’t think there was enough room for two Jen’s on the internet. In reality, she is the sweetest person out there.

Jen’s Question: If you had to give up one part of your body, appendage, organ, whatever, be creative! what would it be and how would you get along without it?

My Answer: I don’t think I could voluntarily give up any body part. I’ve got 20 pounds I’m looking to lose, but you can’t give those things away. Believe me, I’ve tried.

4. I found Jen Pompi of Oscarelli while stalking a very windy blog (you know the one). Her avatar picture and her witty comments over there caught my eye. I just had to be friends with her.

Oscarelli’s Question: What is the one thing that Steenky readers don't know about you that would surprise them?

My Answer: Remember my whole “I can’t dance very well” post where I graphically showed you that I couldn’t dance?

Well, that’s only partly true. Oh, I have the worse white girl overbite when I shake my money maker in da club, but I was actually quite an accomplished trained dancer in my younger years. I was involved ballet, jazz, tap, and gymnastics ages 4 thru 22. I competed in several national dance championships both individually and as part of a team. (My mom has a trophy wall!) After I finished my "dancing career", I went on to harshly judge both team and individual dance competitions. I hoped that my career as a judge would land me lucrative endorsements, or at the very least bribery money from desperate stage moms, but all I received was minimal compensation and the realization that when someone works gun fingers into a routine I will give you extra points every time.

So jazz hands? Yeah, I got wicked jazz hands.

Questions 5, 6 and 7 will be up later in the week. Thanks for tuning in even though I've been out for a little bit!

Most of All, I'll Miss the Flushing

2010-03-03T08:19:00.002-07:00

Our office is in the middle of a huge, multi-phased move this week. Things are chaotic and highly stressful. Needless to say, the posting / commenting on my end with be minimal and almost nonexistent for the next little bit. For this, I apologize in advance.

If you’ve read Steenky Bee any length of time, you may already know that both Jeremy and I work in the architectural industry. Our firm is retrofitting an old abandoned Bally’s Fitness Center and redesigning it to be the highest rated sustainable building in Utah. (LEED Platinum rating)*. We’re talking minimal lighting and HVAC usage, so basically, I’ll be working in the dark, sweating and/or freezing (depending on the season) and fussing with low-flow toilets. (I think we can all collectively agree that no one likes public toilets. The only saving grace they offer is their powerful flushing prowess. Well, starting next week, I can kiss that perk goodbye.)

Besides the tragedies that are bound to happen in the new office rest rooms, the firm's management is extremely proud of our redesigned space and what it will mean for our sustainable design practice in the future. The employee's, however, are most proud of the fact that we now have an assigned space for the office ping-pong table. IS AWESOME.

Back to the move… Amidst all the moving bins, and riveting meetings on parking procedures and access card policy to our new building, I did find something that peaked my interest. For the past three weeks or so, employees have been encouraged to organize their desks and rid their personal space of any clutter.

The project managers of the move designated a table on the west side of our office for employees to place unwanted items that are still in reasonably good condition. Items on this table are free and up for grabs for anyone who wants them, first come-first serve.

Tuesday, I had just finished flushing the last of several incriminating documents down the industrial strength toilets (goodbye old friend) when I found a few extra minutes on my hands. I decided to browse the selection of unwanted items to see if I could give any of them a home. Boy, am I glad I did.

Witness the items free for the taking on the west side.

A flask. At work. IS ALSO AWESOME.

Now, I must go. They just announced a meeting to reveal the location of the parking spaces for the employees that drive a hybrid vehicle to work every day. (I told you we were being green.) No word on where the designated space for my bitchin’ Camaro will be. I'll keep you posted.

*Somewhere back east, Irish Gumbo is shedding a tear filled with pride.

Gettin' Fit and Gettin' Random

2010-03-01T08:27:00.002-07:00

Today is reckoning day, the "Come to Casey" day. Every first Monday of the month I do two things; I treat myself to a meat lover's pizza and I post my fitness progress online for you all to read and for Casey to judge harshly.

(The meat lover’s pizza is to console myself after I do my post of shame. The greasy bits of meat and cheese are my friends.) So is the pizza delivery guy. Note to self: we order out pizza way to often.

But today, my friends, I come to you a changed woman. I have been exercising (what’s the opposite of religiously?)...fairly often. As of late, I have been getting up at 4:21 am to treadmill and lift weights with Jillian Michaels. She’s mean. She yells at me through the TV to stop being a whiner and just do it already. I love her.

Why do I get up at 4:21? Well, first of all, I think to get up at that time is high-larious. Second, I hit the snooze button a few times then I get up at the more reasonable, but less funny 4:42 am and do the fitness routine for about 50 minutes. I need to start so early because I have kids to get ready for school, a husband to nag into packing a lunch and then, of course, there is my very lengthy shower routine. Remember that?

If you want to join the fitness revolution, then get yourself that P90X thing everyone's talking about. I hear it works. If you want to join a community of supportive women striving to meet their fitness goals together then check out Casey's HASAY Challenge over at her site.

*Warning* Abrupt subject change ahead:

I know it’s only Monday, but I really want to participate in Super Keely’s Tuesday’s Random Thoughts. If you're not doing it, you're doing it wrong. I’m posting this an entire day early. I’m not only very random, but extremely overly prompt. Here goes:

Do people still wear skorts? I have no clue.

Are you people following @Badbanana on Twitter? If you’re not, you should be. Last week he posted this tweet and it made me laugh.

Are you people following @Gingela5 on Twitter? She tweets often about her dogs, her feet and the fact that she likes pineapple. She’s actually one of my favorite people to interact with on Twitter.

I’m going to BlogHER 2010. Oh joy! I’m super excited and nervous at the same time. Jenni at Oscarelli is one of the ladies in my super fun group and is really the brains behind the whole organizing of the hotel / lodging / rooming / gossiping about boys / matching outfits thing. The other day we were trading emails back and forth about getting all the ladies into a couple of rooms and this was the tail end of my email response to her:

“….I won't do any foot stomping if we need to shuffle bodies in rooms a bit. It’s well known that I'll sleep anywhere. (That rumor about me has been floating around since high school, anyway.) Bawahahaha!”

Okay, so that might only be funny to me. I promise it’s not true. The actual rumor floating around me in high school was that everyone I slept with said I screamed in my sleep. So...who's excited to room with me at BlogHer?

Oh Utah, They're Just Jealous of You

2010-02-25T13:30:00.006-07:00

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?

2010-02-23T08:32:00.001-07:00

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

2010-02-19T08:12:00.002-07:00

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

2010-02-18T10:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-02-16T07:43:00.003-07:00

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

2010-02-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-02-09T13:50:00.001-07:00

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?

2010-02-04T14:26:00.003-07:00

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.

2010-02-01T09:57:00.003-07:00

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?

Jersey Can be a State of Mind Too

2010-01-28T13:08:00.000-07:00

It’s 11:00 at night on Christmas Eve and I’m downstairs in our basement all alone. I’ve told my husband I’m wrapping a few last minute gifts for the kids but really I’m sprawled out on top of the wrapping paper, positioned on my stomach, head resting on folded arms, legs kicking the sofa behind me, staring up at the television and oblivious to the world around me.

Why?

Three words.

The. Jersey. Shore.

That night I discovered exactly what a Snookie "Poof" was. That’s the night I saw The Situation for the very first time. That’s the night my world was changed for the better.

When I saw those eight orange twenty-somethings fist pumping around the boardwalk and treating the Garden State like their own personal Caligula, I snapped out of my eight month long funk devoid of emotion. I kid you not.

I thought to myself, Self, if this spectacle is out there, who knows what other awesomeness exists? And, Self, get up, wipe the chocolate santa stains off your festive sweats (they were red!) and explore all that you have been missing!

But instead of jumping up and seizing my new found excitement immediately, I thought it best to roll over on my side just far enough to grab another piece of candy and hunker down to watch myself a Jersey Shore marathon. It's always important to pace yourselves with life changing moments.

The next morning, Christmas day, after the presents were all opened, long after our company had arrived, I found myself trying to work The Jersey Shore kids into conversations with my family. Sadly, no one would join in (willingly). Actually, no one knew who the hell I was talking about. I kept shouting We’ve got ourselves a situation here! while making breakfast upstairs. My poor mom, hearing my squawking would run up two flights to see what I had set on fire. Eventually she became too tired to traipse up and down the stairs so she resigned to sit herself at my kitchen table and pretend to read the waffle iron manual with great interest so she didn’t have to engage me in any way when I went over, in great detail, my plot for a second reality show for Snookie titled Snookin' for Love.

Was it divine inspiration that led me to The Jersey Shore marathon? No. Was it a lack of current programming on the part of MTV? I think so. Whatever it was, it was kismet-ish enough for me to finally see it was time for me to stop throwing myself pity parties (which were all the rage in my head - with my house DJ and killer mini sausage hors d’oeuvres and all) and start concentrating on witty things to say to The Situation when I eventually see him at a mall opening ten years from now somewhere in upstate New York because we all know that’s where these kids are going to end up eventually.

So far, all I’ve come up with is, “It looks like this Situation has been downgraded to a Predicament.”

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.

Eddie, Please Stop Talking to Me.

2010-01-26T10:30:00.002-07:00

It feels like I'm learning to get my blogging voice back all over again. You know the one. It's the voice in your head that says, Gee-wiz, it sure was a hoot when the copy repairman told me he hosted a photography website that featured his life's second passion, spiritual nudes. Why don't you write about that?

For the record, my blogging voice has always has sounded like Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver, filled with plenty of Aw shucks! and Golly gee-wizes!

For the other record, the copy repairman's first passion is rebuilding snowmobiles. (I sit way too close to a copier that has seen its better days, Folks.)

Back to my blogging voice. Although this morning "The Beav" told me it would be outtasight! to tackle the spiritual nudes thing here, I just don't think I have the blogging strength or stomach to do it this early in the day.

Instead, I found myself dusting off my reader, surfing the web and steering VERY wide and clear of the website the copy guy wrote down for me on his business card. This exercise found me stalking Middle Aged Woman's blog because, a) I love her and 2) I knew her site would be virtually free of any spiritual nudes. I was right. Additionally, I saw that she had put up a quotation meme a few days prior. Not only was this a welcome distraction, but it gave me something to write about. Even though I wasn't tagged, I hope MAW doesn't mind that I decided to crash her party and steal the meme for myself.

So the meme goes a little something like this. If you'd like to participate, go here and check out some of the random quotes. Pick 5 quotes that you feel apply to your life, that say something about you and share. If you'd like, tag 5 people to do the same, link to the person who tagged you. Here are the few quotes I selected:

"There are two kinds of people, those who finish what they start and so on."
--Robert Byrne
(Um, hello! I have difficulties following though on just about everything, with the only exception being a plate of nachos. Oh I'll finish those up. What's not to love about cheese and beans and cheese? Nothing, that's what.)

“Sometimes I lie awake at night, and ask, 'Where have I gone wrong?' Then a voice says to me, 'This is going to take more than one night.'”
--Charles M. Schulz
(I hesitated to include this one because it is Charles Schulz, a man beloved by many, but by me, not so much. Old Chuck cracked a funny here though and for that, I must give him props.)

“Some people see things that are and ask, Why? Some people dream of things that never were and ask, Why not? Some people have to go to work and don't have time for all that ...”
--George Carlin
(George, most likely high at the time he said this, pegged me perfectly with this quote. The last eight months I have questioned how anyone has any time or energy to follow their dreams let alone, wash their hair.)

"It is better to travel well than to arrive."
--Buddha
(Perhaps this quote, more than any of the others, says more about the kind of person I pride myself on being. I am, of course, referring to the heated leather seats in my car. What? It's cold in Utah.)

"How come Eddie is such a creepy guy?"
--Me
(Eddie is the name of the copy repair guy. 'Nuf said.)

On a semi-serious and totally gushy note, I want to thank MAW for reaching out to me during my hiatus and saying the thoughful things she did. It was wonderful to hear her blogging voice.

Several Things Have Happened to Us. Most of Them Uneventful.

2010-01-22T13:00:00.001-07:00

I want to thank you all so much for the kind comments you offered me on my previous post. I was so happy to hear from my old friends (and new ones too!). Thank you for all your words of encouragement in dealing with my bout of depression, not to mention the advice for my hair. You all made my heart smile and it meant so very much to me. After all, if it’s one thing my hair could use it’s advice. If it’s two things my hair could use, well, then it would be advice and a salon strength leave in conditioner.

I feel it only fair to let you know I’ve also received several complaints about my last post. All of these came in a series of phone calls from my mother. She was a little concerned that I didn’t include any updates on the kiddos in my entry and reminded me that several people including her nail lady, her masseuse and her friends from craft night would like to see more written about the little ones. Message received.

I guess it’s true what they say, you can’t please everybody. But I may as well try to please my mother, her friends, her manicurist and her masseuse, right? (Is it just me, or does my mom leads a pretty swanky life?)

So, if you’re one of those people who don’t really care to know what a random blogger’s children have been up to over the past six months, then please avert your eyes now. However, if you are NOT one of those people and you ARE interested, then buckle up, because this kiddie ride is about to get moving.

Also, if you are Julee, my Aunt Jean, my cousins, my sister-in-laws or my parole officer, then this post is for you too. Wait, I’m totally kidding. I’m pretty sure my parole officer doesn’t read me anymore.

Official update on family status: Jeremy continued being awesome and somewhat burly in 2009. Plain and simple. He had several projects at work that required him to log many hours on the phone and traveling and we missed him when he was out of town. But the kids and I partied it up while he was gone. Think Happy Meals + magic markers = newly painted walls.

I spent the second half of 2009 obsessing over Tiger Woods, my recycling habits and suffering a vitamin C deficiency. (I’m almost positive these three things are not at all related.) I plan to spend 2010 eating my weight in burritos, breaking in my new neti pot and cleaning up messes. (Sadly, those three things are related.)

Henry turned five this year. He experienced Lagoon (local amusement park) and sushi for the first time. He continued his love of hotel swimming pools, shoes, super heroes and any foods with cheese. (Except for foods with cheese cooked in them. Don’t even get me started.) He’s overjoyed about the prospect of starting Kindergarten next year because he thinks it will be just like a Hannah Montana episode.

Reese, who is two now, spends the bulk of her time following Henry around or dressing up in princess play clothes. Although Henry has the upper hand in age, weight and general girth, make no mistake, Reese dominates him psychologically and can reduce him to tears by just touching his Bakugan toys with her big toe. I have undeniable evidence that Reese is responsible for instigating the magic marker drawing on our walls. And sometimes her face.

We are totally taking the cost of the new paint out of your inheritance, little girl.

No, Your Reader Isn't Deceiving You.

2010-01-20T13:05:00.010-07:00

I’m a woman of leisure.

No, wait. I take that back.

I’m a woman of leisure pants. Ratty old leisure pants. You know, the soft, full of holes pair with that unfortunate stain? Yeah, I’m that woman.

But I didn’t post today to talk about my pants. I posted today to simply post something today. The story about my pants? That was nothing but an awkward introduction to the rest of my post.

But as long as we’re on the subject of my pants……

There are very few things in this life that will force me to jump out of my leisure pants. I love them that much. They are stretchy and forgiving and they are black so they hide just about everything except for mustard stains that pop up and say HELLO! when you are cosmic bowling with your family.

Okay, so let’s address the elephant in the room, shall we? Where have I been for six+ months? Frankly, I don’t know. I’ve been here. Sort of. I wish I had interesting and witty barbs about all my adventures through the second half of 2009, but I don’t. (Did I mention the mustard stain on my favorite pants already? Sadly, that was the highlight of my entire month of November.)
I have a confession: Around June, I just sort of lost it. Lost my zest and interest in my life. I became depressed. I no longer felt it was good to be me and I questioned my place and my purpose. It was as though I woke up one day and everything that I had once found interesting, exciting and fun, I suddenly found “Meh.” That includes my blog. And especially my hair.

Can I take a break from all this serious, touchy, feely talk to take you on a tangent and discuss the situation with my hair on my self-imposed break? A big part of my depression was my lethargy and lack of energy. This manifested itself in me not wanting to wash my hair with the frequency I had before. Gross, I know. But before you judge me and my unkempt hair, keep reading.

Now, you probably already know that I have very curly hair. It actually looks and feels better day two and three after a shampooing. My hair doesn’t grease up if I don’t wash it, in fact, it does quite the opposite and actually becomes somewhat more manageable, however, it also becomes big. I mean BIG BIG, like Delta Burke on Designing Women BIG.

I can’t tell you how many times a co-worker or my mother-in-law asked me if I was doing something “new” with my hair and they gave me a long, quizzical look. Well, if you consider going four or five days between shampooing then the answer is Why of course, yes! I am absolutely doing something new with my hair. It’s called the Delta and I’m totally rockin’ it.

But folks, I am here today to proclaim to the internets that I have been washing my hair regularly. I have been happy to get out of bed. And today….well, today, I bought myself a brand new pair of stretchy pants.

I was hoping that 2010 would end up being a whole lot better than my 2009. I’m happy to report that three weeks in, as far as the absence of mustard stains and lack of 80’s hair go, for me, this year has been a tiny bit badass.

Sometimes We Run Fast

2009-06-30T09:21:00.000-06:00

This past weekend, Henry and I entered ourselves in a local 5-K race. At age four and a half, Henry didn’t fully grasp the concept of exactly what a 5-K entailed. I was clued in on this fact when Henry repeatedly chanted in my face, “I’m gonna beat you when I go faster! I’m gonna beat everyone in the face!”

Whoa, wait a minute. Did my son just say he was going to beat everyone in the face? Indeed he did.

You can imagine the nerves I had leading up to the race. My son had a plan and it involved one of two things; 1) He would run really, really fast, or 2) He would run really, really fast and quite possibly give an innocent by-stander a black eye for no reason.

Here’s my little athlete on race morning.

Notice the sleek styling of his running outfit. He insisted that he wear his Superman shirt because it would make him "go real fast". In hindsight, having him dressed in such vibrant colors was a good idea, because once the race started, my little boy just took off, full-bore leaving me behind. I used his brightly colored clothes and his white tuft of hair bouncing up and down to keep track of him.

Just after we arrived at the athlete’s starting area, Henry noticed the organizers had booths of fruit, bagels and donuts set up for the racers. Instead of opting for a healthy choice, my little man double-fisted a pair of glazed donuts.

As Henry stood around with white pastry glaze stuck to a large portion of his face, he noticed some nearby racers stretching their legs out to prepare for the race. Not wanting to appear like a rookie, Henners quickly followed suit. Here, Henry does his interpretation of "Crane with Donut".

I'm not sure what this move is.

I'm REALLY not sure what this move is.

After Henry was all limbered up, he and I spent the next little bit trying to look menacing in the hopes that we would intimidate the competition with our pre-race posing.

Unfortunately for us, no one really took notice. Henry and I spent so much time trying to psyche out the competition that we never heard the starting pistol sound and didn't begin running until a good two or three minutes after the actual race had started.

The rest of the race was fairly uneventful. Unless you count the times Henners stopped mid-stride, turned around and shouted, “Hurry Mommy! You’re being too slow!” or the time he ran along side the police escort car that was flanking the racers and warned the officer, “Don't you arrest us!”

All in all, my little man did a super job in his first race. Not only did Henry run almost 2 miles on his own, he never once beat anyone in the face. My cute parents even drove all the way down and joined Jeremy and Reese to sit on the side of the road as spectators and cheer him on as he raced by. Of course, once he saw them sitting there shouting and clapping for him, he mistook them for the finish line and ran up to them and announced, “I WIN!”

Jeremy and I believe that all Henry needs now is a little guidance, more practice and a trainer/agent who is willing to take the fall in the event an unfortunate blood doping scandal surfaces.

It's Your Birthday

2009-06-25T07:29:00.001-06:00

Dear Lover,

Today is your birthday. You’re thirty-four years old and I’m happy to say that I’ve loved you for eleven of those years. The time before that? Meh, you were sort of on your own. I get a kick when you tell me that I’m the best thing to happen to you in the past ten years because before that time you continually remind me that “a lot of cool stuff happened” to you.

Really, Jeremy? I seriously doubt it.

Did anyone shave your head hours before a major family function? Did anyone lock your keys in the truck with the engine running? Twice? And with whom did you secretly watch The Hills?

Jeremy, thanks for being such a wonderful, compassionate, hilarious and wicked hawt companion. If it weren’t for you I would have never heard the phrase, “You must have misunderheard me.” Also? I would never know where my phone charger was hising or exactly where the Yankees sit in the MLB standings. Obviously I can’t live without you.

Honey, I’m sad that we can’t be together today to celebrate your birthday. Apparently your client meeting in Colorado scheduled months ago for this very day takes precedence over the subway sandwich I offered to buy you for your birthday lunch. Maybe it’s better this way. Since we work in the same office, during work hours it’s important that we maintain a professional rapport with each other and keep the physical contact down to the occasional elbow bump as we pass each other in the hall. As an aside, I sincerely apologize for the time I accidentally called you “Lover” when I paged you for a marketing meeting. My bad on that one.

But when you come home tonight you’ll see the cake the kids and I made especially for your birthday. Of course Henners and Reese couldn’t agree on a unified design for your cake so it will be sort of a “Dora the Explorer meets Spiderman” theme. Just what you wanted, I know. Sadly, you will have missed out on the inevitable frosting fight and a spirited battle for dominance of the electric beaters. (Spoiler Alert: Reese will undoubtedly win.)

In love with you always,

Jen

P.S.: I would have called you today to wish you a Happy Birthday but my phone is dead and I can’t find the charger.

Young Love...No, Really, Really Young Love.

2009-06-19T11:31:00.004-06:00

Henry has a girlfriend. It’s true. At the tender, young age of four, he claims he’s found the girl he wants to marry. Jeremy and I have laughed this off for a few months now telling him that he’s nowhere near ready to get married. “Give it until you’re eight,” I tell him. “If you’re still in love with this girl, then I’ll start looking at dates and venues for your wedding.”

The girl who has stolen his heart goes by the name Keely. She’s four. She likes playing dolls, the color pink, sunsets and long walks near the playground. Her turn-offs include spiders, boys who are pushy in the lunch line and vegetables. Apparently, this Keely is sweet on Henry too. Jeremy and I have talked with the preschool teacher to make sure their relationship is cruising at a G-level rating only. We can’t have anything moving too quickly. Everyone knows you wait until Kindergarten to really settle down, don't they?

Thankfully, according to their teacher, Henry and Keely occasionally eat lunch together and hug each other hello and goodbye. At four, I guess that’s the extent of a torrid love affair.

Today, I was at the pre-school picking up the kiddos. Have I ever told you how much I love picking the kids up at their school? All the children instantly recognize me when I enter the building and shout at the top of their lungs, “It’s Henry’s mom! It’s Reesie’s mom!” They all come a runnin’, circle around me and yell whatever is on their little minds at that moment.

“Henry didn’t share with me!” a blonde girl shouts. “Today we ate watermelon!” a boy named Josh announces. One time, I swear I heard Cade, one of the smaller boys in class shout, “Those shoes really clash with your handbag, lady!”

Tsk, tsk. What does a four-year old know about fashion?

Today I was standing outside Henry’s classroom door. Not wanting to draw any attention my way I hugged the doorframe and signaled to Henry that it was time for him to go. Normally, I walk right in the class but my pants weren’t fully pressed and I’m sure Cade couldn’t resist pointing out my pants faux pas.

As I waited for Henry to grab his backpack I noticed a woman inside the classroom standing next to Keely and thought to myself that this must be her mother. The pair eventually made their way out into the hall I introduced myself as the woman who fights with Henry every morning to make sure he brushes his teeth and wears clean underwear. Debbie, as her name turned out to be, let out a loud gasp and her eyes widened to the size of saucers. “It’s about TIME we meet, don’t you think?” as she hugged me tight. “I think our children love each other!”

Debbie and I then held a twenty-minute conversation, sharing what little details we knew about the kids’ ongoing “relationship”. I knew immediately Debbie was my kind of gal. She could she talk and talk and talk (like I do) and she was genuine and warm and thrilled that our children were close friends.

I allowed myself a silent sigh of relief when it was confirmed that Keely is equally as smitten with Henry as he is with her. I just couldn’t bear to nurse the broken heart of my little boy if Keely decided not to be his friend. Honestly, I have my own issues to deal with at the moment. Monday it’s my turn to be “Class Mom” at school and I'm completely stressed out. It's imperative that I sport a snappy outfit that ABSOLUTELY KILLS in order to keep Chase, the tiny fashion Nazi, where he belongs - quiet and stuffed in the back of the classroom so he doesn't just how long overdue for a pedicure I am.

I'm Blogging About a Lunch I Was Invited to Because I Have a Blog

2009-06-17T09:16:00.001-06:00

So remember a few months back when I had my first face-to-face meet up with a blogger? Remember how I kicked my shoe off in her face and made her look at a dead cockroach? Well, this past weekend I had my second blogger meet up and I have to say, it went about the same.

The lovely Kristina from Pulsipher Predilections (she’s a big deal, yo) hosted her third lunch for local Utah bloggers to meet, eat and cackle out loud about how hairy David Hasselhoff is. Okay, that last bit about cackling about the Hoff’s hairiness might have only been me.

Anyway, like any other blogger out there who is getting ready for a meet up with another blogger, I was super nervous. Would they like me? Would I make an ass out of myself? Would my hair sit right? I was hoping all signs would point to YES.

I believe there were close to 30 lovely blogging ladies lunching Saturday and everyone was wonderful and so much fun to talk to. When I reached the banquet room at the top of the stairs, I made an immediate bee-line for one of my favorite people, Green Jello from May You Lead An Interesting Life. She claims she saw me first because my poofy hair preceded me by about four seconds. Four seconds, Green Jello? Really? All the rain must have matted my hair down a little. Typically, with weather permitting, my mane has a six second lead on me everywhere I go.

Here’s a picture of Green Jello and me with wide smiles and full bellies.

Here’s Green Jello with admitted lurker and stalker of Green Jello, Val of the South. She blogs over at Livin' la Vida Utah!. She’s awesome. She made me laugh. Then I challenged her to a drag race on I-15. Wisely, Val declined. She claimed she had errands to run. I claim she was chicken.

Here’s Kristina shouting at me that she’ll cut me if I post this picture of her online. Oh Kristina, you are so funny. When you weren't looking I rummaged through your purse and aside from a pair of tweezers and a Kenny Loggins Greatest Hits CD, you're totally harmless.

Here’s a blurry picture of Green Jello, me and the hilarious S of Lady of Perpetual Chaos. (I swiped this image from Kristina's site.)

I’m so glad I was seated near S as I’m pretty sure she could be a stand up comedian if she wanted to. You know how people tell you stories about their children and sometimes you’re all um, yeah….uh huh….okay, are you done now? Well not with S. She had the wittiest way about her and I left wanting to hear more of her tales but I was fearful she would get nervous, call the authorities and have a protective order issued against me if I kept up with all the questions. And folks, I just can’t have another one of those blemishes on my record.

Here’s all the ladies that attended the lunch on Saturday. Kristina and Green Jello both claimed to be giants and quite tall, but, um hello! look where the line peaks at its tallest. It begins and ends with my hair. And if you were paying attention from earlier in this post, you would recall that my hair was matted down from the rain.

One of the more unlikely highlights of the lunch was when two women approached me when they heard that I was a friend of a “famous blogger”. They were giddy like schoolgirls as they probed me with questions about their cyber crush, Captain Dumbass over at Us and Them.

Girls: Are you really friends with him?
Me: If the money’s right.
Girls: Is he really that funny in real life?
Me: No. Not even close.
Girls: (blank and horrified stares)
Me: You know? I don’t even think those are his kids in the photos that he posts. And the bald guy? I hear he’s just one of those stock photography models. No one really knows who the Captain is or what he looks like.

I spent the rest of the lunch dropping his name randomly into conversations in the hopes that my one-degree of separation from greatness would earn me a free pasta lunch, but all the Captain’s name brought me was a second refill on my lemonade.

As a side note: I contacted the Captain yesterday (can you hear the squeals all the way from Utah?) to tell him just how far reaching his fame had become. During the conversation I inadvertently offended him by referring to him as a slightly older, okay really older, version of a Jonas brother, but with way less hair.

The Captain seriously has no idea how big the Jonai or his bald head are in our fair state.

I Believe That Children Are Our Future...When it Comes to Deceit

2009-06-15T11:59:00.001-06:00

We’ve tried hard to not spoil our children. Strike that. Jeremy has tried hard to not spoil our children. I’ve focused my efforts on teaching them that “What happens at Target, stays at Target…or at the very least in our car trunk until mommy can find an opportunity to sneak your new shoes and your new toy into the house without daddy finding out.”

My children still have yet to learn the fine art of hiding purchases from my husband. Reese, our almost 2-year old, I totally understand. She’s too young to grasp the concept and she gets so worked up when she has her little hands on anything shiny or pink or anything that vaguely resemble shoes. (Ladies, can I get a witness? Also, Captain Dumbass, can I get a witness? I bet he looooves shoes too.)

But Henners? What’s up dude? You’re 4 and a half years old. You should really know better by now. Oh don’t get me wrong, buddy, I know you get that you're part of a covert operation and that it’s super-dee-duper top secret and all that stuff, but WHY can you just keep it to yourself?

Just last week I rewarded Henners' good behavior at the grocery store with a cheap matchbox car. My son COULD NOT wait to get himself home and send his father cryptic messages for forty minutes straight about “something small and green that has wheels and goes vroom-vroom! and it's behind my back and mommy doesn’t want you to see it because it's a secret from you.”

So busted.

Now, I’m sure many of you out there are thinking I’m a horrible person for teaching my children to hide purchases from their father. But to those of you that think this way, answer me this: How will these kids ever learn the importance of befriending the UPS man so that that he leaves all online purchases on the side of the house instead of the front porch so that my husband doesn’t see them on the off chance he beats me home from work?

The trick of making nice all delivery the delivery men, I learned from my mother, an expert online shopper. Over the years, every UPS or FedEX man she’s ever had knew to bring her purchases all the way around to the back porch of the house. Well, they used to, that is, until my father retired and is now home most days. I imagine shortly after my dad retired and he was spending hours combing through his social security paperwork, my mom was frantically texting all the delivery men in her life with new instructions on where to leave her packages. Texting them? you say. Yes, texting them. She's that tight with the shipping and delivery men in her city. Not because her town is small or anything, but I'm sure the sheer volume of deliveries my mom has coming to her on a weekly basis keep at least two UPS delivery men very gainfully employed.

Soon my mom will find herself in a precarious situation. You see, she's a few years from retirement herself. And when that time comes, she won't be able to have her packages sent to her office and then hide the packages in the truck of her car and wait to sneak them into the house when my father's not looking like she does now. Where, oh where, will she stash her goods?

Mom, if you're reading this: I think I might be able to help you out. For a nominal “handling fee” of say, maybe a new pair of shoes every now and then, I’d be more than happy to be the “safe house” for your secret purchases. I see this as a win-win situation for us both. But mostly for me. Now, when my UPS man arrives with those beautiful brown boxes and Jeremy gives me the old arched eyebrow, I can look him in the eyes and half-truthfully tell him “Don’t worry Lover, it’s just another package for my mom.”

Any arrangements to keep your grandchildren from spilling the goods is between you and them. They are tough little negotiators. Their still blackmailing me for the time I gently kissed the garage door with the car bumper.

I Can't Believe I'm Not Bitter...About Things Other People Are Having Done to Them With Butter

2009-06-11T13:42:00.002-06:00

Remember a few months ago when I entered a contest to become the official blogger at a local spa? Well, I didn’t get picked. I didn’t even make it as one of the five finalists. And the spa, the one whose name I will not say because they’ve already received enough free publicity and buzz from over 20 local bloggers, has yet to find the time to thank the participants or even notify those who were not selected. I discovered I wasn’t on the list from my bloggy friend Connie over at The Young and The Relentless. She didn’t make the cut either and had to hunt down the information from the spa herself.

Honestly, I wasn’t upset that I was not selected as a finalist. The decision was made the by the spa executives and they picked according to their personal preferences. My blog is definitely an acquired taste and I totally understand that not everyone is going to like everything I write.

You know, I can’t help but think the spa owners didn’t pick me because they were a little worried I would spend way too much time in front of the ladies room mirror lip syncing “Renegade” by Styx as I promised I would. Some people are so touchy. And by touchy, I mean lame.

I just re-read the first three paragraphs and I sound extremely bitter up there. Oh well, I’m leaving them the way they are. Meh, maybe I am a little on the bitter side. I’ll admit that on two separate occasions Jeremy and I drove by the spa and I shot that building dirty looks. Also, Jeremy may or may not (but definitely did) shout “SPA WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED, you can suck it!” as we sped by.*

But that’s it. I’m over it already.

Well, maybe not quite. As long as we’re coming clean, I might as well tell you that just this past Tuesday I typed up a false listing in the spa’s name on Craig’s List under the “Casual Encounters” section. Admit it, you’d do the exact same thing.

Stay with me folks, this is where my story finally gets interesting.

Yesterday I was running the final spell check on my Craig’s List revenge listing while rolling my hands together and doing my best maniacal Muawahaha! laugh when I noticed an email pop up from a stranger named Jodi. The first line in her email read: You don’t know me…and so I am sure this is bizarre that I would be contacting you….

People, if you ever want to get my attention, these are the exact words you should write or say to me. I also respond well to Listen up, Hooker!, but you guys already know that.

Anyway, as I read through Jodi’s email I discovered that not only was she was a fellow blogging-sista from Utah, but she was one of the five finalists in the spa contest. Jodi was so sweet and genuine in her email and I was absolutely thrilled that she contacted me. She wanted nothing from me other than to reach out to me, introduce herself and say nice things about Steenky Bee like, Your blog doesn’t suck that bad and I’ve seen way worse hair, I promise.

Well, as you can imagine, after Jodi poured on the sugar like that I was hooked. Had she called me a skank, I would have Googled her home address, driven to her house and kissed her on the mouth. But she didn’t so all I could do was check out her blog. Guess what? It’s adorable. Jodi? She’s even more adorable. I even read the post where she describes the luxurious Body Butter Drench spa treatment she received as one of the finalists. Judging from the photos she put up on her post, I’m almost positive she dropped off a load of laundry while she sautéed herself in trans fats. I’m not judging her. I would have totally done the same thing.

After reading through all the finalists’ posts I made some life-changing decisions.

I decided against submitting a revenge listing on Craig’s list for free under “Casual Encounters” for the spa. It was a bad idea from the beginning and I’ve come to the realization that I must take the high road in this matter. As a result, my paid ad in the classified section of Salt Lake Tribune, the one where I advertise the spa in the “Escort Services Needed”, will be running next week.
I made myself a heavily buttered grilled cheese sandwich because all the butter-talk had made me hungry.
I am throwing my full support behind Jodi for the official blogger at SPA WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED.

So good people, if you have a heart, if you’re fond of butter or even remotely interested in reading about a stranger being rubbed down with a stick of butter, I highly suggest you go here and read Jodi’s clever post about her splendid spa day. Give her a vote. I know I will.

Also? If you can think of any clever insults to shout out the car window at the spa, let me know. I have errands I’m running in that neighborhood tomorrow.

*Jeremy never shouted anything at the spa as we drove by. Even though we both really, really wanted to.

Lessons in Love and Spandex

2009-06-09T21:55:00.003-06:00

Hold on tight. The Steenkster is taking you back old-school for a minute. For those of you that have known me for a while, you recall that I used to put up posts with pictures of the kiddos and stories of our adventures as a family. Well, this is one of those posts.

Now before you go off thinking this is one of those posts, a post featuring some bland story about my kids at a park, blah, blah, blah...let me tell you two things:

1. No story about Henners or Reese could ever be bland.
2. No man should sport the spandex at a public park without good reason.

Sometimes cousins go to the park, hold hands and do stuff.

And then sometimes cousins just walk away.

Sometimes you're not even two year-old and your hand-holding cousins leave you with all the tall people over age 30. This makes you scared.

But you are only two and you are easily distracted. You spy a chunky, yet handsome toddler boy just across the way. You decide to make eyes at him.

The eye thing isn't working. The boy is too busy checking out his socks. You quickly grab a ball and use it as a prop and peek at him ever-so-coyly in an effort to gain his favor.

Okay, so now he's eating his socks. You are understandably grossed out, but remain undeterred in your quest to be noticed by him. Grandma swoops in and you use her as a "wing man" in order advance your position with the round mound foot fetish-having boy.

Okaaaaay. Granny is clearly not the babe magnet you were hoping for. Your off to try something else. You spy Aunt Karly, a single-ready-to-mingle twenty-something who's got the skills to seal the deal with the dudes. Surely she can throw you some pointers...

...as you use yours to dig. So. Busted.

My friends, the sock-eater and the nose-picker never made contact. Frankly, this strange dance was the highlight of my day at the park with family.

Unless you count this guy...

...which I totally do.

Guest Post

2009-06-08T08:34:00.001-06:00

I'm not here. I'm here. Go here. Please, please, please!!

Guest Post: Warning Pants Optional

2009-05-20T15:16:00.003-06:00

Umm....whoops. I was supposed to throw up a link bright and early this morning to Where's My Damn Answer where I am guest posting today and I spaced it a bit. WHO DOES THAT?

The lovely Lindaloohoo contacted me weeks ago and I practically jumped in her lap out of glee when she asked me to guest post over at Damn Answer.

Please, oh, please, Lindaloohoo, please forgive me! I was side tracked with, yet again, more cat drama, Chase Crawford finally getting the lead role for the remake of Footloose and by Glen Beck getting the sh*t beat out of him on The View.

Everyone, head on over to Where's My Damn Answer to hear about my triumphant night without pants. Then, subscribe to Where's My Damn Answer. I do, you should too!

This Post is About Midguided Choices in Semi-Formal Wear and Prom, But Mostly About Misguided Choices in Semi-Formal Wear

2009-05-19T09:21:00.000-06:00

I am so late with my prom post! I finally tracked down some pictures of me before I learned that less is more when it comes to the volume of fabric and eyebrows. Enjoy…..

I wish I were one of those reasonably cool and interesting 20-something girls who could aloofly reflect on my prom days as a total waste of time. I wish I were the girl that could tell you that instead of attending the highly overrated prom, I spent the evening chain smoking and discussing Faulkner in my basement with two foreign exchange students from Spain.

But, I’m totally not that girl. Letmetellyouwhy…

I’m not a 20-something. I’m in my 30’s. Very well into my 30’s. I’ve never smoked. And as for the foreign exchange students at my high school? Well, they steered clear of me. It may have been because I was a little overzealous in my repeated attempts to get them to help me with my Spanish homework.

No, I was the girl who totally lived for prom. Two times, in fact.

Junior Prom (1989): I was a Junior, Chad was a Senior. We had been dating for a few months and we were destined to go to prom together. I was destined to wear the biggest, whitest most mermaidiest dress ever.

Sadly, I don’t remember too much detail about our actual date, but I know that I had fun and that my night ended with Chad, in a sweet gesture, offering me a single white rose. And now that I look back on this photo, I’m not at all convinced that my dress was hideous. My eyebrows? Well, that’s another story.

In the weeks prior to my Junior Prom I was a permanent fixture at the tanning salon. See what a delightful shade of orange I was? I practiced and fussed with my hair several days before the big night. Here I am trying out my prom hair and my best misunderstood, teenage girl full of angst look.

The most misguided thing about me back then seems to be my high bangs.

My mother, a talented seamstress, designed and sewed my dress with love, several yards of billowy organza fabric and plenty of swear words. The weeks leading up to Prom, my relationship with my mom hung by a thin white thread. You know how sometimes prominent public figures will sometimes undergo a hunger strike to passively protest an injustice they see in the world? Well, I did something in the same vain just prior to Prom that, to this day, my dad refers to as The Cold Shoulder Incident of ’89*. For about three days, I gave my mother the silent treatment over the placement of beading on my dress bodice. I’ll show her! I thought. We eventually made up when I finally came to my senses and trusted my mother’s judgment and because I needed her credit card to buy Chad a corsage. Yep, I was a brat.

*Note: History would eventually reveal that The Cold Shoulder Incident of ’89 would pale in comparison to our infamous Wedding Dress Feud of ’99. Let’s just say it’s highly unlikely that my mom and I will ever be able to work toward a common goal when a white dress is involved.

Junior Prom 2: Electric Bugaloo, The Senior Edition (1990): My Senior year in school, I was escorted by Tyler, another Senior. I wanted to wear something a little shorter, a little edgier but ended wearing something, well, a little bigger. Sadly, I was unable to find that prom picture, but I was able to snag my Homecoming picture with the same guy. Behold the power of puffy satin sleeves. Behold the power of high bangs.

All I remember about that Homecoming dance was Tyler exclaiming out loud when he picked me up, Wow. You’re really wearing black? To a dance?, then me falling asleep on his friend’s couch in the basement during a Batman movie. (And not one of the good Batman movies either, but the first cheesy Michael Keaton/Jack Nicholsen debacle.) When I woke up, it was just me, Tyler and a pair rumpled sleeves.

This promtrastophe post is in conjunction with two of my favorite ladies Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated. Be sure to visit them and openly mock their big hair too.

Random, a Tad Bit Early

2009-05-18T13:13:00.001-06:00

Holy balls, its Tuesday. But it’s really Monday.

I was supposed to put up a Prom Post last week in conjunction with Stiletto Mom and Blissfully Caffeinated, but my attempts to locate my dance pictures were fruitless. Could I have burned them in a fit of rage sometime during college? Did I even get pictures taken? I’m sure I did. I have one more avenue to pursue before all efforts have been exhausted. It involves the exchange of small bills and a long-distance phone call. I think I’m up for the challenge. I will do anything to get my hands on those suckers short of calling up my prom dates from 10+ years ago to see if they're willing to check their parents' basement for images.

I do have some dignity.

I’m pretty sure my brain has turned to mush. Because of the kiddos, cartoons are on in the Steenky household the majority of the time. Jeremy often finds me staring glassy-eyed at the television drooling as an episode of Spongebob Squarepants or Scooby-Doo is playing.

To keep me somewhat sharp and “in the game” I have taken to inventing elaborate back stories for the characters in these programs.

Let’s talk about Scooby-Doo for a minute, shall we?

We all assume Fred and Daphne have a thing going. In MY world they have a tenuous relationship, flirtatious at best. However, Velma is a dirty girl and will get freaky with Fred and do things that Daphne is too prudish to consider.

Shaggy, of course, partakes in herbal refreshments from time to time. Velma and Fred join him regularly, but Fred have to be careful because he has been battling a nasty coke habit since his first year at Coolsville Community College. Only Velma knows this.

I’m haven’t quite figured out how the three of them support their drug habit other than siphoning Daphne’s trust fund and her paychecks from her part-time job at Banana Republic. The gang uses Daphne’s credit card to buy snacks and other sundry items while they travel about solving mysteries. She’s oblivious to this fact, or much else because she suffers from a nasty Vicodin habit.

See? I have suddenly made Scooby-Doo tolerable.

I had no idea who the Shamwow guy was until his sex scandal a few weeks ago. Now I’m totally obsessed with him, but not in a bad way. Now, Jeremy and I wait for the Shamwow commercials and each try to be the first one to yell “SHAMWOW, YOU WHORE!”

Jeremy always wins.

The weather has been nice lately so we’ve had our windows open. I wonder what the neighbors think about all the Shamwow whorin’ shouts at our place.

If you feel like being random, wait until Tuesday, and join in the random fun hosted by the lovely Keely at The Un-mom.

Terror Has a New Name...And It is Mabel

2009-05-12T09:29:00.001-06:00

I want to thank all of you out there, many of whom de-lurked to offer me support, for the outpouring of kindness and love showed me when I wrote about our cat's passing. I was honestly terrified to share something so personal, but you all helped me with your encouragement and kind sentiments. I can never thank you enough.

Meet our new kitty. Yes she’s cute and fluffy and blah, blah, blah, but she is on some sort of kitty cat-nip laced speed of the likes I’ve never seen before.

She melts our heart with her squeaky meow, she makes us smile with her soft kisses and gentle head nudges. Then, just when you think everything’s going great, BAM! she pounces on your stray hand or your exposed neck and head area leaving you with bloody stumps or a severed mole. I’m just sayin’.

Witness the beating Jeremy’s hands took at the claws of our new furry terror.

Right about now, many of you may be thinking one of two things… 1) Isn’t it a little too soon to get another cat after your other cat just passed away? or 2) Has Steenky Bee suddenly turned into one of those annoying personal blogs about cats?

The answer to those questions, my friends, are: Yes it is too soon and no…well, maybe. I might write about our cats again in the future. Sorry.

The decision for us to get another kitty came at a weak moment when I was craving the warmth of something furry on my lap. Taz, or T-Bizzle, our 13-year old cat pictured later, is only a cuddler on his terms, and by his terms, of course, I mean on my head while I’m sleeping. Meesha was my constant side-kick that followed me from room to room and would respond to me as I bounced post topics off her for this blog. She was responsible for Dance Face post, Brush With The Law post and most recently, my Airplane Terror Ride post that was published posthumously.

Last week, as I tried to get back into the swing of writing again, I queried Taz as to what appropriate blog material would be for Steenky Bee. The closest thing to input I received from him was him licking himself and walking away after I asked him if I should post about the recent fetish I’ve developed for Bear Grylls.

When Taz wasn’t licking himself or sleeping under our bed, he was giving us what I believed was his sad face. Everybody, behold Taz’s “I am sad” face.

Make no mistake people, the size of his nose is not an optical illusion. It really is THAT big.

Surely Bizzle was missing Meesha, his cat-mate, his companion for so long. I could not allow him to go on lonely with no one to lick but himself. I also could not trust his judgment when it came to deciding content for my web site. So at the end of last week, Jeremy and I found ourselves at a small farm house picking up a kitten who we named Mabel.

Once we brought her home, I strategically placed a hand-written letter for the kids that was “penned” by Meesha herself. In this letter, she declared her love for Henry and Reese and introduced them to Mabel, the newest addition to our family, hand-picked of course, by her all the way from up in kitty heaven.

Needless to say, Henry and Reese were thrilled. The next few days of their lives were filled with their gleeful squeals when they found Mabel tucked away in a warm spot between the covers or their uncontrollable laughter as they watched Mabel chase her own tail.

I was sure Taz would be thrilled as well. He was not. Not immediately anyway. Here was his, “I’m not thrilled. Not now, anyway. I’m off to pee in Jeremy’s favorite shoes to demonstrate exactly how NOT thrilled I am.”

Oddly enough, Bizzle’s “I am not thrilled” face is the exact same as his “I am sad” face. Who knew?

I’m happy to report, after repeated transfer of scents by petting both Taz and Mabel excessively and encouraging positive behavior toward each other by speaking in soft, reassuring tones as they approached one another, the two of them are getting along famously. With patience, a sincere heart and a small melt down where you physically toss both animals into the guest bathroom for them to duke it out, acclimating cats to one another can be easy.

Working It At Work

2009-05-07T19:50:00.000-06:00

In less than six weeks my office will hold annual employee reviews. My firm has a unique system for evaluating the staff members. Instead being reviewed by senior or middle management, each employee is evaluated by a group of their peers. Management feels that this system promotes a better work environment between everyone because it makes staffers accountable for their interactions with co-workers at their same level, thus discouraging employees who try to get ahead by "climbing".

Seems sound enough, right?

So, in order to have a positive review in June, I have focused the bulk of my energy in building rapport with the rest of the marketing staff, the architects, the administrative staff and even the accounting department.

I must say, it has been both tiring and rewarding. But mostly tiring. Which leads me to the next paragraph.

Tuesday, one of our Associates, we'll call him "Leonard", emailed me and asked for help with a task. I immediately checked the company roster just to be sure he was higher above me in the corporate food chain. Indeed he was and he would most definitely not be reviewing me. Sucker.

******************
Leonard: How busy is your marketing team today?.....
Sent from my iPhone on 5/5/09 11:18 AM

Jen: What do you need? I'm sure I could help this afternoon!
On May 5, 2009, at 11:21 AM

Leonard: I’ll need help if the administrative staff doesn’t return…and at that, I’m not sure I trust that this job can be completed…Stay close. I’ll keep in touch…
Sent from my iPhone on 5/5/09 11:27 AM

Jen: This “job” sounds classified and somewhat covert. Let me know who my contact is, the password, safehouse location, etc. I’ll be careful. You know I will.
On May 5, 2009, at 11:35 AM

Jen: Will I need a cover?
On May 5, 2009, at 11:37 AM

Leonard: I’m sorry…cover? As in a cover for a proposal?
Sent from my iPhone on 5/5/09 11:39 AM

Jen: No! Cover as in alias. A disguise?.....Oh I read ya. We’re now talking in code. Are these emails being monitored? I’ll take care of my own cover and develop a detailed back story while I'm at it. How about I’m a rich divorce from back East who just moved to Utah to get away from it all. I’ve recently discovered yoga, self-tanner and I am ready and looking for love with a much younger man. What do you think?
On May 5, 2009, at 11:44 AM

Jen: I’m taking your silence as confirmation that you are in complete agreement with my plan.
On May 5, 2009, at 11:45 AM

Jen: Still no response....Have you been compromised? Give me the word and I will abort this mission immediately!
On May 5, 2009, at 11:49 AM

Jen: Also, why do you keep sending me emails from your iPhone? You know, that doesn’t really impress me. I have one too. Like, I had one a LONG time ago. iPhones are so 2007, dude.
Sent from my awesome iMac with a screen twice the size of your head on May 5, 2009 11:51 AM

Leonard: Is anyone else in marketing available?
Sent from my iPhone on 5/5/09 11:59 AM

So Long April, You Bitch.

2009-05-04T11:38:00.001-06:00

As far as months go, April, you were the worst. And you can suck it.

Work was a nightmare, complete with late night stints at the office, surprise weekend assignments and, my personal fave, last minute PowerPoint presentations. On seven different occasions. You’d think that after the fourth time management approached me and showed an unnatural interest in me or what my evening plans were I would have learned that what they really wanted to know was how difficult it would be to convince me to spend six extra hours tackling a deadline in the office instead of relaxing at home with my family.

Also? It rained on Easter. Not so much you fault, April. This one has Mother Nature written all over it, I know. But still, I find you guilty by association.

And another thing, Jeremy, who has never had to dial 911 in his life, had to dial those digits twice this month. One instance was because of a life-threatening situation with a colleague at work. She’s doing fine now, no thanks to you, April. The second 911 call? Well, that was due to a careless driver who ran herself off an icy canyon road in the snow. Many would say that the driver is at fault, but I say it was April. Icy roads at this time of the year, really April? Come on, spring started over four weeks ago. Enough with the weather already.

Let’s see, how can I forget that my baby girl took a tumble down our cement steps this month, both vehicle registrations were due and three nights IN A ROW one or more of our smoke detectors sounded off sometime around 2:00 am? Awesome.

Also? My four-year old son learned a choice phrase at school this month that was absolutely foreign to me. I even had to look it up online to see what the hell it meant. When I finally did find the definition, I just stared at my laptop for several minutes shaking my head in half disbelief, half embarrassment. I then spent the next half-hour figuring out how to work that phrase into a conversation with management the next time one of them asked me if I could spare a few minutes.

And, my cat died.

That’s right, the month of April killed my cat. I have no other explanation for this. She lived fifteen years as a healthy, happy part of my life and then, for some unexplained reason, other than having feline anemia and hyperthyroid disease, my dear kitty was gone.

Please don’t mock me. Please don’t roll your eyes and say to yourself, she’s only a cat. Meesha was more than that to me, to our entire family. She was with me through the most turbulent part of my life and helped me get myself back to where I was semi-tolerable to be around.

I give Meesha credit for helping me with Reese’s Torticolis physical therapy at home. I would use that cat as a target focal point for Reese to help our baby girl stretch and lengthen her neck and torso muscles. As a reward, when Reesie would twist or bend around far enough, Meesha would allow her to gently grab her fur, her ears or her tail. Meesha never once complained.

We did everything we possibly could to make Meesha's last day with us an enjoyable one. She was bright-eyed, albeit a little slower in her steps. I spent the day with her outside and watched her pounce on bugs, roll in the grass and I rubbed her soft fur as she sunned herself on our porch.

Our home is a bit quieter now, my lap a little colder. Meesha was my partner in crime over here at Steenky Bee. Whenever she saw me reach for the laptop she readied herself to take her usual position on my lap. I eventually grew used to holding my wrists up at an odd angle to accommodate her curled up body as I typed away and posted silly stories about my life. Now, it just doesn’t feel right. I no longer have that warm, purring armrest between me and the keyboard. I’ll miss you, Mimi-girl. This place won’t be the same without you.

I'm so sorry I haven't been by to visit anyone over the past week or so. I hope you'll give me a little time. I look forward to re-stalking you and leaving highly inappropriate comments soon.

I Wou'd Rather Be Dumped Than Fly on an Airplane (This one's a long one...)

2009-04-29T05:01:00.000-06:00

It was 1992. I thought I was in love. I wasn’t. His name was Chad, he played football and he was spending the summer back home in Missouri. After a few months Chad thought I should fly out, spend some time with him and finally meet his family.

The following is the true account of the events that went down on my four-leg trip from hell to Missouri where I spent a week with someone who would eventually break up with me in a Taco Bell parking lot my Junior year in college.

First Leg: Salt Lake City, UT to Cedar City, UT
Air Time: 55 minutes
In Salt Lake City, I boarded a small plane that had the capacity to hold up to 30 passengers. When I landed in Cedar City, 55 minutes later, the plane picked up 2 people. This made for a grand total of 3 paid passengers on board the plane.

That’s right. For almost an hour, I was the only person on the plane besides the pilot, who sported denim shorts and a “Fear This” t-shirt and his two leathery companion women who claimed to be "the help". I believed they were truck-stop waitresses. As you can imagine, it was awesome.

The flight crew, or “threesome” spent the majority of the flight in the front of the plane cackling and carrying on. About 20 minutes in, Truck Stop Waitress 1 hollered back to me and informed me that there would be no beverage service and she would hook me up with a soda once we landed.

As the time went on, the “party plane” more rowdy. Around the 40-minute mark, I was almost positive I was the fourth-wheel in some sort of mile-high caligula.

Second Leg: Cedar City, UT to St. George, UT
Air Time: 10 minutes
A 10-minute flight. Truck Stop Waitress 1 forgot my soda. I’m pretty sure the turbulence we experienced on the flight had something to do with the pilot and Truck Stop Waitress 2 disappearing into the cockpit for the entire flight.

Third Leg: St. George, UT to Las Vegas, NV
Air Time: Felt like forever
Before the plane left St. George, me and the other two passengers were escorted off the plane and made to wait in an airport the size of a Chili’s Restaurant. We then switched planes, to a larger bird that held 75 people. When boarded the plane, I noticed a rather large, sweaty man sitting in my seat. I remembered seeing him in the Chili’s/Airport because he was the guy leaning against a wall, shouting, “Does anyone have any aspirin!” Also? He was violently emptying his lunch into a wastebasket.

As luck would have it, the new flight crew ushered me to the seat next to Sweaty Guy. After take-off, Sweaty introduced himself by pointing to my courtesy “barf bag” and grunting. I took this as the universal sign that he was about to blow chunks AGAIN and immediately thrust it at him.

That hour-long flight will probably go down as the most uncomfortable and nasty hour I’ve spent in the air. Let me break it down for you.

I spent the first ten minutes of the flight watching a grapefruit-sized stain grow on my linen pants. I tried so hard to believe the wetness was some bizarre airplane condensation, or prayed to God that I had started my period and through some unexplained medical marvel, it was appearing on the top of my thigh. But I knew better. It was arm sweat from sweaty. ON MY LEG.

I was seated in an aisle seat, thank heavens for small miracles, and every time the flight attendant passed me, she gave me gun fingers, winked and exclaimed, “Love that hair!” Pretty soon she recruited a second flight attendant and three passengers into taking turns touching my hair. One of them, a nice, but slightly crazy woman, ran her fingers through it like a comb for more than ten minutes. I would have demanded she stop, but she kept telling me I that looked exactly like her dead niece.

Now, for those of you that don’t already know this, I have curly hair. One of the fundamental rules of having a sound head of curls is DO NOT TOUCH the ringlets unless you absolutely have to because they will lose all structure and before you know it, you’ve got yourself a hair-tastrophy of Diana Ross proportions.

Normally, having a total stranger pet my hair and call me “Claire” (name of deceased niece) would be out of my realm of comfort. But faced with my other options, Sweaty Guy – still throwing up and moaning loudly, or Flight Attendant – standing in our row asking Sweaty Guy to keep it down because the pilot has become distracted by the noise...well, I’ll hang with crazy any day.

Fourth & Final Leg: Las Vegas, NV to Kansas City, MO
Air Time: At this point, who’s counting?
As I board, yet another plane, I can see by the looks on the flight crew’s faces that I am a sight. I’m covered in vomit splatter, my linen pants are soaked where Sweaty’s arm rested on my leg and one side of my hair is now entirely frizzed out like a prize poodle.

This leg of my trip was fairly uneventful unless you take into account that my luggage was shipped to Hawaii instead of Missouri, I DID, in fact, start my period during take-off and Chad, my boyfriend, forgot to pick me up at the airport. When my taxi arrived at his house, all he said to me was, “What happened to you?”

We broke up three weeks later. At Taco Bell.

Check out Jen over at Sprite's Keeper. She posted about her fear of flying today too!!

Tweens: A Study

2009-04-27T14:12:00.000-06:00

First of all, I want to give a shout-out to everyone out there who sent positive words and voted for me over at Sego Lily Day Spa where they are searching for their official blogger. I was stunned and completely humbled at the outpouring of support from all of you! I tried to personally thank as many of you as I could, but for some reason, the spa’s site wouldn’t reveal all the posted comments. If I missed you, it is not by design, it’s because I was unable to see the complete comment archives on Sego Lily’s site. Thank you!!

Now, today I’m posting, albeit a little late, as part of the Beautiful Like Me series hosted at one of my favorite sites, The Life and Times of a Wicked Stepmom. The current topic up for debate is: What do today’s children and teens feel pressured to imitate? Why?

Now, if you want to read an honest, soulful search into this topic, be sure and visit Wicked Stepmom's post or the series co-developers, Shout! Daily (Hi, Tricia!) and Five Flower Mom. If you want to read a totally biased account of my observations of frenzied tweens at a Zac Efron movie premier two weeks ago, well then, you’ve come to the right place.

Appearance of a Tween Girl:
It’s a forgone conclusion that most tween girls pride themselves on their appearance. They are highly groomed and will go to extreme lengths to gain the approval of their peers through choice of hairstyle and/or clothing. However, it seems critical in tween girl culture that they appear uninterested, almost aloof in gaining said favor with their peers.

I know this to be true because I witnessed one tween girl (Girl 1) in the rest room wearing a Miley Cyrus “I Rock This Joint” tee parked in front of the mirror fussing with her hair -- putting it in a ponytail, taking it down and then back up in an even higher ponytail. Moments later, I found myself, once again, standing next to Girl 1 in the concession line. Her friend, Girl 2, who looked identical to Girl 1, same shirt, same hair, same leggings, commented on how awesome Girl 1’s hair looked in a ponytail to which Girl 1 replied, “Whatever, I just totally rolled out of bed with it this way.” Well played, Girl 1. Or well played, Girl 2. Actually, I wasn’t really sure because at this point Girl 3 joined the group and she looked just like the other two.

Social Habits of a Tween Girl:
As I hinted at earlier, it is no mistake that tween girls traveling together look exactly alike. It has been long believed that tweens’ similarities were the calculated result of clever marketing campaigns devised in concert by clothing labels, MTV and the Disney Corporation. However, recent studies have shown that tweens, both male and female, use these similarities as a defense mechanism to ward off well-meaning individuals over the age of 30 from approaching them in a public setting.

These groups of tweens, specifically tween girls, are commonly referred to as “clans”. They are easily identifiable by their highly groomed hair, low-waist jeans and their incessant chatter accompanied by flailing hand movements. (It is almost impossible for a tween girl to speak without using her hands or prefacing a sentence with, “Oh my gosh!”).

Come to think of it, it’s nearly impossible for me to communicate without doing those things too.

If you come upon a tween clan, it is best to step aside and let the group pass you. I noted at the movie theater, each clan has it’s own speed and whether it moved at a snails pace or tore through the theater halls faster than Tara Reid’s career, whatever you do, don’t get mixed up in this living breathing, heavily accessorized organism. Girls at this age are drawn to shiny objects and will be wearing loads of metal or bedazzled jewelry. It only takes one rookie move and next thing you know, you find yourself smack in the middle of a clan where getting an accidental shanking from a dangly earring is considered getting off easy.

I made the mistake of infiltrating a clan, splitting them right up the middle, as I lunged for the butter dispenser at the snack bar. No skinny 7th grader is going to keep me and the liquid butter apart. Can I get a witness? Long story short, the whole ordeal was so traumatic for me that all I remember is the horrified looks on those young girl’s faces, the shrieking (on my part) and the sudden urge to get myself to the nearest Hot Topic, stat.

Unless you are somehow related to a tween girl, it will only be on the rarest of occasions that you find yourself alone with a tween girl who has become separated from her clan. Don’t panic. A tween girl removed from other tweens is relatively harmless and should not be considered hostile. However, since tweens find comfort in numbers, should you approach her, do so with extreme caution. Without her clan, she will most likely be jumpy and easily startled. You’re more likely to elicit a response from her if you drop the following key phrases into your conversation:

“Isn’t Edward dreamy?”
“Are you on Facebook?”
“Do you want to go to the mall later?”

Warning: Only use these phrases if you are a female trying to start up a conversation with a tween GIRL. I cannot stress this enough, ANY OTHER COMBINATION, (i.e. adult male to tween boy, adult male to tween girl, adult female to tween boy) IS CREEPY AND SHOULD BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS.

Language of a Tween Girl:
Tween girl speak is a complex and can range from a series of high-pitched squeals to muffled whispers and giggles. Often times, tween girls prefer to talk at the exact same time to each other in a rapid-fire tempo. You may not understand what they’re talking about, but make no mistake, they do. If you listen closely, however, you can extract key words or phrases such as, “Nick Jonas” or “Zac Efron” or “weird lady with curly hair eavesdropping on us”.

If you’re lucky enough to have pulled out one or more of these words, what ever you do, DO NOT attempt to use these in a conversation with the tween. These tweens are professionals. They will only see you as an uncool adult, or again, “a weird lady with curly hair eavesdropping on us”. If you are over 30, you most likely won’t know how to use these terms correctly no matter how many episodes of iCarly you’ve watched. Trust me, one of two things will happen if you attempt to make verbal contact at tween-speak pace before you are ready; 1) You’ll use the term incorrectly, or 2 ) You will sprain your tongue. Either way, you will fail miserably in the tween girls’ eyes.

Not that I would know or anything. Pft.

Reasons Why I Can't Post This Week

2009-04-22T09:57:00.000-06:00

Reason’s I’m not posting this week:

I have bronchitis.
I am busy investigating the authenticity of the whole Susan Boyle phenomenon.
I am shoe shopping. It does not require much lung capacity to click “add to shopping cart”.
I simply can’t put down “Wired for War: The Robotics Revolution and Conflict in the 21st Century”. (Honestly, awesome book.)
I’m busy debating whether Zac Efron needs a haircut.
I'll be convincing my husband Jeremy that while the jury is still out on Zac, you, my dear, DO need a haircut.
I’m investigating as to why attractive kayakers and horseback riders on the beach always wind up using Valtrex. (Seriously, have you seen those commercials?) Until then, I am not going near large bodies of water.
I’m finding something new to obsess about.
Reading way too much into a conversation with my boss.
I’ll be re-evaluating my summer wardrobe goals. Can you wear hot pants if you're over 35?

Please stop by next week when I throw up posts about my fear of flying, my view of what the young folks out there having racing through their minds and reasons why I want our copy repairman dead.

Why I Should Be Selected as Sego Lily Day Spa's Official Blogger

2009-04-16T05:00:00.001-06:00

Date: Thursday, April 16, 2009
To: Sego Lily Spa Blogger Selection Committee
From: Jennifer Glass (a.k.a. Steenky Bee)
Re: Utah Search for Sego Lily Blogger!

Dear Selection Committee:

I look forward to a long and indulgent (from my end) relationship with you if selected as the official blogger for Sego Lily Day Spa. This contest could not be more in my wheelhouse if it tried. Actually, throw in a few bean burritos then it's totally everything I'm about.

I read through your rules and requirements and I comply with every one of them. Physically able to receive regular spa treatments? Check! No Injuries? Double check! No pregnancy? Triple check! I’ve cut my husband off for far longer periods of time than your contract stipulates so we’re good there.

Now, if you will, please allow me to share a brief list of my rules and requirements, because, honestly, should you select me, you need to know what you’re up against. (Please, oh, please, pick me!)

1. I am not a terrific listener. Don’t worry, it will totally look as though I am hanging on your every word, but inside my nappy-haired head I will be too busy perusing your new line of spring nail lacquers or wondering how spacious your spa’s rest room is. (Refer to rule #3 for explanation on that last one.)

2. I am a total gossip. Usually this is not a redeeming quality whatsoever, but in this case, I think my weakness may actually serve Sego Lily perfectly. Just think of all the word-of-mouth advertising you’ll garner out of my inability to keep my trap shut about the soothing Rocky Mountain Stone Massage I received at your facilities.

3. I don’t know how to exactly categorize this disclosure, so let’s just call it my Pretty Woman Syndrome. When I’m at a spa, including Sego Lily, I spend copious amounts of time in the rest room wearing my fluffy spa robe and complimentary slippers. I’m talking tons of time. And it’s not all wasted. Read on.

Typically, I divide my time in your rest room into thirds. The first portion, a good 5-7 minutes, is spent rifling through the lotions, potions and yes, even the communal spray deodorant that you leave on the counter for clients. The next 3-4 minutes I will lip sync 80s hits to my reflection in the mirror. It’s a show that few have seen, but many have overheard. Once I finish my “set” I’ll use the remainder of my time pirouetting around the rest room until I tire from dizziness or sheer boredom.

Sego Lily Day Spa, I cannot stress this enough, if your rest room does not have the square footage for me to karaoke 80s hits and twirl, this may be a deal breaker for both of us.

4. I am fashionably late for all occasions (read: I have two children under the age of four). The exceptions of my tardiness are; 1) spa treatments, 2) hair appointments and, of course, 3) church. In that exact order.

5. It should be raining men. Always. I’ll bet Sego Lily Day Spa has their share of visits from the fairer sex, but what about the men in our great state? Surely even the fellas need regular upkeep and pampering that only the Gentlemen’s Facial could offer? As part of my undying interest in singing your praises, you have my word that I will drag my husband, male friends and co-workers into Sego Lily for regular man-treatments. I also have no issue dragging random strangers (male or female) from the street in for a Sego Lily Soothing Soak Bath Ritual if it helps to increase your revenue. I trust under your contract, Sego Lily will supply legal counsel for me should one of these strangers become litigious.

6. It is far better to receive than give. This is perhaps the most important rule of all. It’s simple, straightforward and oh, so true. I’d much rather receive a Sego Lily Essential Pedicure than give one. No doubt.

In closing, thank you in advance for considering me, Steenky Bee, a girl who couldn’t need a massage more, as your prospective blogger. If selected, I offer my solemn promise to give you one hundred and ten percent, eighty percent of the time.

Best,
Jennifer Glass (Steenky Bee)

Fine Print:
Sego Lily Day Spa should expect prompt posts full of typos, incorrect grammar and twists of snarky satire (at my expense only). I would never bite the hand that feeds, or in this case, the hand that offers a relaxing Swedish Massage. Sentence fragments and run-on sentences should be expected as well as over use of (parenthesis) and “incorrect” usage of quotation marks. I reserve the right to shoot dirty looks at Sego Lily’s clients sitting next to me who feel it necessary to yammer away on their cell phones in the Meditation Room.

Friends of Steenky Bee, here's the comments section at Sego Lily's web site where you leave your love for me. Here's the link to Sego Lily's website for contest details. Thanks for all your support!

Please, Help A Sister Out!

2009-04-15T13:26:00.002-06:00

Internet, please help me. I’ve not asked much of you in the past. There will those who say that I’ve asked for soap nuts, jars of pickles and a thumbs up statue, and those people would be correct. But you know what? None of those things have panned out for me so far so I’ve now cast them off as trivial and unimportant.

So internet, today I come to you and your readers and throw myself at your mercy to beg, pitifully, for one last thing. I want to snag a local gig as the official blogger for Sego Lily Day Spa, a fabulous local spa that I LOVE.

Tomorrow, Thursday, I’m posting my entry for the competition here on Steenky Bee. I would be forever in you’re your debt if tomorrow you would leave me lots of love notes here AND over at Sego Lily’s web site. (I'll put up the link.) I know it requires double clicking and actually visiting an extra site, but, trust me, it will definitely be worth it. For me.

Here’s the competition deets: The contest wraps up on April 25th. On that day the folks at Sego Lily review all the entries, take into account the comments and narrow the field down to the top five submissions. Those lucky five are treated to luxurious spa treatments and must blog about it. (I know! Right?) It sounds ridiculously tough, but I promise I'm not doing it for the fame or free full-body sugar rub. Well, maybe I'm doing it for the free sugar rub.

The top five bloggers are then judged once more and eventually a winner is crowned, but let's not worry about that just yet. My short-term goal is that full body sugar rub, remember?

Internet, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am about this possibility. I haven’t been this pumped about something since I discovered Cotton Candy flavored Pop Rocks on Monday. Seriously, I knocked a couple of rowdy middle school kids crowding the candy aisle at the convenience store to get the last of the packets. Don't worry, it was only a pack of Emo kids. I mean, what were they going to do to me? Track me down on their skateboards? I don't think so.

I hope (beg and plead) that I see you all back here tomorrow!

What Happens When You Meet Me

2009-04-14T06:17:00.003-06:00

Before we left for our Moab trip last week, one of my favorite bloggers, Green Jello (GJ) at May You Lead An Interesting Life and a local gal to boot, emailed me to say that she would also be vacationing in Moab at the same time. Holla! We traded phone numbers, departure times and lodging information. If the sun, moon and Jeep Safari trails all aligned, GJ and I would surely meet face to face.

Thursday afternoon GJ texts me to let me know she’s only 30 minutes outside of town. Me? Why, I’m at a small dive arcade with two small children, the eldest of which screaming “Fiery Fist of Pain!” because he spies a run down roller coaster outside. Rather than expose GJ to that, I offer to meet her in a drug store parking lot because I’m classy like that.

GJ kindly insists to meet up at the arcade since her children might find it mildly entertaining. I warn her with buzz words like “lame” and “salmonella poisoning” but do not go so far as to mention the dead cockroach in the women’s bathroom or the “Play at your own risk! NO REFUNDS!” signs hanging about. I also decide against telling her about the hi-hop dance tutorial DVD that the teens tending the arcade are pretending not to watch every time I re-enter the lobby. That spectacle will be a nice little surprise for her.

I’ve always pictured what it would be like to meet my very first blogger face to face. I imagined that I would spend hours obsessing on what I should wear. I would apply extra shine elixir to my hair and maybe even splurge on a festive mani-pedi for the occasion. I would breeze through the doors at the Starbucks where we have arranged to meet and the whoosh of the double doors would create a small breeze that would blow my hair back dramatically. Of course the sun would graze my face in such a way so that my Bare Minerals foundation would do its job and make my skin appear flawless. All of this, of course, happening simultaneously as music from a cool new band that no one’s even heard of yet is piped through the speakers.

How. It. Really. Went. Down.

I’m in the women’s bathroom arcade, the one with a lock on the outside of the door, not the inside with my two children. I’m bent over desperately trying to pry my four-year old and 18-month old off the floor and shouting things like, “Don’t touch!” and “Mama’s gonna lose it!” because both children are trying to touch a dead cockroach that has gone belly up, literally. This is the fourth trip to bathroom because both kids were fixated on the dead insect. (I always thought cockroaches were indestructible.) I know people outside the bathroom can hear me because I can hear them “working” and practicing their righteous dance grooves.

I say “working” because all those damn kids did while we were there was stare at their iPod Touches, practice hip-hop moves and suggest that I drag myself, and my two kids to the McDonald’s next door to retrieve coins because the arcade, that houses machines that run on quarters, had only 75 cents in their till.

I kick open the bathroom door and my purple flip flop goes sailing into the air. There is no breeze, no sunlight, just the sound of my four-year old yelling “I DON’T WASH MY HANDS! EVAAAAH!” echoing throughout the arcade.

I see a semi-familiar face standing in front of me and I loudly squeal, “Green Jello!” and limp on my one flip flop to bear hug her in the hopes that my raised voice and intrusion of her personal space will distract her from noticing my nappy hair with unkempt roots and stained track pants. Again, classy.

I’ll never know if my distraction worked because within the first two minutes of meeting GJ, her delightful husband and awesomely adorable daughter, I made sure to point out the dead insect, my overgrown roots and my face sans Bare Minerals OR any trace of lip gloss. Gah!

I’m sure the rest of our meeting was just a slice of heaven for GJ. I mean who wouldn’t just love standing around and watching my children go up and down a playground slide, bang their fists on an aluminum door and shout, “Look what I can do!” as they begin kicking their feet on the same aluminum door.

Although our meeting was brief, I’m sure I’ve made a life-long friend in GJ. Of this I am confident, even given the fact that just a few hours later I barraged her with a string of text messages where I did all of the following:

Accidentally called her an ass
Invited her to “my place”
Uninvited her to “my place” because that sounded sort of skeezy
Re-invited her to my place solely for the purpose of showing her my freshly washed AND conditioned hair going so far as to hint at the possibility that she could smell my fresh hair if she were so inclined
Bragged to her about my hair now being shiny and full of bounce
Apologized for being braggy about my shiny, bouncy hair

Our two-hour texting frenzy ended when I asked GJ and her family to come over and watch 27 Dresses on HBO in the dark because my husband and children had fallen asleep and would kill me dead, or at the very least, harshly mock me if I woke them. Wisely, she responded to my request with “No habla.”

Ima Guest Postin'

2009-04-13T08:40:00.001-06:00

Remember when I told you all that I'd be hangin' with Casey today? Well, I didn't mean it literally. I'm only guest posting at her place. She'd never agree to meeting me in person after all the dead rodents I've left on her driveway to replace the lawn statues I stole from her. Please pop over to Casey's as I post about the radio commercial that changed my life.

Also? Pop back over here tomorrow or Wednesday or sometime this week because I actually DID meet a blogging friend over the weekend. Let's just say, I didn't make a complete ass out of myself, I was only half-assed.

Another Also? Today I'm going to work on refraining from saying the phrase "pop over". I'm not sure where I picked that up. Sorry.

Hole N' The Rock

2009-04-08T09:42:00.001-06:00

Today Jeremy and I are throwing all caution to the wind and our kids into the car and heading for a spur-of-the-moment road trip to the beautiful and almost always sunny Moab, Utah.

We’ll be here.

And here.

Jealous? You should be.

Oh, it won’t be all red rocks and hiking trails 24-7. There will be at least eight hours where one four-year old boy will be tortured by his baby sister as she sticks her size-four feet in his face, or when she accidentally grazes his leg with her arm, or the mother of all abuses, when she looks at him for longer than 2.5 seconds. How dare she?

But get those two children at a road-side McDonald’s with chicken mcnuggets in their bellies and within eyesight of a Play Place and that same boy must shout to everyone enjoying their Big Mac, or McRib (for a limited time only) that the little girl sitting next to him is his baby sister, Reesafee. And she’s NOT yours. (For some reason, Henry always feels the need to clarify to strangers that Reese is only his and not theirs.)

As an aside, we've been working with Henry lately to not talk to strangers, you know for safety sake. Somehow, he's added his own precautions on to that list that include: Not talking to strangers, zombies, ghosts, vampires and Josh. I have no idea who Josh is, but judging by the company he keeps, it is indeed wise to not talk to him.

So, peace out for the rest of the week. I won’t be here Monday either. I’ve finally been invited to hang with my idol and the coolest chick on the block. My hands are so sweaty just thinking about it.

I Spent Four Glorious Hours With The 80s

2009-04-07T08:38:00.001-06:00

I intended my participation in Keely’s Random Tuesday Thoughts to be a little more random. I had a whole list worked up that included an argument as to why robots will kill us before zombies do, my feelings on Twilight and my growing hatred of Katy Perry. But Saturday something waaaaaay better came up.

What could be better than a post about killer robots and Katy Perry? Of course it would have to be a post about killer robots actually offing Katy Perry, so I guess my post would be the second best thing and it’s all about one-hit wonders from the 1980s.

Saturday night, Jeremy and I were sucked into four hours of non-productiveness after we accidentally stumbled across VH1’s countown of the Top 100 One-Hit Wonders of the 80s.
Say it with me, people. Awesome.

Normally, I would never condone such couch potato-like behavior, let alone have the time to spend an entire evening watching a network that only features “best ever” countdowns and reality-based programming that I’m pretty sure is set up for women who want jump start their adult film career. But I ask you, could you turn away from all that mess?

Yeah, neither could I.

I learned so much from watching VH1 this weekend. From “Tough Love” I picked up a few much needed love tips. From “For The Love of Ray-J” I discovered several things I never want to do with my life, including a photo shoot with fruit in a body-length leotard. I also reconnected with some much loved music of my youth including:

“Turning Japanese”, by The Vapors
“It Takes Two”, by Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock
“Come on Eileen”, by Dexy Midnight Runners
“Respect Yourself”, by Bruce Willis (yes, that Bruce Willis)

I must admit, my evening watching the countdown didn’t come entirely without controversy. When Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It” showed up on the countdown at #21, Jeremy immediately declared bullsh*t because “That song is freakin’ awesome and everybody knows it!”.
In turn, I was quite upset to see that Styx made the list for “Too Much Time on My Hands”. What? They had several other hits including what FADKOG refers to as the mother of all driveway songs, “Mr. Roboto”. (For those of you that aren’t awesome or FADKOG or don’t know what a driveway song is, let me break it down for you. It’s when you’re pulling into the driveway and the song you’re jamming to has just too much awesome in it for you to turn the ignition off and get on with your life.)

It seems VH1 thought better of sticking Styx on the list because I went back to check the list today and Styx is nowhere on it anymore.

Other high points of the four hours of my life that I’ll never get back, and frankly I don’t care because IT WAS THAT GOOD include:

Remember Thomas Dolby, the guy who gave us “Blinded by Science”? Turns out he invented the cell phone technology that makes it possible to download ring tones to cell phones. So, yeah, don’t feel too sorry for him. Every time you downloaded “Can’t Touch This” as your ring (don’t pretend you haven’t), the Blinded by Science dude made a cool buck off you.

VH1 bills Divo as the band that rose to the top of “nerd rock” in the 1980s. with “Whip It”. WTF? There’s a genre known as nerd rock? Exactly who are in these bands and where do I sign up?

Lastly, remember Men in Hats? “Safety Dance” anyone? More importantly, remember their trippy music video that featured midgets and renaissance wenches frolicking around in the English countryside? Now, I’m all for frolicking and I’m firmly in the pro-midget camp, but combine the two and you’ve got just plain oddness.

As an aside, you should know that when they revealed what the members of MIH are up to these days, they showed the lead singer, all 6’4” of him, residing in Canada, shaving his head and living his life as a stay at home dad. I immediately emailed SAHD Captain Dumbass to accuse him of being the former lead singer of MIH. He responded, in kind, and called me out as a giant dumbass since the front man for MIH apparently lives in Montreal, not Vancouver.

Still, I remain skeptical. The Captain’s email response was far too quick for him to have properly Googled the band. I stand by my first inclination that the Captain once mingled with midgets and women wearing corsets while lip-syncing about leaving his troubles behind. To him I say, dude, your troubles have just begun.

Time And Water Conservation Are Not On My Side

2009-04-03T05:00:00.003-06:00

This marks the fourth day I've posted this week. What the hell is going on around here? I'll tell you what's going on. My kids haven't been fed or bathed in days. I haven't seen my husband since Wednesday. His closet is cleaned out, but I assume he's probably just on a camping trip or something. I don't know, I still need to check the note he affixed to our bedroom door with a steak knife. I ripped my eyes away from my laptop to glance at it briefly and noticed he wrote, "IT'S ME OR THE BLOG!" I'm so flattered he still reads me.

Today, I'm participating in the Spin Cycle hosted by The Divine Sprite’s Keeper, Jen Cohen. I must be completely honest with you all though, it's a recycled post. I posted this last fall when Jen wanted us to write about wishes. I think it would work for this week's topic about time just as well.

------
I wish it didn’t take up so much of my time get ready in the morning. When I run time trials on my routine it comes to just shy of two hours. That is huge, people. No one should spend that much time getting ready unless they’re heading to prom or to their own wedding. Oh, if only my morning hassle ended with an updo and a flower corsage!

Believe me, I’ve tried to cut my morning routine down for as long as I can remember. I just can’t do it. If there was a twelve-steps group out there for people like me I would totally join. But only with the condition that I could just sort of roll out of bed and show up in sweat pants. If I have to shower and go through the whole rigmarole of getting ready, I may never make that meeting on time.

It’s not like when I finish this two hour routine I look stunning either. You’d think I’d be perfectly coiffed, pressed and ready to go. No, most of the time I just look like this.

And that’s on a good day. I joke with Jeremy that pretty doesn’t happen overnight. He usually adds that pretty can’t seem to happen in under an hour either.

I have a long-held, yet untested belief that the route of my problem lies in the shower. If I enter the shower at 6:00 am, the soonest I am leaving that place is 35 minutes or later. And that’s on a good day. If I have to shave or deep condition, then you can just forget about it.

I swear to you I am not a dawdler in the shower either. I’m moving and working the entire time. I’m washing, exfoliating, lathering, rinsing and repeating. I’m all focus, baby.

One time I asked Jeremy to give me a few pointers with my shower routine. That little adventure didn’t go so well. It ended with the two of us standing in a dry shower together with me fully clothed and Jeremy continually asking, “So when is the magic going to happen?“ What part of DRY RUN did he not understand? Needless to say, for about three minutes, there was a lot of awkward eye contact between the two of us.

Again, I ask you, is there a special class where I can enroll? I’d even be willing to take an internet course. I thought about Googling ‘faster showers for women’ but Jeremy strongly advised me against it. He said I would definitely not find what I was looking for. I’m just going to have to take him at his word.

A Guest Post That Mentions Me In A Leotard And The Osmonds

2009-04-02T08:48:00.000-06:00

I'm off a guest postin' again this week. Twice in the same week? I wouldn't say I'm a guest post whore or anything. I like to thinkg of myself as a blogger that prefers to play the field a bit.

I'm guesting over at The Dayton Time whilst Pamela tends to her new little arrival, Elliott, who by the way, is one of the most precious little babies I've ever seen. For reals.

In full disclosure, I must confess that Pamela never asked me to guest post. No joke. I cornered her way back in the fall and just told her I would be guest posting for her when her wee-one arrived. You know why I did this? Because I love her, that's why. She is such a cool chick. She's always given me support, witty comments and her friendship. What she's never given me, however, are soap nuts, pickles or loaves of bread. (She knows what's up.)

Please visit me over at Pamela's if you're so inclined. Be sure to check out her husband too over here. He's all kinds of awesome. I'm hoping we're still friends after I expose his "game" in my guest post at The Dayton Time.

Testosterone in the House!!! (With a Shot of Estrogen)

2009-03-31T08:54:00.001-06:00

What am I doing posting two days in a row? Surely I’ve confused all you by posting twice in the same month, but stick with me, folks, I’ve got something to say. Well, actually, my husband has something to say. You see, today, I’m participating in Tattooed Minivan Mom’s bring your husband to your blog day. It's a day set aside every so often where we let our spouses run rampant all over our sites as they post every kernel of wit and wisdom they have in the hopes that it classes up our joint a bit.

I had Jeremy all primed and ready to lay his best stuff on me (writing-wise, of course) when he suddenly remembered he had a huge deadline at work to tend to. Apparently he has a huge bid set going out this afternoon for an architecty project he’s working on. He had to pull an all-nighter and didn’t come home until 3:00 am.

As an aside, to all my architecty friends out there, this includes you, Carolyn Online and Irish Gumbo, is it odd that when Jeremy returned from his all-nighter that he had glitter all over his person and he smelled of cigarette smoke? Is that normal?

Jeremy insists that architects are now using a new glitter-based ink on their drawings to make them “snazzier” for clients. He has no explanation for the stale smoke smell or the receipt I found in his pants to somewhere called Southern Exposure. You guys don’t think I should be nervous do you?

So instead of Jeremy penning his own post, I did what any dutiful wife would do whilst her husband is out bringing home the bacon, I wrote one for him. I took the liberty of guessing what topics he would want to share with all of you.

Here goes…

1. His Gun Lust: Jeremy desperately wants a Gun Werks Custom 7mm. If you have enough money to buy one of these suckers at a cool $5995 (plus shipping & handling) it will be sighted in at 1000 yards out of the box. I’m sure most of the men out there are drooling at this news, but ladies, are you with me when I say, who needs a gun sighted in at such a distance? And what’s with the shipping and handling charges? I mean, come on, you’re already shelling out six grand for a gun, why do you need to pay extra for shipping and handling? I told Jeremy I would be all for it if it weren’t for the extra charges. I then suggested he should look for something a little more practical or in our price range, you know, like a Nerf Super Soaker for $29.95. No shipping and handling.

Ooooh. So close, honey.

2. His Sports Obsession: The other day Jeremy and I are watching Sports Center. (That’s right fellas, Steenky loves her some Sports Center.) We were cuddled up watching a story about Terrell Owens being dumped by the Cowboys for being too difficult and too expensive to handle. (Sorry for your precious Cowboys, Stiletto Mom) It turns out T.O. was quickly nabbed by the Buffalo Bills for $6.5 million on a short-term contract.

Jeremy to me: Man, I wish I were 6’4”-240 lbs, ran a 4.0 split and were a giant pain in the ass.

Me to Jeremy: Well, one out of three isn’t so bad.

Me to myself: Boo-ya!

3. His Smokin’ Hot Wife: Okay, so if Jeremy were posting here at Steenky Bee today I’m sure he would tell you that every day he wakes up he feels like he’s just won the lottery because he sees me lying next to him. Yep, folks, it just doesn’t get better than my nappy, untamed bed head and mascara streaked face staring at him at 5:00 in the morning. Sometimes I’ve rolled over and nearly pushed him out of bed because I’m using his warmth (not to mention his pillow and his share of the blankets) to keep me comfy. Most days I’ve got my glistening face pressed up against his, my funky morning breath gently grazing (assaulting) him. You can imagine how difficult it is for him to rip himself away from me and my hotness to work that all-nighter, huh?

*This just in: Jeremy just told me that Southern Exposure is the name of the local printing company our firm uses for large-scale projects such as his. He then said that we should stop talking about it and never bring it up again. Ever. Especially to any of our co-workers. Phew! I knew I had no reason to worry. ☺
**I feel compelled to disclose that Jeremy has never actually been inside one of those Southern Exposure establishments.
***I wish the same could be said for me. But that story is for another day, and another post all together.

I'm A Sucker For A Guest Post

2009-03-30T08:37:00.004-06:00

Hi-dee-ho! I'm not here today. I'm here.

No, you know what? That was the lamest intro ever. I think I need a do-over.

Here goes...

I'm here today, at Petra The Wise Young Mommy's place. She's beautiful. She's irreverent. She's slightly naughty. But above all, she's very delusional because she let me take over her blog, for the day. She has no idea what a horrible house guest I can be. I make messes and leave carpet stains that can't be cleaned up. Come on over to see me completely butcher her much beloved He Blogs She Blogs post for the week...or should I say "for the weak?".

Okay, that intro was still pretty lame. Sorry.

Fattie Update: A Time of Reflection

2009-03-16T10:52:00.002-06:00

First off, I want to thank everyone for their kind emails last week and throughout the weekend regarding my last post. I was to assure you that I'm doing well and that situation really did spark a pivotal change things in my life for the better. I even have a few amusing stories that came from that experience that I'll have to share with you all some time. Thanks again, everyone. Your words were so kind and meant so much to me.

Now, on to other things.

So, I might not have a HASAY update every week, but you should know that I’m definitely doing the work. I’m huffin’, I’m puffin’ as I’m running…toward the box of brownies in the pantry.

Not really. I’ve actually been pretty good about things as of late. But I thought it important to revisit my fitness goals to make sure I was still on track for my fitness miracle by summer. I went back and re-read this post here where I initially laid out my fitness plan for the HASAY Challenge. I found a few things quite odd. First, in that post, I talked about skanks an awful lot. I also copped to stalking the HASAY founder, and my dear friend Casey with a dead rat. Wow, I used to be really creepy. I’m much better now. I’d never use a rat (dead or alive) as means to get closer to someone. As my mom always says, you can attract more flies with honey not dead rodents. Wait. That doesn't sound right now does it? If anything, it would sixes right? I might give that one a try.

Anyway, please bear with me while I reminisce over my HASAY fitness goals:

Motivation:
Then: Motivated by food, pretty things, shiny things or when people call me names.
Now: Same with the exception of a few things. I now much prefer sparkly things as opposed to shiny things.

Long-term Goal:
Then: To get fit enough to get whistled at when I walk by our local construction site.
Now: The construction on the fire station near our house has already wrapped up. I guess my motivation now would be to have the firemen that hang about the fire station whistle at me.

Long-term Weight Loss Goals:
Then: I refused to state how many pounds or inches I wanted to lose because I was concerned about alienating bloggy friends that follow the “soft metric” system. I then went on to say how I thought that Hard Metric would be an awesome band name.
Now: I still think Hard Metric would be an awesome band name.

Tools Available To Me:
Then: A dusty treadmill, an even dustier elliptical trainer, and a weight machine in the garage. For some reason, I also thought I had dead cats that I could swing about the house. Maybe I was thinking that would give me shoulder definition? Who knows?
Now: My treadmill has been used….some. I think we still have the elliptical trainer. And I’m happy to report that progress has been made on the weight machine in the garage. A month ago Jeremy disassembled it to make room to store an armoire in the garage.

How Often Can I Exercise:
Then: I claimed I would exercise five times a week, but admitted that I would most likely only work out three times a week.
Now: I’m happy to say that I exercise six times a week! But you should know, that I actually only get around to it four times a week. I’ve been jogging our outside trail (picking up stray cats as nap companions) and doing Pilates in our basement. Wait, Pilates is when you fall asleep on the couch in an uncomfortable position and wake up two hours later really, really sore right?

What Do I Plan On Doing:
Then: I vowed to stop eating BLT sandwiches every day. I also thought it would be a good idea to bring a lunch to work in the hopes that a co-worker would steal it from the fridge, thus forcing me to not eat any calories at all.
Now: No more BLTs and I’m happy to report that my lunch has indeed been stolen at work twice. I wound up eating a bunch of junk food those two days, but no one can say that I didn’t reach my goal of lunch theft.

I’ve made it a habit of eating more whole foods, not snacking and have almost cut back entirely of sugary snacks. I also now write my boss's initials on my lunches at work when storing them in the company fridge. Nobody's going to steal his left overs.

What Has Worked For Me In The Past?
Then: I thought if I constantly cruised by high school football practices like I did fifteen years ago that maybe I’d lose weight and get down to the size I was in high school. I also thought about contracting pneumonia I could drop some weight as well.
Now: Well, as good as an idea as it sounded at the time, I’ve decided to not stalk high school boys. Besides, I’ve now got a fire station just one block away, remember? Our family came down with the stomach flu a while ago. I didn't lsoe any weight but I did end up with someone else’s vomit in my hair.

Conclusion:
Well, it looks like I’m still on track for a mediocre change in my body and overall general health. Let this be a lesson for all the kids out there: If you only aim for the middle, and you fall short of your goal, failing won’t hurt nearly as bad. Hey, I’m going to make that into a T-shirt. I’ll wear it when I’m working out. That way, my out of shape body will need no explanation. Awesome.

Survivor

2009-03-13T10:05:00.005-06:00

This post is in connection with the lovely Jen Cohen's Spin Cycle over at Sprite's Keeper. Warning: This post is sort of heavy and not the typical sort you normally find here. :)

A few days ago I contacted my dear bloggy friend and asked her to be my life coach for a little while. Without hesitation, she gladly accepted and sent me the most focused, uplifting and wonderful email ever. She challenged me to rethink my approach to this here blog and I’m taking every word she wrote to heart. I’m even thinking about laminating her email and sleeping with it under my pillow every single night.

She’s that good, people.

One of the points that she made, ever so eloquently, was that I should think of Steenky Bee as sort of a love letter to my children so they can have a window into their mommy’s life with them as they were growing up. I guess on some level I’d already been doing that, but to actually see that thought in writing was eye opening to me.

So folks, I’m here again today (who knew I still had it in me to post twice in one week, eh?) to officially kick off my love letter to my children. Only, this post is specifically for my lovely daughter, Reese. It’s also probably one of the most personal stories that will ever appear on Steenky Bee. I am dreading the point where I have to actually push “publish” on this one.

((Deep breath))

Reese, I want you to read about the day my life started.

I was born in the seventies, but my life, the one I know now, didn’t actually get its start until April 12, 1997. This is the day I took charge of myself, turned my back on something bad and never, ever looked back.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful childhood, a blast in high school and probably too much fun in college. But on April 12, over ten years ago, I ended a horrible and abusive relationship with my first husband. It was that day that I had finally had enough.

I don’t often talk about him. I don’t even mention him by name. It’s like it humanizes him. It gives him something. Something he doesn’t deserve. I don’t hate him. I don’t NOT hate him. I don’t feel anything for him with the exception of gratitude that I survived him. He changed me in ways that I needed. He made me realize that life is sometimes messy, cruel and bruised where no one else can see because surely you can cover that up with makeup and long sleeved shirts. You can do that, right? That mark on your neck? Get rid of it before anyone sees you.

Reese, if I saw him today, I would walk directly up to him, and extend him my hand. “Thank you,” is all he would hear. What he wouldn’t hear would be how much better of a person I am for having known him, for surviving him. He made it possible for me to be stronger. He made it possible for me to know what I DON’T want in life.

He gave me scars, some that may never heal and some that already have. But most importantly, he armed me with the knowledge that when someone shows you who they are for the first time, you should believe them.

Reese, if you take anything away from this post today, please let it me that you are beautiful, smart and strong. It is my hope that you never have to face anything like this in the life you have yet to lead on your own. Never let yourself think for one minute that love should hurt.

Reesie-girl, I hope you know that as you grow older, you can always talk to me about anything. I will always listen with open ears, and open mind, but more importantly, an open heart. Don’t be like me. Don’t be ashamed, embarrassed, scared. Scared that people will find out that the hometown hero that everyone holds in such high esteem is actually a troubled, dark soul deep down.

Hold on to your lifelines, Reesie, whatever or whoever they are. Hopefully, one of them will always be me.

Folks, I’m keeping comments closed today. This post was for Reesie. I hope she reads it one day and is proud of her mother. I hope she understands I wasn’t always strong, I certainly wasn’t always smart about every choice, but in the end, I survived.

I've Been Lazy. My Husband's Been Pantless.

2009-03-11T14:54:00.002-06:00

Aw, hell. I’ve gone missing again haven’t I? What’s my deal? I don’t know. I wish I could say that I’ve been traveling and keeping myself busy, but the truth of the matter is the furthest I’ve traveled is my 35-mile commute to and from work. Up hill, both ways.

Busy? Pfft. As if.

I mean, work has been crazy, don’t get me wrong. I’ve been so happy to see that our marketing department is thriving and busy during the downturn in the economy. Recessions are not kind to architects, people. They are even less kind for the support staff responsible for finding the work for architects. Everyone is nervous. Everyone is excited. Everyone is wondering why I haven’t washed my hair in three days. (Including my husband.)

But other than work, have I been busy? Nope. I have sat my a** down on the sofa almost every night and tried to teach my four year old, Henry, the art of a soothing foot rub. So far he’s not getting it at all. Not even close. My advice to you people is not expect perfection from a four-year old when you’re trying to explain to him how to “apply firm, but gentle pressure to mommy’s arches”. Even Reese, his 18-month old sister is grasping the fundamentals of a foot rub better than him. She bends down, smells our feet and then exclaims, “Pew!” as she toddles off. This will go on for a good hour. Reese also has no issue of pretending to smell the feet of complete strangers and proclaiming them stinky. I found one out the hard way at Noodles & Company, ya’ll.

For now, my tired feet and I have settled for Henry just running his little monster trucks up and down on the bottoms of my feet for about 30 seconds until he loses focus and decides he’d rather organize the shoes in his closet. I kid you not. The kid has more shoes than I do and he insists on lining them up next to each other in random formations. It’s not unusual to walk into his room and see his shoes situated in to form the letter “H” in the middle of the floor in his room. Last week, he asked me if I would go buy him some Iron Man shoes and some more Spiderman shoes so he could finish spelling out his name with all of them. So far, when he combines all his shoes together, he can get H-E-N-R before he runs out to complete the "Y". Yes, my child has THAT many shoes. At least he’s using them to learn something. He’s sort of a modern day Charlotte’s Web, wouldn’t you say?

I now feel the need to run right out and pick up a few cheap pairs of sandals for him. I fear that if I don’t, the next thing I’ll find on his floor a giant “F” and “U” out of his little size 7 Sketchers.

Jeremy blew out his pants last week. This has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I just had to hurry and write it down before I forgot to tell you all. Those sad looking khakis ripped a good seven inches right down the middle of the seat of his pants while he was engaged in floor play with me and the kids. (Eww, if you read that too fast, it sounds like “foreplay” doesn’t it? Maybe that’s what he had in mind? Rip-away pants anyone?) Lucky for him, he was in the comfort of his own home when the wardrobe failure happened. Not so lucky for the rest of us, he wasn’t wearing any underwear at the time.

Well, until next time, (which could very well be tomorrow, or next month according to my erratic posting schedule) peace out, people. May you live long and prosper, and may your pants never, ever self destruct in front of small, inquisitive children or a spouse with a blog.

Am I Random Or Just Wearing A Sweater Vest?

2009-02-17T12:08:00.001-07:00

So everyone, I mean everyone is participating in Random Tuesday Thoughts sponsored by Keely over at The Un-Mom. I thought I’d give it a try this week and I have to say, it’s so cathartic. I very much loved clearing out all the junk rattling around in head. I need to do the same thing with all the junk in my trunk.

No, not that kind of junk
Okay, just a small clarification before we get rolling here. The “junk in my trunk” I mentioned above in no way refers to my backside, m’kay? I honestly do have a bunch of junk in my car trunk including a stroller, an empty Macy’s bag, at least three clean diapers and maybe one dirty diaper. Please don't judge me.

Reason #264 that I love my husband
A few weeks ago I was leaving a comment on Tattooed Minivan Mom’s site and I needed the correct spelling for a particular word.
“Honey?” I shouted down stairs, “How do you spell ‘douche’?”
Without skipping a beat he hollered, “D-O-U-C-H-E.”
He never asked me why. True love. Forever.

Reason # 5 that I now love the dollar store
I’ve never really spent much time at dollar stores until one moved into a shopping center near our home. As of late, I stop by at least once a week to pick up dish soap, cleaning supplies and cookies for the kids’ lunches. Last week, I took Henry and Reese along with me so that they could each pick out a toy as a reward for their good behavior. (Henry picked out a ninja sword and Reese snagged a flute, in case you’re wondering.)

Anyway, as I made my way to the register, a pile of pink boxes along one of the aisles caught my eye. I recognized them as my tampon of choice. I honestly let out a little gasp of joy when I saw them stacked on the shelf. I ran over, examined all the boxes carefully to make sure that I was, in fact, purchasing Tampax brand tampons and not some knock-off brand like “Timpax”.

I threw as many boxes as I could manage into my basket, then urged my four-year old son to carry several boxes in his little arms and follow me up to the front register. He dropped most of them along the way and ended up kicking them with along the floor for me.

Sure, I got strange glances from my fellow shoppers as I held a baby in one arm, and urged my son to “Kick harder! Get those boxes up there!” But then again, I am now the proud owner of 17 boxes of Tampax at the cool price of a buck a box. Score.

I’m irregular
I really need to get myself organized and start posting regularly again. I’d like to set a schedule to log on and read everyone again. My internet usage is pathetic these days. I sneak on here and there, but my blog-stalking time has taken a severe blow.

Should I copy write this?
Severe Blow would be a great name for an album name, don’t you think?

Maybe I should just submit it instead?
.....orrrr, maybe an entry to urbandictionary.com? Take your pick.

I’m too sexy for this sweater vest
No one has told me to “party-hearty” ever. I thought about this for a while this morning while I was getting ready for work. I’ve decided I’m totally fine with this. People either take one look at me and 1) immediately know that I won’t be the life of the party, or 2) they figure that I’m plenty capable of partying and need no urging to get my party on. The high-collared shirt and sweater vest ensemble I’m wearing right now leads me to believe it might be the first one.

Love Lessons: We Think We Are So Much Smarter Than We Actually Are

2009-02-11T09:36:00.001-07:00

The other day Jeremy and I were having our annual in-office romantic lunch. I had the Beef-n-Cheddar, while he opted for the more traditional Regular Roast Beef. Why was it romantic, you ask? Because there were curly fries, that’s why.

After looking longingly into each other’s eyes while we playfully wiped Arby’s sauce off of each other’s chin, we decided to surf the web together at my desk for a few minutes. A headline on the Yahoo! home page immediately caught my attention. It read: 10 Must-Avoid Spots on Valentine's Day. Or so we thought. In reality, it actually read: 10 Must-Avoid Spots for SINGLES on Valentine's Day. Very different.

Before realizing our mistake, Jeremy immediately shouted out “Strip club! You shouldn’t go to a strip club!”

Maybe he shouted it out a little too loud, because moments later several of our co-workers, all male btw, were huddled around my desk wondering what was going on. Jeremy assured them that there was no strip club emergency at this time and he was sorry to send out a false alarm.

This worried me. Is there some sort of guy-code in our office about strip clubs? If one of the men shouts out "Strip club!", does that mean that a trip to one of these establishments is imminent? Or does it mean that when a man blurts out those two words that he has a strip club story to tell? And really, couldn’t they have thought of a signal that is a little more subtle? I mean, when us women in the office have a good tale to tell, you don’t here us shouting “Three-way with members of the University of Utah's men’s swimming team!” Well, not anymore. That woman quit a few years back. I’m just sayin’.

Back to the list. As Jeremy and I read down the list that we thought was of the 10 places that you should not go on Valentine’s Day, we were perplexed as to why bed and breakfast joints, candlelit restaurants, cozy ski lodges and gourmet chocolate shops would make the top ten.

Eventually, as we usually do, Jeremy and I figured out our misread of the headline. We then spent the next ten or so minutes trying to convince the other one that we knew all along that the list was geared toward single people and that we were just going along with the joke for the other’s benefit. (Folks, you should know that we do this a lot. It’s our foundation for a strong marriage. In our relationship, love means never having to say your sorry…just so long as you can convince the other person that you were being wrong on purpose.)

Jeremy and I then thought it might be helpful to produce our own list of sorts. The 10 Must-Avoid Spots for Married Men on Valentine’s Day. You’re welcome.

1. Sizzler (Avoid the all you can eat and unflattering lighting trap.)
2. Strip clubs (Liberal use of glitter, and again, unflattering lighting.)
3. Your secretary’s house (Needs no explanation.)
4. Your mom’s house (Why would you?)
5. Free clinic (Again, why?)
6. Emergency room (Neither to just “hang out” as a place to meet women nor as the result of injury sustained when your wife catches you at secretary’s house. See # 3.)
7. Greeting card section of any retail store. (Because you shouldn’t have waiting so long to pick out a card for your wife, that’s why. I always make it a habit to run to Target or Wal-Mart on Valentine’s Day so I can give dirty looks to all the men scavenging the already picked over Valentine’s Day card section. How could you wait so long? I do this on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day as well.)
8.Tattoo parlor (Love doesn’t always last forever, but ink does. The wise man would opt for the less permanent piercing.)
9. Sizzler (I guess I just can't stress this one enough.)
10. Jail* (No explanation necessary.)

*As with virtually everything that is written here at Steenky Bee, not all advice should be taken to heart. These are only guidelines, mere suggestions. My roommate in college had a brother, a perfectly nice guy, who met his future third wife, a booking officer, as he served a 24-hour stint in County Jail on Valentine’s Day. (I said he was nice, I never said he was a lawfully abiding citizen.) They were happily married for well over a year. This guy then went on to meet his fourth wife at a family dinner. She was the cashier at Sizzler. True story.

This post brought to you as part of Sprite's Keeper's Spin Cycle. This week's topic: L-O-V-E.

Best Songs, Like Ever

2009-01-29T20:15:00.001-07:00

I don't think there's one song out there that is my absolute favorite tune of all time. Instead, there are so many songs that remind me of good times and bad. More importantly, for me, I identify music with very specific situations that may arise in my life. I've compiled a short list for your reveiw:

Best attempted slam in a song ever
"Laura" by The Scissor Sisters
This song must be the motto for every beauty school student out there. I can never get enough of the final few lines of the song when what may be the cruelest comeback in stylist history is uttered: “This will be the last time I ever do your hair.” Let this tune be a lesson for us all. Never tick off your hair dresser.

Best song for versatile use in almost any movie montage
"You Make My Dreams Come True" by Hall & Oats
I mean, come on, who doesn’t think this song totally rawks in an ironic sort of way? The duo of Hall & Oates practically owned the music charts in the 80s. But if you count Oats’ mustache as a third band member, which I do, they’re actually considered a trio. These men, and all their hair, mullet, ‘stache and otherwise, still hold a soft spot in my heart.

Best song that serves as a reminder that you can never have enough fiber in your diet
"Slave To Love" by Bryan Ferry
If you’ve never seen 9 ½ Weeks starring Kim Bassinger and a young Mickey Rourke (yummers, see below), then this reference is lost on you. But then again, so would the beauty of a fully stocked fridge of fresh foods. Rent it. Watch it. Mourn loss of Mickey's before-face.

Best song that explains how Jeremy used to pick up women
"Short Skirt, Long Jacket" by Cake

I believe the line in the song is, “At Citibank we will meet accidentally, we’ll start to talk when she borrows my pen.” For all the women in the Northern Utah region between 1995-1998, you should know that if a handsome stranger approached you in a bank and asked to borrow your pen, this was most likely my husband using his famous ‘missing pen at a bank‘ technique to meet women. His next move was to take the pen-having ladies to a sensible dinner at Tony Romas followed by a few hours of Crash Bandicoot on the PlayStation at his apartment.

Lucky for me, by the time we met, Jeremy had advanced to more a sophisticated means to pick up the ladies. By 1999, his game was staging paper jams on copiers at work, dinner at the Olive Garden, followed up by watching South Park reruns at his apartment.

Best song that was on the very first album I bought with my own allowance money
"Too Much Time on My Hands" by Styx
I love Styx, seriously I do. But not all that Dennis DeYoung crap like "Lady" or "Mr. Roboto". Those monstrosities just go on and on forever. No, "Too Much Time On My Hands", sung by Tommy Shaw, not only has the funkiest start up of a rock song, but it also has thee best clap-along chorus ever written. “Is it any wonder I’ve got too-ooh much time on my hands?”

Best song that I claim to dislike, but in reality, it’s on every play list I create
"Mr. Roboto" by Styx

Okay, seriously, how could you NOT love this song? It’s the tune that you randomly hear when you‘re, say, mingling with friends at a party. You hear the first few bars and your heart instantly skips a beat because you freakin’ LOVE THIS SONG. Your posture straightens up and you have to concentrate really, really hard not to mouth the words along to the music because you’re afraid everyone around you will notice that you know all the lyrics to this strange, overly dramatic song by heart. No? Just me then?

Best song to roller skate to in my parent’s unfinished basement (circa 1983)
"I Just Want to be Your Everything" by Andy Gibb

Oh, Andy, how could you leave us so soon? In my humble opinion, this 70’s hit is nothing short of a disco master piece. I request it at every wedding I attend. Coincidentally, I also get strange looks from DJs at every wedding I attend. If you were my friend in the early 80‘s, chances are you and I strapped on our quad skates to glide around in my parents basement and listened to Andy sing to us from my parent’s 8-track player. Chances are also pretty good, that you and argued over who was better looking, Andy or his older brother Barry.

This list of best songs ever brought to you through my participation in the Spin Cycle brought to you by the ever lovely, Sprite's Keeper. Check her out!

Fattie Update: Involves Cats, Lack of Judgement and Donkey Parts

2009-01-26T08:55:00.001-07:00

HASAY. So we meet again. It’s time for another fitness update. This one’s not a stretch, I promise. I actually exercised almost every part of my body this week with the exception of my better judgment area.

A little over a week ago, my husband offered to give me a Sunday to myself sans kids. I jumped at the chance thinking about all the projects I could finish up around the house without being interrupted every ten minutes to replenish chocolate milk or reset the DVR so that a new Spongebob Squarepants would play. And those are only my husband’s requests, I haven’t even mentioned my kids’ needs yet.

As my Jeremy pulled out of the driveway with both Henry and Reese in tow, I waved and shouted “Goodbye! I love you!”, but in my head I was thinking, “See ya later, suckas! I’m taking a nap!”

I immediately ran up the stairs, peeled off my go-to-town sweats and threw on my screw-the-world-I’m-laying-around-in-these-holey-sweats sweats. I then proceeded to have myself a cat nap. Not “cat nap” in the traditional sense where I nod off for twenty minutes and wake up feeling energized refreshed. No, I took myself a two hour doozy of a nap surrounded by my two cats. Meesha slept at my knees as usual and Taz took his regular position curled up on my head. That nap will go down as one of my top three naps ever, just behind the accidental nap Henry and I took last spring and a six hour nap I took my Sophomore year in college.

Anyway, I’m counting this most recent nap as a workout because when I woke up I was a tad bit sweaty and I was still tired. Feels like a work out to me. Since then, I’ve been trying to re-create the magic of that relaxing Sunday afternoon. I’ll call both cats into the bedroom and pat the bed and try to coax them into a nap with me. So far, neither of them are game. How is it that I can’t get these lazy cats to lie down with me again? Am I that horrible of a nap partner?

One time I even resorted to bringing cat treats into the bed to entice them, but they were having none of that. Taz sauntered into the bedroom, took one look at my ratty sweats and even rattier hair then turned around and made a run for it the other way. Actually, that’s not entirely true. He licked himself before he ran away from me.

The lack of cat cuddling eventually put me in a bit of a depression so I did what I typically do when I’m feeling low, I went for a walk to sort out my thoughts. I headed over to the nature trail system, a fifteen mile winding path for biking, jogging, rollerblading and spray paint tagging near our home. The cool air and liberal use of “sucks donkey ballz” written on the winding path was doing wonders for my funk and by mile two, I felt almost completely better about the cat situation. I was however becoming a little worried about the spray painter’s in depth knowledge of the anatomy of local donkeys.

Then suddenly, an unfamiliar ball of orange and white darted out of a bush along the trail. The quick motion caught me off guard and I stopped my pace to get a better look at the object scurrying in front of me. It was a cat. It looked well kept, so I knew that it wasn’t a stray, but probably just a house cat out for a stroll. I called out to it “Hey, kitty, kitty.” and was on my way.
Over the next few days, I continued my speed walks on the trail, and spied my new little orange and white friend along the way. Some days, he even had another cat or two with him. It was on day four when a stroke of genius hit me. If Taz and Meesha wouldn’t nap with me, maybe I’d recruit outside cats for the snuggle time.

I ran home, grabbed all of Henry’s art supplies and quickly whipped up what I thought was a genius marketing campaign to invite the local stray cats to spend some quality down time with me.

I nailed these up all along the nature trail that evening and anxiously counted down the days until the weekend arrived.

To my knowledge, to date, I’ve received no takers on my very generous offer. I did however receive a visit from the local code enforcement offer, who just so happens to be my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Hollingsworth. He forced me to sit through an uncomfortable half hour lecture on why it’s not safe, or sanitary to invite stray cats to sleep in your bed. He informed me it’s also illegal to use public property as a venue for advertising without a permit.

I was all, “Then you’d better talk to whoever’s been spending quality time with the local donkeys in town, Mr. H.!”

That outburst earned me a dirty look and five demerits from my former teacher. As he left our home, Mr. Hollingsworth turned to me and said that he didn’t know what upset him the most, that fact that I had no common sense or the fact that he’s responsible for not teaching me to spell “common” or “sense” properly.

Not sure what HASAY is? You should! Click here to find out more about the challenge.
My previous HASAY updates can all be found here.

I Cleaned House Then I Had an Idea That Seemed Much Better in My Head

2009-01-22T09:15:00.002-07:00

I totally had another post ready to put up today, but then I spent a good deal of my early morning cleaning out my inbox and I thought, “Hey this would make great blog fodder!” (I’m telling you, I’ve been MIA for so long, I actually thought this was one of my greatest ideas ever.)

People, if you learn one thing from Steenkybee, let it be to never step away from your blog for too long. If you do, you'll stop thinking like a blogger. If you learn two things from Steenkybee, it’s that it’s never a good idea to talk, or write, in the third person. People hate that crap.

So anyway, back to my inbox. I had 4528 emails in my inbox. All of them had been read with the exception of two from the Irish National Bank, one from my accountant and four from Barnes & Noble. Yes, I neglected the important tax information tip from my accountant and decided to read IMPORTANT BUSINES DEALINGS CONFEDENTAL from Mr. Asa Redlnikerneter. (And, yes, is would seem that Mr. Redlnikemeter does not know how to spell ‘business’ or ‘confidential’ but I thought I would hear him out anyway.)

Now, over 4000 emails may seem like a lot, but don’t be fooled. I’ve had my yahoo account for years and have never tidied it up once. But today I created folders and folders within folders to classify and file almost all of my correspondence. As I was cleaning house in my email account, I came across all the correspondence that I’ve had with one blogger for almost a year.

That person? Captain Dumbass. I’m going to take the high road and not divulge how many emails I had from him because the sheer number is borderline embarrassing. I will, however, feel free to share with you some of the subject lines of the emails.

Twenty-one of those emails had JENNY POSTED! in the subject line. For months the Captain would alert me whenever The Bloggess posted. If I cracked the top 25 comments on her site, I only had him to thank with the exception of one time in the produce section of our grocery store when my iPhone crashed while I was posting a comment to Jenny’s site. I screamed “I HATE YOU!” at it, but my husband thought I was talking about the oranges. We then proceeded to have a very involved conversation on how nobody should have hard feelings toward any fruit, let alone oranges. I have never let my husband forget that that “fruit talk” cost me a top ten spot in Jenny's comment section. I wound up somewhere in the thirties. The Bloggess is powerful.

The moral of that last paragraph? I’ll never let fruit, or Steve Jobs come between me and reaching my commenting goals. Never.

Okay, back to the subject lines from the Captain:
6 emails had OMG! In the subject line.
2 emails had YOUR MOM in the subject line. (I didn’t go back and read them, but I assume he was talking smack about my mom which is unfortunate because my mom is an occasional reader of his blog. It’s even more unfortunate that I have become cyber friends with the Captain’s mom.)
8 emails had YOUR PACKAGE in the subject line.
3 emails had MY PACKAGE in the subject line. (I did not dare look at any of these.)
12 emails had no subject line but in the body of the email, the Captain simply wrote what he had for lunch or dinner.
7 emails simply had NEED HELP! in the subject line. (Boy, did he ever.)
In 1 email he quoted Vanilla Ice lyrics to both me and Jeremy. (Jeremy now has a serious man-crush on him.)

In the end, I didn’t have the heart to delete any of these emails, so I gave the Captain his own folder in my organization system titled 'Dumbass'. I did this not because I’m sentimental, but because some of them have some good dirt that I will use on him later. And since times are tough, I’m accepting bribes from anyone (including you, mom) who would like to harass the Captain.

P.S.: This post didn’t start out as a ribbing (tribute) to Captain Dumbass, but it sure did end up that way.

P.P.S.: Way back in November, before my break, I promised a few other fellow bloggers that I would spotlight them. I haven't forgotten. You'll get yours next week.

P.P.S.: Wow, that came off a little threatening. Sorry.

Fattie Update: I've Touched Someone Who Has Touched Oprah

2009-01-19T08:07:00.001-07:00

I forget which week of the HASAY challenge it is. It feels like it’s about week 40, doesn‘t it? But it couldn’t be, I haven’t known Casey (HASAY founder) that long. I think we found each other in August or September, but it seems I‘ve known my blonde, BMXin‘ friend forever. (In a good way, Casey, in a good way.)

Anyway, I’ve stopped counting the weeks I’ve been participating in HASAY. For me, crossing another week off the calendar does absolutely nothing for my motivation to get healthy. You know what does motivate me? I’ll tell you.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing motivates me to lose weight. I’ve been waiting around for years, yes, years, looking for motivation to get up off my comfy sofa and lose weight. As a matter of fact, I did so much sitting and waiting for motivation, that one day I decided that my green suede sofa was no longer a suitable place to waste the days away. So you know what I did next? I convinced Jeremy that we needed a new sofa set and a few days later, we were the proud owners of a pair of chocolate leather sofa recliners. Can you say heavenly? Everything wipes off those suckers. Nachos, cream soups, cheesecake smudges, everything. And that's just breakfast.

So yeah, I’m not easily moved or motivated to lose weight it seems. But a wise woman once told me, “Sometimes you can’t wait around for the motivation. You’ve just got to get up and do it. The motivation comes later.”

Brilliant huh?

That nugget of wisdom came from one of my very best friends, Julee. You might have seen a few of her comments on this here blog as JuleeSLC. She’s my own personal Oprah. Not because she’s beautiful, and has a fiancé and the best wardrobe, like ever, but because she pronounces “John Travolta” as “JOHN TRA-VOL-TAAAAA!” just the way Lady O says it.

Oh, and did I tell you that Julee lost over 125 lbs? Yeah, she did. Without motivation.

She also met Oprah.

Oh. Yes. She. Did.

My dearest Julee appeared on an Oprah weight loss special featuring women that had lost weight, and more importantly changed their lives by adhering to a more healthful way of living prescribed by Bob Green. Here’s Julee’s before and after pictures as featured on Oprah’s website.

Now, let me just clarify one thing. I’ve known Julee for over a decade and she's never, ever looked like the before picture on the left. Sure she was a little heavier, but she never dressed frumpy like that. Lady O’s producers forced her to dig up the oldest and potentially unflattering photos she had. To me, Julee’s always looked like the woman on the right. She’s absolutely stunning. Always has been.

I was so proud of her for losing all the weight. I still am. After her Oprah episode aired, I called her and just wept to her over the phone. We cried together. (You should know that I also called Julee crying after the Sex and The City series finale, as well as the Will and Grace and Friends

finales.) She nice to let me call and just whimper into the phone receiver like that.

Funny side story about Julee’s Oprah adventure. When Lady O's producers initially contacted her to see if she wanted to fly off to Chicago, meet Oprah and appear on national television, Julee actually suspected that I was playing a trick on her. She asked me if I had set up a fake phone call from third party posing to be a producer from Oprah's show.

I was all, “Honey, no. Although I do have a history of pranks on the phone, it’s just not my style to go into such elaborate detail for a joke. No, it’s much more my style to just relentlessly call you and hang up.”

Anyway, back to Julee’s brush with Oprah. I guess I would have to say, the only disappointment I had with the whole ordeal is that when she went off to Chicago to meet Oprah, I sent her with three specific goals. 1) Find out if the big O has six toes on one foot. (I’ve heard rumors.) 2) Get Oprah to say “John Tra-vol-taaaa!”, and 3) Mention my name on national television.

Julee, wisely, did none of these things.

So what’s my point here today? Well, I guess my point is that I’m copping to the fact that I have no motivation to lose weight, but lately I’ve still been getting up off of that comfy, stain-free sofa to exercise my sorry, out of shape bootie. I think of Julee whenever I search for the will to pop in a Pilates DVD or take a brisk walk on our neighboring trail. She accomplished something wonderful without needing any motivation to get her started.

Julee set her sights high. She lost the weight, kept it off and was driven through the streets of Chicago in a limo while she snacked on Chicago-style pizza, all courtesy of Oprah. If I stay focused, stay disciplined and lose some weight, maybe I can live the dream too. But for now, I’ll settle for exercising four days a week and being shuttled through the streets of Salt Lake City, eating a meat-lovers pizza in the back of my friend’s van.

Scratching your head, wondering what the heck HASAY is? Go here to find out.

My previous HASAY posts can be found here.

Being Topical is Not One of My New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-15T20:48:00.004-07:00

Instead of writing a resolution post during the New Year’s holiday, I fought the urge and held out until now to draft my list. My reasoning was simple. I wanted to wait it out until everyone had posted their resolutions already. After a few weeks, most items on those lists are probably shot or close to being broken. If I post my resolutions later, chances are that I can hold out until early to mid-February, thus making it look like I was able to stick to my goals for the new year a little longer.

I'm tricky like that.

This approach is similar to my long-held belief that I’ll somehow trick myself out of bed on time if I keep my alarm clock running 20 minutes fast. It hasn't worked in the fifteen years I've been trying it, but as you can see by resolution #67, I'll never give up the hope that someday it just might.

So, here’s my New Year’s Resolution list. I’m sure it’s just like yours.

1. Lose weight
2. Weigh my options
3. Get in shape
4. Accept “round” as a shape
5. Be more comfortable in my own skin
6. Get new skin
7. Listen to Barry White
8. Stalk Betty White
9. Watch more Golden Girls
10. Eat more Golden Grahams
11. Cooking school
12. Charm school
13. Wizard school
14. Too cool for school
15. Catch up with old friends
16. Ketchup with new friends
17. Work it out
18. Feel the burn
19. Pay the price
20. Buy two, get one free
21. Never gonna give you up
22. Never gonna let you down
23. Never gonna run around
24. …and desert you
25. Stop listening to Rick Astley
26. Start listening to Rick Springfield
27. Save more money
28. Find out if mo’ money means mo’ problems
29. Bust a move
30. Fix that busted move
31. Be a better mother
32. Turn this mother out
33. Snuggle with Jeremy
34. Buy a Snuggie (that’s for you, Bejwell)
35. Be more like Bejwell
36. Less pain
37. More joy
38. More Almond Joy
39. Dazzle my husband
40. Bedazzle my husband’s jeans
41. Find the perfect jeans
42. Call a friend named Gene
43. Make friends with someone named Gene
44. Stop
45. Collaborate and listen
46. Stop
47. Hammertime
48. Stop dating a**holes
49. Whoops! Number 48 is a leftover from my 1999 resolution list.
50. Party like it’s 1999
51. 99 Luftballoons
52. Perfect my German accent
53. Teach Tom Cruise to speak in German accent
54. Keep my position at work
55. Keep my composure at work
56. (…when someone says “steel erection”. It happens a lot.)
57. Form a band
58. Name it Steel Erection
59. Set it
60. And forget it
61. Bring “snazzy” back
62. Bring sexy back
63. Take sexy back
64. (for in-store credit only)
65. Re-read Great Expectations
66. But with mediocre hopes
67. Never give up hope
68. Find out if Bo and Hope are still together
69. Conquer my fears
70. Develop a fetish
71. Develop more film
72. Accept my feelings for one Rachel Maddow
73. Accept that my feelings are not returned by one Rachel Maddow
74. Accept the cease and desist order from one Rachel Maddow
75. Be taller

The Economy Has Forced Me To Take Drastic Measures

2009-01-05T09:25:00.003-07:00

I think it’s safe to say that no one wants to lose their jobs or carry around a beverage mug bigger than their head. So far, I have been faced with one of these grim realities. I have become one of those women you see toting those giant plastic insulated mugs filled with carbonated soda. And you just know that these women are trying too “even things out” by filling that sucker with diet coke, only mine is filled with regular coke. Ha! Fooled you.

As far as the losing the job thing, I sure hope it doesn’t happen, but the construction industry has been hit hard by the troubled economy. In turn, the architectural community (our job field) is experiencing a slow down and some companies are laying off employees or even asking employees to take a reduction in salary. Most likely, Jeremy and I will have our salaries slashed in 2009, and that’s if we’re one of the lucky ones.

I say we’d be lucky because just the other day I threatened to light my co-worker’s chair on fire. And you should know that we all have Aeron chairs at work, so yeah, it was a pretty big deal. People go nuts for those things.

In my defense, my threat was only in jest, but perhaps my timing was not the best. I think management took it pretty well, all things considered. They even pulled me in a closed-door meeting to make everyone outside the closed-door meeting think I was in serious trouble. My superiors even went so far as to have the HR department type up a paper, which I signed, stating that I would not threaten to cause harm to any Aeron chairs so long as I was employed by the firm. Apparently I’m free to put a flame to the cheap Costco chair in the break room, but not the fancy designer chairs. See? I told you it was a pretty big deal.

Anyway, I seem to have gotten side-tracked here. You see, this post is about how I discovered a small way to tighten the old purse strings whilst still indulging in the occasional fountain beverage.

Allow me to explain. I am only in the office three days a week. On those days I require a 44 oz carbonated beverage at my desk in order to successfully make it through the day without “allegedly” threatening to inflict unprovoked harm to inanimate objects in the office. The price I pay for pleasure/sanity in a plastic cup? A cool $1.47.

Now, you coffee drinkers out there are probably scoffing at me right now as you sip your frappuccino from Starbucks at just over $5 a cup. But think, people. I live in Utah. Coffee is barely legal here and if you’re caught drinking it in public, you can be subjected to a hefty fine. Don’t even get me started on what happens to you if you’re caught dancing in public. You do know that Footloose was filmed here don’t you? Remember how those kids won in the end and got their dance? In public? Yeah, that trouble maker Kevin Bacon and those evil dance-seeking kids would never be able to so much as do a jazz square in Utah.

Anyway, back to my fountain drink addiction. If you do the math, at $1.47 a pop, three times a week, adds up to $4.41 per week. If you multiply that by four (average number of weeks in a month), that winds up being a whopping $17.64 in soda pop.

Notice that I wrote if YOU add it up you’ll end up with 17 bucks and some change. When I added it up, it looked as though I was spending $176.40 on soda per month. I immediately freaked out and phoned up Jeremy hyperventilating to him that I was spending almost 200 dollars a month on fountain sodas and that I could see no way to rectify the situation because I wasn't willing to give up my sugar-filled caffeine high. After Jeremy did some deep breathing exercises with me and showed me exactly how decimals points work in multiplication, eventually I settled down. Moments later, my dear husband walked past my work desk and slammed this sucker down with such great force that it shook my family size bag of M&Ms to the floor.

Yep, it’s my Maverick 44 oz super insulated soft drink mug. When it’s filled up with soda, it’s a chore just to lift the thing. I count it as part of my resistance routine whenever I lift it to my mouth to take a sip. A gal can never have too much wrist definition, you know? Annnnnnd, it costs only 59 cents to fill up. It’s a win-win really if you think about it.

As an aside, ‘Maverick’ refers to a local convenience store chain throughout the Intermountain West. Their slogan is “Adventures First Stop!” But I submit that it is actually adventure’s last stop. I’ve been in our local Maverick at odd times and the folks that show up there at the wee hours of the morning are definitely on their way home after an adventure gone wrong. I mean, who shows up to work wearing no pants and only a coat? Let me clarify: who shows up to work wearing a coat holding their pants rolled up in their arms? Someone who doesn’t want a job, that’s who. Ironically, the pant less person I saw at Maverick was an off-duty Maverick employee. I never saw him at that particular store again. Pity, he was one of my favorites and he had great legs.

As a second aside (as if this post wasn’t chock filled with tangents already) I’m totally counting this as a HASAY post because since that giant sucker of a mug came into my life just over a month ago, I have filled it up with ice water. Healthy. Also, if you were paying attention, you would have picked up that I use it as a weight when doing resistance exercises. Again, win-win.

*A third aside, everything in this post is true except for the part about me being pulled into a closed-door meeting. When I threatened to set a chair on fire, my boss only looked at me for a few moments then went back to working. After eleven years, he's pretty much heard it all from me.

I'm Back...Not With a Vengence or Anything, But I'm Back.

2009-01-01T18:21:00.001-07:00

No, one, I repeat, no one has been dying to know what I’ve been up to on my five week hiatus from the internets. Not even my mom. True story. I called her up to let her know that I would have a post up within the hour and she was all, “Oh, are you still doing that blog thing?” Well, at least she got the name right this time. She used to call it a ‘blob’. Baby steps, people.

Well, during my self-imposed, and much needed break, I’ve been up to many, many things, all of them legal. For example, I saw Twilight three times. I said all my activities were legal, I didn’t say they were the least bit awesome. So, anyway, back to Twilight. You know, Edward’s not that creepy after you see him for the third time. Honestly. You know what is creepy though? The woman in her mid-thirties who sneaks off alone to the theater down the street when her children are both napping and her husband is preoccupied so that she can see a movie geared toward undead, chaste-loving, teens. My husband and I have finally reached an agreement that as long as he stops accusing me of being a cougar, I’ll no longer request that he strap me on his back and shout “You better hold on tight, spider monkey,” as he piggy-backs me through the neighborhood. Deal.

So, what else did I do? Hmm, let’s see, I had vomit in my hair. Twice. Both times, it was vomit that didn’t even belong to me.

I witnessed a man actually getting a ticket for jaywalking. JAYWALKING? YES, JAYWALKING. I even asked the guy after his citation if I just saw what I thought I saw. He showed me the ticket to confirm it. And yes, Steenky is that callus to hang out around a semi-crime scene just so she could ask a stranger if she could see his ticket. If I would have had my camera on me, I would have asked for a photo with the guy.

Oh, I also witnessed a lewd act in a Chuck E. Cheese’s bathroom that I’d prefer to never discuss or remember ever again. I can’t, or won’t go into details, but I’ll give you a hint: it involved someone I swear I recognize from high school wearing hot pants, dirty socks and an obscene amount of glitter. In order to protect myself, and my gag reflex, I will divulge no more. Oh, I will say this, HE wasn’t alone either. Yeah, chew on that one for a while.

I also ate a lot of toast, an embarrassing amount of toast. I’m not sure why, but it just felt right. Hot and buttery right. Now tell me how many things you can say that about? Not many.

I finally came to terms with my Brad Pitt issues. I know, it may come as a complete shock to most of you that I have issues with Brad Pitt, but I feel it’s time to come clean. I just don’t care for him. For years I’ve been silent about this, just sitting by at purse parties listening to all my girlfriends go on and on about how gorgeous he is. But, Steenky can keep up this exhausting charade any longer. So, here I am world, shouting that I am afraid no more of your harsh judgment of the fact that I’d rather see a love scene starring Gary Oldman any day over a shirtless Brad Pitt.

I have decided, however, that not everyone is ready for my new found boldness on the Pitt issue, like, for example the man in the check-out line behind me at Target. When I shouted out loud to the world that I wanted to see a semi-nude Gary Oldman he gave me the dirtiest look, covered his young daughter’s ears and quickly left to find another check stand. Not everyone feels the same way I do about Gary I guess.

Oh, yeah, and I may have accidentally re-designed the look of Steenky Bee. You might notice that things look different around here. Now, nobody likes change less than me. For realsies, I am sort of terrified of change, both literally and figuratively. The literal change, as in money, just gives me the heebie-jeebies. I don’t like the sound of it jingling and don’t even get me started on the smell of coins. And it’s cousin, the paper dollar? Pft. Do you people know where that stuff has been? Let’s just say, that I bet I could find more traces of vomit on a one dollar bill than was in my hair during the month of December. And you people have no idea how much vomit was in my hair. It was a lot. Trust me on this one.

As for the figurative change, as in the new look and feel on Steenky Bee, well, what can I say? I was bored with my old look. I tinkered around with a few things, changed some colors and added a big a** bee on the mast head. Serious. That bee is huge, ya’ll and I know it.

In closing, I would just like to say, that when I started writing this post I had no intentions of talking about vomit so much. Honestly, I’ve got better things to lay on you in ‘09, I swear I do. Vomit is just the tip of the iceberg.

I also want to thank everyone that checked in on me over the past weeks, to just poke at me to see if I was alive. I missed everyone dearly and can't wait to jump back into all your sites to see what you've all been doing. I bet none of you saw a cross dresser at Chuck E. Cheese's, did you?

In closing, once again, I think I’ve given you all enough ammunition to scare the bajeesus out me if you ever meet me in person. All you need to do is shout, “Things are gonna start changing around here!” and then throw a bunch of quarters in my face. I will instantly be crippled with fear at the prospect that things will somehow be different and at the fact that you subjected me to filthy coins.

A Dream And A Guest Post That Is Much Better Than The Dream

2008-12-15T07:57:00.005-07:00

I had a dream last night that I was Julie Christie. I don't know why. I've never even seen any movie that she's been a part of, but in my dream I was Julie Christie. As Ms. Christie, I ransacked through any open car I could find in a Target parking lot and took stray shoes left in automobiles. I'm not sure why, but in my dream, people seem to store spare shoes in their rides.

Anyway, I found the cutest pair of banana colored leather pumps with the coolest chunky heels in an old run down Honda hatch back. Just as I snagged them the owner of the car and the shoes walked up and looked at me suspiciously. I threw the shoes on and began small talk with her. When I jumped in my car to take off, I noticed that she followed me all over town. I was a little worried, but then I thought to myself, "I'm Julie freakin' Christie. I'm famous. That's why I'm being followed."

Eventually, I lost the woman desperately looking for either my autograph or her stolen shoes and ended up at an older man's house who, in my dream, was my lover. His name was Ed Hardy. He was watching re-runs of The Mary Tyler Moore Show on one of those very outdated television, you know the ones that sit on the floor and are encased in faux wood and take up a ton of wall space. I fell asleep with my new shoes on, I loved them so much.

So....yeah. That's my dream. Weird, huh? Aren't you glad I'm taking a blogging break? See the strange crap I'm sparing you from reading? But something I don't want to spare you from reading is my GUEST POST today over at Kaply, Inc. It's a conversation about Christmas that Jeremy and I had a little over two weeks ago as we were deciding how best to save money for the holidays.

Also, if you've never checked Tracy out over at Kaply, Inc., please go visit her now. She is the second person I ever met in this bloggy world and I can't say enough nice or snarky things about her. She's off-the-hook, yo. I fell in love with her way back in the summer when she posted her undying love for burritos. I'm not sure why, but I just found that particular post hilarious. Also, you must absolutely look through her archives to read over her blog post titles, including my all-time favorite, "Jesus May Love You, But I Think You're A Big Fat Idiot." Go check her now! Go! Go!

I'm A Giver, What Can I Say?

2008-12-05T08:42:00.004-07:00

My good friend Jenni over at Oscarelli asked me to guest post while she’s busy delivering baby number two. I would do anything for that woman. She changed my life the day she let me know that Viggo Mortensen has a vestiginal tail. (It’s a long story, but she reached out to me and stopped me from making a critical error of keeping him on my “celebrity freebie” list.) Anyway, I heart Jenni. She's witty, snarky and wicked. Everything I look for in a friend and in a cat. She never fails to bring the funny and she's cool with the fact that I'm obsessed with her mom. (Another long story, but this one has no tail.)

Jenni asked me, along with her other guest posters to describe our experiences bringing home baby number two. I totally didn’t follow the rules. Go check it out.

Good luck, Jenni!

You Should Really Come To This Especially If You Want To Hang Out With Some Really Cool Ladies

2008-12-04T11:00:00.002-07:00

Um, yeah. Sorry for the psyche. I know I promised I wouldn't be posting this month, but sometimes a girl's got obligations she just must fulfill. However, this isn't one of them. This is an obligation I'm both honored and excited to fulfill.

Today I am simulposting (is that a even a word?) with my good friends Heather at Riding the Short Bus, DeeMarie (The Dancing Cookie herself) over at My Life in a Nutshell and Mary Anne, a.k.a. The Stiletto Mom about an exciting event.

Picture this, it's the last week in July, you're sitting home with nothing to do. You're thinking how awesome it would be to fly, drive or hitch your way to the Rockies and meet up, face to face, with some of your favorite blogging friends. Also, you are a woman. Sorry, fellas, this invitation is for those with indoor plumbing only.

So anyway, you and your uterus are now in the majestic Rocky Mountains, and you're staying at the infamous Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, the very site that was the inspiration for The Shining. You know, the film where Jack goes all crazy and wields an axe at his wife through a bathroom door? Yeah, we all thought like that sounded like a fun time.

Now, I can't promise you Jack Nicholson with an axe or Shelley Duval screaming while running around like fool in a snow maze, but what I can promise you is, a weekend of fun, food, spirits and me running around like a fool in a snow maze. I'm from the Rockies so, of course, I'm desensitized to the cold temperatures.

Here's the deets:

When: July 24th-26th, 2009

Where: Estes Park, Colorado at the Historic Stanley Hotel (again, please no axes)

Why: Because I have a bet with several of my blogging buddies that a few of you are just really middle-aged men who are hiding behind a photo of a woman they lifted off of Flikr just to befriend unsuspecting female bloggers. Please come, I've got a lot of money riding on this.

What: I thought I explained that already.

How: This question doesn't even make sense.

Confused? I thought so. Basically, the four of us ladies (I can confirm that we are all, in fact, female) would like to invite our other female blogging friends to gather with us in the mountains this summer to finally meet each other in person, squeal really loud, make trips to the restroom in large groups and pillow fight at night. (Isn't that what the men assume we'll be doing?)

Rest assured, if you make the right decision and attend this yet-to-be-named event, there will be no one barging through a door with an axe like Jack did in The Shining. Stiletto Mom claims she can do it much more efficiently with her 4 inch heels in hand.

For a more comprehensive, and certainly easier to understand explanation of what's going down in July, be sure to visit Riding the Short Bus, My Life in a Nutshell and The Stiletto Mom. More information will be available in the months to come!!

P.S.: In the spirit of fairness, you don't actually have to have a uterus or even a working uterus to attend. You must, however, be able to prove that you had one at one time.

P.P.S.: And by "had one at one time" means that it was actually in your body. I don't care to hear about any underground organ trading ring you were once involved in.

A Rambling Post That Goes Nowhere Really Fast But Mentions Urine, Poison And The Economy So You Might Want To Read It Anyway

2008-12-03T10:55:00.001-07:00

The other day, Jeremy told me that our love reminded him of a song by Ratt titled You’re in Love, but when I heard him say those words I thought he said Urine Love and I was all, “Why the h*ll would our love remind him of urine?” Offended, I then gave my husband the silent treatment for about three hours and thought of ways to poison his food without implicating myself in any way. I realize that by writing this here, I may cause myself some problems in the future if Jeremy does accidentally choke on a burrito or eats bad hummus that does him in. All ten of you will likely turn me in, and since I have a previous record, the law may not look too kindly on me.

But rest assured, before I actually purchased the strychnine for my husband's hummus, I had a moment of clarity and realized that I need to keep focused on the bigger picture here. Urine doesn’t bother me, not one bit. The fact that he still listens to Ratt, a second-tier 80's hair band at best, is perhaps the most troubling thing for me.

This got me to thinking, if urine doesn’t bother me, then I am either very laid back or I have much bigger troubles. I’m definitely not laid back, so what else is bothering me? Well, for one, the economy is in the crapper and the entire construction industry has taken a giant dump. This does not bode well for the Steenky family who make their livelihoods in architecture.

Can I confess something to you? The economy has me terrified. Jeremy and I both feel so lucky to have our jobs right now. We’ve had to have some pretty pointed discussions lately and have yet to decide which one of us should be voted out of the family in the event of hard times, barring any unforeseen tragedy with a burrito or poisoned hummus. I’m pretty sure if the family had to take a vote at this point, it would be extremely close. Jeremy buys Henry lots of treats and he’s got one of the dogs on his side too. I, on the other hand have both cats firmly in my camp and, depending on the day, the other dog. Reese is the wild-card here. On the one hand, she really likes her cuddle time with me, but that's no match for the thrill she gets when she plays with Jeremy's eye glasses. In order to preserve my position in my family, I have resorted to wearing my glasses as much as possible and throwing candy at Henry whenever we're together. Henry's never been happier but Jeremy is starting to ask a lot of questions. Every vote counts, right?

But for now, no vote is needed because Jeremy and I both still have our jobs. But I'm not sure for how long. I'd like to think we're safe from any layoffs, but you just never know. Lucky for Jeremy, he's been working several angles to preserve his position at work. For example, Jeremy has himself a work husband. And this work husband? He has some clout. He's the CFO of our firm and Jeremy's closest friend in the office. I often find them huddled together in the corner talking about baseball, fishing, cars and tennis shorts.

But I'm fearful that Jeremy's recent antics may have jeopardized any favored status he has with the CFO. You see, a few months ago, Jeremy sneaked down to the parking garage at work and switched out the rear license plate frame on his work husband's new convertable Mustang from the stock frame to a custom-ordered one that reads “My other ride is your mom”.

Oh, we all had a good laugh a few weeks later when the CFO eventually found it, but now I'm just a little nervous. I told Jeremy last night that I thought maybe it was a bad idea that he switched the frame on our boss' car and let him drive around for weeks advertising that he's hot for mothers. He nodded in agreement and confessed that the frame was a tad bit inappropriate. He went on to explain that since his buddy drives a convertible, it would have been better to order the "When I get hot I take my top off" frame instead. He assures me that he'll never make that mistake again.

Folks, I now must leave you with that rambling story for pretty much the remainder of the month. I KNOW. What am I doing? Well, let me tell you what I'm doing. I'm going to take a short breather and spend some quality time with my family. All that 30 posts in 30 days stuff just wore me ragged. I didn't even participate in that beast of a challenge, but visiting you all that did participate and reading all your amazing posts led me to neglect my home and personal grooming habits. Seriously, I think I went two weeks without shaving.

I have two guest posts scheduled for this month (Oscarelli and Tracy Kaply, Inc.) and I'll post links here on the days that they run. I'm sure I'll give in and sneak a few posts in here and there, but for the remainder of the year it will be at random. Even though I'm taking a mini break from writing, that in no way implies that I'll be taking the same sort of break from stalking all of you and harassing you endlessly.

The Spin Cycle: I'm Thankful You Even Tolerate Me

2008-11-26T07:40:00.000-07:00

Next week I plan on listing a few things that our family is thankful for. Everyone was doing it this week and I just want to be a little different. But as luck would have it, the lovely, and hopefully very forgiving, Jen over at Sprite’s Keeper has selected “Thankful” as our Spin Cycle topic. It made me realize that I don’t thank the hostess enough for all the hard work and dedication she puts into the Spin Cycle. She’s never fails to visit every person that participates and diligently links them up to her site every week.

I credit Jen for introducing me to so many wonderful bloggers through her site, not only because of the Spin Cycle, but because she has the best bunch of commenters around. I visited spriteskeeper.com for several weeks before I even dared to attempt to comment. When I did, she quickly shot me back an email telling me that while she appreciated me visiting her, she felt that the internet already had too many Jens. I assume she was joking. I hope she was joking. It’s going to be pretty awkward when she clicks over here to see that I’m bearing my soul about her when, in reality, she’s been trying to shake me all along. Oh, honey, you should know by now that once the Steenky Bee attaches herself to a host, it’s virtually impossible to extricate her.

I must also tell you, here and now, that I have a favorite post of Jen’s. This post actually made me pull my car to the side of the road and just laugh out loud. Yeah, it was that good. (Please ignore that I was driving and surfing the web at the same time. I had a weak moment.) When you click over to read this post, you will see the irony of me in the car multitasking. (Not Alanis Morrisette irony that really isn’t ironic after all, but real, honest to goodness irony.)

I contacted Jen a little while ago and outright begged her to let me do a post in her honor. I held up two forms of ID to the phone receiver and explained several times who I was, before she eventually relented. Well, to say that she “relented” may be a bit of a stretch. I think her last words to me were, “Yeah, fine whatever. Just don’t call me collect anymore. Who is this again?”

Before we said our goodbyes (Jen’s being colorful enough to make even me blush) I told her that to show my thanks to her, I wanted to make her a custom Steenky Bee T-shirt just for her. She gave me two options for a design, her mailing address as well as her social security number. (Jen is awesome and all, but she’s even more gullible.)

Here’s my first attempt at Jen’s shirt. When I asked her what she wanted on it, I wrote down her first response. Don't you think it's a little too wordy?

Here’s Jen’s second suggestion. I like this one a little better.

Thanks again, Jen, for hosting the Spin Cycle. I promise I’ll always try to make you proud. And as we discussed earlier, at your request, I promise I’ll never “honor” you again on my site.

Say A Little Prayer Before You Read This And Hope That You're Not On My List

2008-11-25T08:16:00.003-07:00

About a month ago, McAllen tagged me in a meme where the taggee is supposed to spin a story and work the names of five other bloggers into the post while linking back to her tagger. Now, if you want to see how this is really done, I implore you to visit McAllen’s site Ah, These Are The Days of Our Lives to read her hilarious recount of a night gone wrong. Very wrong.

But if you’d rather see me cop out and offer you a feeble response to her brilliant post, then stay here. Instead of weaving some elaborate story, I’m just going to throw out some linky-love at random. If my love doesn't fall on you this time, please come back, I promise I'll have better aim next time. (You know, Jeremy said those exact words to me on our fourth date. Ah, memories.)

These are in no particular order:

1. Goodfather, who I consider a friend and a human being, recently constructed a voodoo wall for me on his site. He claims it was a shrine, but I must beg to differ. This "shrine" was complete with mirrors and candles and bits of my wiry hair. Two days later, my blow dryer caught on fire while I was drying it. My hair? Singed. My pride? Gone. My suspicion? Heightened. (For all you doubters out there, yes, my hair did get singed, as for my pride, I don't have any, so I guess we'll just call it a draw.)

But the reason I’m tagging Goodfather in this meme is for this photo he posted last week. He claims it’s his blogging costume.I laughed out loud when I saw this because my son, a precocious little three-year old, has the EXACT SAME outfit. See?

2. Stiletto Mom, I so calling you out. For as long as we’ve known each other we’ve not tagged each other in a meme. Perhaps this was an oversight on my part or maybe it was by design, but you’re not getting out of this one, sister. My son, sweet and innocent as he is, asks almost weekly for me to find “that one website with the lady legs on it”.

Yes, it seems that my son likes to look at Stiletto Mom’s gams. She has great legs, I'll give her that, but how she uses them makes for a much better story. (You should all know that the link I just gave you will take you to a story that is legendary around these parts. It has been howled over by my RL friends and I think about it whenever I find myself in an elevator.)

3. Colepack is just plain cool. I found her months ago and, bless her heart, she still comes by to read me even after I made a complete a** out of myself on her site. You see, a while back she put up a post about how a bunch of "avian wackos" had invaded her favorite coffee spot. They let birds in cafes where she lives? I thought Utah had lax health code enforcement. Colepack was nice and let me go on for weeks about how birds hate me and that I’ve been pooped on and buzzed by many, many winged creatures. Eventually, I came to realize that these " avian wackos" in the cafes were actually "snow birds" or old people. Yes, I'm really that dim and Colepack is really that forgiving.

4. My fourth victim is Tina over at The Bigger They Get. Yesterday, I'm pretty sure she called me a stripper on her blog. Also, she mentioned my name and Dooce's name in the same sentence. I was thrilled that it didn't also have the words "she sucks" or "definitely not anything like" sandwiched in there as well.

5. No list (good or bad) would be complete without Captain Dumbass. He's wiley, he's tall, he's running out of stuff to blog about thanks to this NAMBLORAMALAMA thing he's signed up for. Also, let it be known that my dancing face is nothing compared to this spectacle.

Okay folks, that's it. My victims were chosen completely at random. But you know what? I loved throwing these links out there so much that I'm going to do it again next week. But instead of just springing it on the next group of folks, I'm giving you all a few clues as to who can expect Steenky Bee to tag them next...

1. This blog is named after a breakfast food.

2. This blogger loves dogs and frequently shops at Target.

3. She actually admits the lack of truth on her site in the title of her blog.

4. This blogger is currently pregnant. Yes, I have no mercy for the pregnant when it comes to tagging. (And no, it's not Dooce.)

5. The title of this blog rhymes with "Pout".

Fattie: Week 6 Money Can't Buy Skinny, But Sometimes It Can Buy The Truth

2008-11-24T09:19:00.001-07:00

Here's my HASAY update for Week 6 of our HASAY Challenge. It's got it all; mystery, drama, workout equipment. What more could you ask for?

Sunday afternoon, Jeremy hollered from the basement that he would like to see everyone downstairs immediately for a family meeting. Now, in our home, Steenky family meetings are only called on two occasions; 1) One of us is in trouble (it's usually a toss up between me and Henry), or 2) We need to decide what toppings to order on our pizza. Since we had just eaten pizza the night before, I knew it certainly wasn’t about my choice of pepperoni or olives.

I looked at Henry, he was panicked. Nothing makes him more nervous than one of our family meetings. You see, Jeremy’s a master at interrogation. He knows just what buttons to push and knows each of our weaknesses. As a matter of fact, a few weeks ago Henry ratted me out in exchange for a handful of Tootsie Rolls. My crime? Leaving the back door unlocked. However, as long as we’re being honest, let me confess that only days before that, I pinned the mysterious stain on the hallway rug on Henry in order to secure myself a new pair of Steve Madden shoes.

Was it Henry that actually caused the stain or was it Reese? We might never know. But one thing I do know for sure, those Maddens get me dozens of compliments every time I wear them. They were so worth it.

Being the protective mom that I am, I kissed Henry on the head and then urged to him to save himself. "Run! You don’t need to be a part of this,” I pleaded with him desperately.

Henners did as I instructed and bolted up the stairs in the direction of his room. I knew it was better this way. Henry would be safe from Jeremy's intense interrogation. Also, I’m pretty sure I saw Jeremy sifting through the candy jar just before he called our meeting. I’m no dummy. He was planning to use our son’s sweet tooth against me. NOT THIS TIME.

That left just me and Reese to fend for ourselves under Jeremy’s scrutiny. Although Reese is only 13 months old, I feel like I could trust her. I know she’d never turn on me in a stressful situation like her brother would. Well, not only that, but being as young as she is, she doesn’t have a strong enough vocabulary to tattle. Barring the unforeseen circumstance with a “kiki” (kitty) or “brah” (Henry), I figured on this event, I was home free.

Reese and I sauntered downstairs to the basement to face Jeremy and his emergency Steenky family meeting. We were greeted with Jeremy’s angry face.

You should know he doesn’t just throw that face out there unless he’s really upset about something. I knew he was all sorts of riled up.

Jeremy then asked each of us if there was anything that Reese or I had done recently that either of us weren’t exactly proud of. So guilt was his game now, huh? He should know better than that. How does he not know after all these years that I have a weak moral code? I mean, he was right there when I bought those Steve Maddens on his credit card. That was a moment I was definitely proud of.

Just like we had rehearsed several times before, Reese and I gave Jeremy our innocent face. See how we remain loyal to each other even under the intense pressure of Jeremy's angry face?

When he wasn't getting the answers he was looking for, Jeremy decided to shift tactics. (How was he not picking up on my subtle hints?)

Jeremy: Jen, honey, you are looking so good lately. How much weight do you think you’ve lost on that HASAY thing you’re involved in?

I suddenly felt myself blush. I HAD lost weight. I was flattered that my husband had noticed.

Me: Well, I think I may have lost six, maybe seven pounds tops. *hair tossing* Really? You think I look good?
Jeremy: Oh, most definitely!
Me: *more hair tossing* Stop. *giggling* Don’t stop.
Jeremy: Tell me, what have you been doing to lose the weight, Sweetheart?
Me: *grinning* Um, just some free weights with a little light cardio mixed in. Mostly I just run on the treadmill.
Jeremy: *walking over to the treadmill* This treadmill?
Me: *huge gulp* Um, yeah, I guess.

The big gulp, that I’m sure could be heard across the room, was because I knew the jig was up. Within an instant, Jeremy pulled back the drapes, revealing a huge hole near the base of the wall. He pointed directly at it as he asked me several times if I knew anything about the hole in the wall. He noted that the hole was the same height as the track on the treadmill and conveniently about the same diameter as my foot.

Again, I tried to blame the hole on our infant daughter, but she gave Jeremy one of her arresting smiles.

Oh, you may have won this round, little girl, but I have plenty of dirt on you for the future. Just wait until your daddy finds the pile of Cheerios you dumped out on his side of the bed. You’ll get yours Reesie, you’ll get yours.

It seems Jeremy had used flattery to get me this time and I never saw it coming. After much coaxing and the promise that he would buy me something pretty if I confessed my crime, I gave in. I recounted the entire sordid event; my faulty footing, my embarrassing fall, my liberal use of houseplants to cover the unsightly hole until I could make it to Target to purchase floor length drapes to cover up my mistake.

Jeremy then walked over to me and gave me a big hug. “Thanks for telling me the truth,” he said as kissed my head. He then went on to explain that I should consider those new drapes as my “something pretty” this time around.

I smiled and nodded, knowing he was right. I then casually mentioned that he looked tired and should go upstairs and lie down in bed and take a little nap. Reluctantly, he agreed. Before he went upstairs he called back over his shoulder, “You did the right thing, Honey.”

Oh, I know I did the right thing. In a few minutes, Jeremy would “accidentally” come across the mound of breakfast cereal in our bed. All I had to do was act just as confused as Jeremy would undoubtedly be and sit through another family meeting. Of course, I’d eventually implicate Reese but not before I earned those yummy silver hoop earrings that I’ve been eyeing.

Not sure what HASAY is? Click here.
Want to see my other HASAY updates? Click here.

The Spin Cycle: Manipulation with Potty Training

2008-11-21T00:01:00.005-07:00

The wonderful and very comely Jen over at Sprite's Keeper saved my life this week. She let me off the hook so I didn't have to write something new for a post. Like many of us this week, I've been feeling a little creatively challenged. If you read my time travel debacle post from Monday, you'll see that old Steenky Bee has resorted to blogging about outdated hairdos. No one should have to read, or see that. Not never ever.

The post I've selected is one that appeared on my site last spring and the only people reading this blog were relatives who took pity on me. These relatives no longer read me, but their pity for me has increased tenfold.

So anyway, this post is all about how I celebrated my eighth wedding anniversary...WITH ANOTHER MAN. That's right, for one night, Steenky whooped it up with a younger man. A much younger man.

----------
Sometimes your husband goes out of town to meet with fancy doctors in a Colorado resort town about a new project and he leaves you and the kids to fend for yourselves. Sometimes he calls you and tells you that he misses you and he wishes that he didn't have to be in "meetings" all day long. But if you listen close enough, ever so faintly in the background, you can hear the soft humming of a motorized golf cart and cool ice tea being served in this "critical meeting".

Sometimes on the first night alone with the children everything runs so smoothly that you sit and think to yourself that you are awesome. In fact, you are so confident about your awesomeness that the next day at work you brag to anyone who will listen to about what a master you are at bedtime rituals with the kids. You see, that night you recorded a stellar time of 7:00 pm bed time. Let me repeat that. Two kids, both in bed before 7:00 pm. That is huge, folks and undeniable evidence of superior parenting skills.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, it is against all known laws of nature to have two smooth bed times in a row. This brings me to the events that transpired at my home the evening of April 15th 2008, (my wedding anniversary) between 6:23 pm and 11:01 pm.

6:23 pm: Reese rubs her eyes and lets out an adorable little sigh. This is her signal that she is tired. I dress her in her pajamas, rock her sweetly and lay her down for the evening.

6:42 pm - 7:19 pm: Henry and I play Spiderman vs. Doc Ock. He is Spiderman, and I am Doc Ock. We battle and wrestle for world domination. I think I have beat him a few times, but ultimately, Spidey always wins. This imaginary play would be eerie foreshadowing of the evening that Henry and I will share together.

7:20 pm: Henry has a potty break.

7:21 pm: I praise Henry for aforementioned successful potty break.

7:23 pm: I begin coaxing Henry into his pajamas. He sternly announces that he will be sleeping in his sweatshirt tonight. I concede. It seems silly to argue with him at this point. Everything is going so well.

7:40 pm: A demand is put forth for me to fetch Henry his chocolate milk. He needed it. He absolutely needed it, he tells me.

7:48 pm: I some how trick Henry into his bed. We rattle off a few knock-knock jokes together and say out loud to each other how awesome we think we are. I notice his eyes close shortly after.

8:02 pm: I creep out of Henners' room.

8:11 pm: Here's where it all goes south. Less than 10 minutes after I sneak from his bedroom, this walks into our room.

Henry claims he has to potty. So we walk, hand in hand, to the potty. Then we wait. Nothing happens. I suspect this was all ruse to get out of bed. I tuck him back in his bed.

8:31 pm: Henry yells to me from his room that he has to try to potty once more. We try one more time. (Notice the look of concentration on his face during this attempt.)

Only the itty-bittiest stream. Nice try little-man. Henners then tells me that he did a good job on the potty and that he needs a treat. Here's the convincing face he gives me.

He's hard to resist, but I do anyway. I tell him that he did a great job, but it's too late for a treat. Unsatisfied, he gives me an even bigger smile.

This time, I fall for it. He gets his small treat and then shuffles off to bed. It is now 8:54 pm.

9:01 pm: Henry goes in for the kill. He grabs my hand and pats it gently. He asks me in the most polite way possible if he can call Grandpa Brent on the phone because he loves him and because he has a beard. Aw. How can I pass this up?

9:03 pm: Henry makes the phone call to grandpa. I am waiting for my son to profess his love to his grandfather just like he said he would. One minute later Henry makes a critical mistake.

9:04 pm: Henry immediately tells Grandpa Brent that he isn't tired and that he called to tell him he's not going to bed. At age three, and not having a firm grasp exactly how sound travels, Henry unwittingly reveales his evil little plan of pre-meditated procrastination.

9:07 pm: After the brief phone call that my parents think is hilarious (I actaully hear them laughing as my son hangs up the phone), Henry announces that he would like to call Grandma Granny. I check the clock. It's late but she may still be awake. I consent. At this point, I am worn down. I think if I can befriend the little guy and win his trust, I can trick him into his bed once more.

9:08 pm: We dial Grandma Granny. The line is busy.

9:09 pm: I make a mental note to find out why Grandma Granny is on the phone at such a late hour. How did a 78-year old woman get a busier social life than me?

9:14 pm: I somehow convince Henry to get back into his bed.

9:26 pm: Henry opens his door and announces to me from across the hall that he would like a drink of water. I ask him if he really needs it. He says, "I really, REALLY need it."

9:38 pm: Henry asks for a refill.

9:47 pm: After drinking his two cups of water in the slowest possible way, Henry spies his favorite cookies. He asks me for a "cookie brown". We go back and forth here for a good two minutes about the cookie browns. I think I have him beat when I say, "You can't have cookie browns right before bed." Henry quickly, and thoughtfully counters back, "But I not go to bed." Check mate.

Henry's stall tactics are proving wildly successful. He's put off his bedtime by almost two hours. He's doddled, pottied and used his good looks to win me over so far.

10:01 pm: Henry finds a pen with multiple colored inks. He insists on drawing. I oblige. This will give buy me some time to get a plan thought up.

10:15 pm: Henry is now growing groggy and disoriented. He is searching for another reason stay awake. He begins asking for Dad. I tell him Dad will be home soon. I can see he's starting to crack.

10:16 pm: I suggest to Henry that he should take a bath. He loves the idea. In his mind, things are going according to his plan. Little does he know that I have just turned the tables on him. Big time.

10:23 pm: Henry is now in a warm bath. His muscles are now relaxing. He's starting to get that tired, dazed look on his face.

10:31 pm: Henry tells me that he's sleepy now. I tell him that he can't go to bed yet. We have so much to do before Dad gets home. He gives me a dirty look. I am definitely smelling a momentum shift here.

10:42 pm: I dry the Manster off and get him tucked in our bed all nice and comfy. He reclines thinking he's drifting off to sleep. His eyes are definitely glazed over now and he's talking gibberish about going to sleep in his own bed.

10:58 pm: Henry finally drifts off to sleep. This is the latest he's been up with me when he hasn't been sick. A new record, little man. Well played. World dominance.

11:00: I hear the front door open, footsteps up the stairs, then down the hallway. Look who shows up in the bedroom.

11:01 pm: Henry takes one look at Dad, let's out a huge sigh and says, "Where have YOU been?" Henry then pats the bed and tells Jeremy to "Get in bed now. Mom and me are so tired now."

And that's pretty much how I spent my anniversary night. Two men in my bed. Rawr.

Not in on The Spin? Join now! Sprite's Keeper is nice. I promise she won't bite.

Be Careful What You Ask For, or at the Very Least, Be Very Specific

2008-11-20T05:21:00.001-07:00

Have you heard? My dear, multi-talented friend, Clark Kent has gone missing. It's true. He's asked me to fill in for a day while he's laying low. He's been slipping his readers clues every day as to his whereabouts. I hope he resurfaces soon.

When my super hero friend asked me to guest post, he left me a lot of leeway and basically just told me to go crazy. LET MY GUEST POST AT HIS SITE BE A LESSON TO ALL OF YOU OUT THERE. Steenky Bee is like a child, she needs very rigid guidelines and detailed instructions when given an assignment.

Click on over to Clark Kent's Lunchbox to see what happens when I'm asked to guest post, but I never actually get around to writing my post. Instead, I just asked the host a bunch of inappropriate questions.

Side Note: I've said this before, but wouldn't Clark Kent's Lunchbox be, like, the best band name EVER?

Fattie: Week 5 (Good Goals / Bad Hair Judgement)

2008-11-17T23:15:00.001-07:00

When it comes to my HASAY update this week, I've got nothing, absolutely nothing. And I'm not one to make excuses for veering off course either. I know I've got no one else to blame but myself. But if I were to make excuses, here’s what that list might look like:

1. My recent flu totally killed me and my will to eat sensibly.
2. I became really hungry and decided a cheeseburger would be delicious. (It totally was.)
3. I thought about exercising, but then decided it would be more satisfying to crash on the couch and watch a little television.
4. I avoided any direct contact with my treadmill. (Out of site=out of mind.)
5. I couldn’t find my running shoes. Well, to be honest, I kicked them under the bed on purpose. (See excuse #4.)

What I lacked in actual physical activity, I totally made up for in goal-setting and motivation. Let me break it down for you.

Sunday afternoon, Jeremy and I watched The Terminator (1984) on cable. I hadn’t seen the whole thing from start to finish in years and had forgotten what an awesome film it was. After the movie was over, Jeremy and I felt a little sad and empty inside. We filled that void by renting Terminator 2: Judgement Day and eating a bunch of nachos.

During the sequel something amazing happened. First, I used an entire package of shredded cheese for the nachos as opposed to the usual half a bag. It made all the difference in the world. Those nachos were delicious. Second, I was reminded how cut and toned Linda Hamilton was for her role as Sarah Connor. Remember her doing all those pull-ups in the mental hospital? I totally want her shoulder and upper body definition.

Jeremy and I debated what it would take for me to get arms of steel in under twelve weeks. I maintained that increased reps with free weights would do the trick. Jeremy insisted that I would have to be the mother of a rebel leader fighting futuristic cyborgs in order to get that in shape. I told him to “Get real”. Jeremy then looked at me very intently and whispered, “Time travel is real, Jen. Oh, it’s very real.”

I found it a little odd that my husband had such strong feelings about time travel in The Terminator series because just a few days earlier when we watched The Lake House, he rolled his eyes so often that I was sure he was suffering from a mild seizure. He complained that the premise of a two-year time gap between strangers who trade letters back and forth through a magic mailbox was totally unbelievable.

Sure, two people finding each other through threads of time and the U.S. Postal Service is completely preposterous. But a world where a futuristic soldier (Kyle Reese) is sent forty years into the past by his leader (John Connor), who is really his son, to protect his mother (Sarah Connor) could ACTUALLY HAPPEN. Also, there's a terminator (Arnold Schwarzenegger) who has been sent back in time to find and kill Ms. Conner so that she doesn't has the chance to meet the time-traveling soldier and the father of her unborn son. Huh?

Jeremy and I then wondered what we would do if given the opportunity to visit ourselves in 1984? What would we warn ourselves about at the tender age of thirteen? Jeremy claims he would definitely tell his young self to keep his Transformer action figures in their original packaging and to invest every bit of his allowance in Google stock options.

I, on the other hand, didn't feel it necessary to secure my financial future because I knew one day I would marry a handsome architect who found wealth from his pristine toy collection and sound investment strategies. Instead, I felt it far more important to travel back to the fall of '84 and steal my family's powder blue station wagon so that my parents would be unable to drive me to the salon where I would cut my hair into a pseudo mullet. This mullet, which I sported through most of my junior high years, would take over 18 months to grow out and more than a lifetime to forget.

To put Jeremy's time travel theory to the test, I'm posting my seventh grade picture below. If I've successfully thwarted the hair cut from hell, then I should be sporting a stylish chin-length bob in that photo. If for some reason I've failed in my mission, you'll be be staring at a young girl who made the ill-advised decision to chop most of her hair into a bowl of bangs. It's also safe to assume that either way, the junior high Jen has not yet to discovered how much better her eyebrows would look after a good tweezing. That little revelation didn't hit me until high school. Wish me luck, people.

HASAY Summary:
1. I now have a goal to get ridiculous arms.
2. I'm thinking that time travel may be counted as my cardio workout.
3. Mullets are never a good idea.

UPDATE: My mom reminded me that during my junior high years, our car's tires were mysteriously flattened repeatedly in the span of about four months. My parents never did catch the culprit whom we all assumed was just the boy next door. But after this weekend's revelations about the properties of time travel, it is entirely possible that my future self may have tried, on several occasions, to travel back to 1984 and prevent myself from succumbing to the seduction of the seventh-grade mullet.

I have foreign friends, well, at least I think I do

2008-11-17T05:07:00.001-07:00

Well hello there! I'm not here today. I've moved, but only temporarily. Today I'm filling in for one of the best girl's around, Kat over at 3 Bedroom Bungalow. She used to be my good friend in Missouri, but now she's my good friend in England. That's right, I've got foreign friends, people.

Kat, is mother to two adorable children and wife to one military man who up and transferred his family across the pond. A while back she asked me if I wouldn't mind helping her out during her move. I thought she needed my help packing so I hopped on the first flight and showed up at her house with a bunch of empty boxes and packing tape. Although she was grateful that I was eager to pitch in and help, I learned shortly after my arrival that all she really needed me to do was guest post for a day on her site.

Well, Kat and I had ourselves a good laugh about the whole thing until I asked her to reimburse my airfare back home. Ever since then she's avoided any sort of contact initiated on my part. Every email I've sent, every late-night and early morning phone call I've made, even the balloon bouquets have been ignored.

After our little "falling out" I'm beginning to worry that she may not using my guest post after all. Do me a favor, click over to her site and see if I'm there. I can only hope the basket of mini muffins I sent COD to her last week did the trick and won back her friendship.

The Spin Cycle: Frankie says, 'Relax'. Jen doesn't know Frankie but wishes he would always wear clean undershorts.

2008-11-13T14:51:00.001-07:00

Whoa! Sprite’s Keeper’s Spin Cycle came upon me quickly this week. Normally I do a little séance and eat a bunch of gummy worms to prepare for each week’s topic, but this week I had absolutely no time to run out and restock on incense. Instead, I hovered near a Pumpkin Spice scented candle and ate left over Smarties from Halloween. So please, be understanding as you read my spin on relaxing. The Smarties gave me a headache, but they allowed me to stretch the relativity of recent conversations with my husband and relaxing until it was wafer thin.

Here goes....

The other day at work there was a loud fist pounding fit from across the office. “Damn it, Jen. Not again!" I heard Jeremy shout. Within moments he was over at my desk (Did I tell you that we work together? It was a steamy office affair, but that’s a post for another day.)

He stood there, glaring at me, demanding to know why I’m trying to give him a bad rap on Steenky Bee.

Jeremy: Did you type over and over, ‘When Jeremy came out of the closet,’ when I specifically asked you not to?
Me: No, I did not type 'When Jeremy came out of the closet’ over and over. Why would you think I would type ‘When Jeremy came out of the closet’? What’s so funny about ‘When Jeremy came out of the closet’?

Jeremy: Yes you did. I just read it on your blog.

Me: Um, Lover? That was over two weeks ago. You are so behind. Don’t you read it every day?

Jeremy: *Shrugging*

Me: Don’t be upset, I far worse things about you last week.

Jeremy then pulled me into the copy room and we had ourselves a long talk about boundaries and Lemon Snapple. I listened to Jeremy as he explained the importance of boundaries on this here blog. He listened to me as I raved about how I prefer regular Lemon Snapple to that of Diet Lemon Snapple. (My husband is sooooo patient with me.)

Honestly, I am so lucky that Jeremy is contractually obligated to love me. I tell him every day how much I love him. In turn, he tells me, “Babe, you’re the best thing that’s happened to me in, like, ten years.”

When I press him as to why the ten year time frame he always replies, “Well, a lot of really cool stuff happened to me before I met you.”

Do you see why I love him so much? Not only is he super funny, super handsome, but he has helped me unwind and relax a little bit in my life. He’s the ultimate mellow fellow and doesn’t let too much rile him. Truth be told, Jeremy wasn’t even upset about the post where I wrote about him coming out of the closet. He just needed an excuse to come over to the marketing department because that’s where the office keeps a secret stash of candy. Although he did have to endure my rambling testimony about Lemon Snapple, he scored a handful of bite-size Snickers bars that he claims "were so worth it".

As I mentioned just now, Jeremy has taught me to relax and just sort of take life as it comes. I am forever grateful for this. Before I met him, my hair was actually a lot nappier due to all the unnecessary stress I put myself through. However, there is still one area in our relationship where I refuse to "give in and just relax already". In our nine years together, we just can’t seem to reach a compromise about the issue of optional underwear.

Please allow me to explain: I have a strict stance of wearing underwear at all times. It’s courteous. It’s sensible. It’s hygienic. However, there are times, when Jeremy tends to be a bit lax in the skivvy department. For example, the other day as he was getting dressed for work I noticed that he wasn’t wearing any underwear. When he put his jeans on, it became clear that he was actually skipping the the application of undershorts portion of his routine. He saw me staring and came over to give me a hug.

Me: Whoa, whoa! Not so fast, fella. (One arm thrust forward)
Jeremy: What?
Me: Um, what’s with going free and easy over there? (One finger now pointing...down there)
Jeremy: I don’t have any clean shorts so I’m going commando today. Is there something wrong with that?
Me: Um, let me think…YESSSS! You know my underwear rule.
Jeremy: *smiling* Relax.
Me: I just prefer two layers of cotton, you know, between….me and….your guys.
Jeremy: Well it looks like I’m the only one willing to compromise.
Me: ?????
Jeremy: You prefer TWO layers between us. I prefer ZERO. These jeans? They count as ONE layer. Relax, I’m compromising.

After that, Jeremy did two things: First, he gave me a long, and slightly inappropriate hug, then he gave me a wedgie. Ah, true love.

Fattie: Week 4 (Jen's Mean Lean Green Shake)

2008-11-12T09:40:00.001-07:00

We’re in the middle of week 4 of the HASAY Challenge over here at Steenky Bee. Can you believe it’s been almost a month already? Well, I, for one, can not, mostly because I’ve only been following the rules for about eight days total. And I must say, by selectively participating in this challenge has made it much more bearable than if I would have actually stuck to it every day. I mean, can you imagine four whole weeks of sensible eating and exercise? Sure my guilt level is at an all time high, but man, I have been eating some good food lately.

Actually, I’ve been doing the steps and working quite hard at this thing, but just like religion, money and Fight Club, I don’t talk about it. It’s just poor taste. Also, I like to make Casey think I'm a slacker. At the big reveal at the end, I'll be all, "Ha, suckas! I'm skinny!"

We're having a reveal aren't we? I only signed up because I was promised a big reveal finale and a trip to Florida. I don't really care about my health at all. I just want to meet Casey in person and then ride Space Mountain with her at Disney World.

And speaking of poor taste, have I got a killer health shake for you all to try! (BTW: How did you all like that segway? I worked on it for days. I’m actually quite proud of it. However, in retrospect, I can see that I mentioned the word "taste" over two paragraphs ago. Perhaps my segway wasn't too clever after all. Maybe I'm light headed from my recent bought of fever and all the deep-knee lunges I've been doing. (Not at the same time, of course. Now that would be in poor taste.)

Okay, so back to the health shake....if you’re like me, and pray that you’re not, you have a difficult time getting your daily serving of vegetables. Also, if you’re like me, you prefer to call vegetables, "veggies". This shake will help you take care of some of your veggie requirements for the day. I drink one every morning before I leave the house. I am addicted to it. This shake fills you up and is rich in fiber and nutrients. Pinkie swear, it is.

Ingredients:
4 ice cubes
4 oz of water
1 apple (including skin, no core or seeds)
¾ banana or 1 small banana
5 fresh mint leaves
5 large kale leaves (omit the stalks, just tear the leaves away)
1 large handful of fresh spinach

Directions:
Blend apple (cut into chunks with skin still on), water and mint leaves in blender. Add banana and ice cubes next. Last, kale leaves (torn from stalks) a little bit at a time. Finally, throw in large handful of spinach leaves.

Warnings:
1. I guess I should have warned you ahead of time, but this shake is sort of chewy (add more banana if the consistency freaks you out and if you are a giant wuss and can’t chew a shake.)
2. Also, the kale and spinach leaves are extremely tough on the blades of the blender. You can invest in a heavy duty blender that runs upwards of $300 or you could go through four blenders priced at $60 a piece like I have. Who said I’m not money savvy?
3. Check your teeth in a mirror or at least have a very non-judgmental friend near by who will check them for any stray green residue left behind. I’m not saying this happened to me, but someone I know was very embarrassed at a morning marketing meeting when her boss pointed out that she had something green in her teeth at 9:00 am even though she checked the mirror beforehand.
4. This shake is not for the easily disrupted digestive track either. The whole purpose of the Mean Lean Green is to aid in digestion.

So, in summation, if you are afraid of chewy, green shakes, don’t have a reasonably decent blender, are self-conscious about your grooming habits and are prone to the runs...then perhaps this shake IS NOT for you.

All you others, DRINK UP!

Not sure what HASAY is? Click here.

My other Fattie updates can be found here:
Week 1
Week 2
Week 3

Sicko=Me

2008-11-10T10:51:00.003-07:00

I looked over at Jeremy last night and asked him to gently smother me with my pillow after I finally fell asleep. I told him that I would probably fight him, it's human nature, but in the end, it would be better if he put me out of my misery. You see, since Saturday, I've been suffering from the flu.

Chills? I've got 'em. Fever? Yep. Night sweats? Oh, yeah. Night terrors, screaming and kicking in my sleep? Well, actually, that's Jeremy, but that's also for another post.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and still was alive. Oh, I don't doubt that at some point Jeremy will eventually try to "off" me sometime in the night, because, believe me, I totally deserve it. So, for now, I'm grateful that my dear husband spared my life. I'm also so happy that before he left for work he picked up some pudding packs to help soothe my raw throat. I should have checked to make sure he didn't poison them somehow though. No matter, they were delicious.

I hope you all had a wonderful weekend and continue to have a wonderful week. I'll be back when I've got my strength back and I'm off the cough syrup. Trust me, you don't want me stopping by your sites when I'm under the influence of NyQuil. Last time I did that I professed my love for Corey Haim. Corey Haim! The more messed up of The Two Coreys. What's wrong with me? More importantly, what's right with Corey Haim?

The Spin Cycle: Rock the Vote...Just Don't Talk About the Vote

2008-11-06T15:00:00.002-07:00

The multi-talented Sprite's Keeper, has asked us to write about VOTING for this week's Spin Cycle. I was, and still am, extremely nervous about this subject. I typically don't like to be too outspoken on political issues here on this blog. We all have our own opinions and I'm going to spare you the pain of listening to mine. It is my hope for all of you, that this is the very last political post you'll read for four years. Anywhere.

But, first I would like to acknowledge how much it warms my heart (small and black as it may be) that people across our country took such an interest in the political process this election. Whomever you are, I applaud you for just showing up and voting no matter who you voted for.

I'd also like you to know that I had an entirely different third paragraph planned here, but last night, a post by Stiletto Mom, whom I count as a dear friend (in real-life, not just in blog-world) touched me deeply. She put together a very daring and thoughtful post for us all to read. She reminded me that we all have our own views and our own perspectives about this past election. We all had one vote. Your vote counted just as much as mine. And for that, I am grateful.

Now, before you go off thinking that Steenky Bee has gone all serious on you folks, let me point out that the "Blog-World" reference I made earlier sounds like a horrible blogging conference that I NEVER plan on attending. It just reeks of useless vendor booths and free t-shirts doesn't it?

I would be remiss if I didn't admit to you that Stiletto Mom was not the first person to touch me late Wednesday night. No, there was the ill-advised groping that Jeremy gave me just after 6:00 pm. Now, normally, I would have not brushed him off so quickly, but just minutes before he made his move, I was downstairs in the laundry room tending to some of his dirty clothes. I had just started a load of his whites when I looked up and hanging on the wall, written on a blackboard, was a list of politically-charged words that I was no longer allowed to speak in our home.

Now can you blame a girl for denying her husband to cop a feel?

Next, I did what any loving wife would do in this situation. I threw a red sock into his load of whites, erased his "rules" for me and listed a few topics that I thought should be off-limits as well.

In our house there is no red, there is no blue. In our house, there are only shades of "pink" that mysteriously surfaced last night. See you at Blog-World 2009!

Crime Spree on Speed Dial UPDATED

2008-11-04T15:14:00.000-07:00

**UPDATE**
Mother of Steenky Bee phone me at lunch laughing hysterically. She asked me over and over to tell her this wasn't true. I told her that, yes, this tale is true. She then called me several times to ask me how to print out this sheet. I warned her that if she showed my dad that I would tattle on her. Guess where she was this morning around 9:00 am? Would you believe, the mall? True story.

Also, as a follow up, Krisann and I did get our phone back. As a matter of fact, she mailed it to me in 1995 as a Christmas gift. In 1996, she phoned me and told me to turn on my television to channel 4 local news. Last word on Benji? He is parking cars in Vegas.

Good morning (of afternoon). Let me give a shout out to one of my best girls: Heather over at Riding the Short Bus is celebrating her birthday today. Please give her much love!!! Happy Birthday, Heather! Mwah!

Now.....
Miss Grace's Disgrace tagged me in a meme last week where I am supposed to list a few unspectacular things about myself. But, I'm not going to play by the rules. I'm taking this meme law and breaking it wide open, you hear? This won't be the first time I've broken the law either. Instead of seven random things, I'm telling you one whopper of a secret about my first and only brush with the law.

Now, before I continue, I must preface that my parents have no idea that any of this ever went down. I’ve managed to keep this ordeal a secret from them for over 16 years. I've never kept any secrets from them, save this doozy. Many other people know about my sordid past; my in-laws, my friends, even my bosses know. But my parents have no idea that their daughter may not be so squeaky clean after all.

Let me also point out that my mom checks my blog and then prints out pages for my dad to read. To make sure she doesn’t rat me out to him, I’m going to spill a little secret of hers too. (Aren’t I the nicest daughter, like ever?) Mom has been sneaking off several times a month to do some heavy retail therapy while dad thinks she's at work. So there you go mom, all those times you’ve called me while you’re running around in that mall, little did you know that I was saving this information to use as leverage. You taught me well.

So, rewind with me, if you will, to 1992. It was my junior year at college. It was the year that I had the best bunch of roommates. One of them, Brandi, had been carrying on a friends-with-benefits relationship with Benji, a star linebacker on our football team. Benji would call our apartment at all hours of the night looking for his hook up with Brandi. If me or my other roommate, Krisann, picked up the phone he would simply hang up. We knew it was Benji, even though we didn’t have caller i.d. Had caller idea even been invented yet? I'm not sure. As a matter of fact, I think cell phones were a luxury back then too. They were those large brick looking contraptions that weighed a good 7 lbs. As starving students, the only phone we had in the entire apartment was a flaming red, rotary dial phone that we dubbed “the presidential” phone.

Anyway, Benji phoned our apartment frequently in 1991-1992. Whenever he called and hung up, Krisann and I would just dial him right back and hang up on him. It became sort of a little joke between all of us. We passed those prank calls back and forth so often that we could dial his number on that rotary phone in the dark.

Like all things that spoil so very easily, Brandi and Benji’s relationship ended on a sour note. I guess the deductible on the old “benefits package” was tapped out. However, even after their split, for some reason, the phone hang ups were traded back and forth between apartments.

It’s important to tell you that I went to university in a smaller town near the Utah/Nevada boarder. A great deal of our athletes came from high schools in Las Vegas. Now, I’m sure you don’t have to imagine too hard to know that Utah is a predominantly white state, especially Southern Utah. The influx of most of the athletes from Las Vegas were African American, Benji being one of those.The police department in this small college town was highly suspicious of the Nevada athletes. I’d heard rumors that they tracked and even followed some of them, but at the time blew it off as heresay.

It was at the end of spring semester when the frequency of Benji’s calls increased. One particular Friday night he drunk dialed Brandi several times. The calls were out of control. I mean, can't two college girls stay home to watch a Christian Slater movie fest in peace? (Heathers was like the best movie ever!) The next time Benji called we tricked him and told him that Brandi wanted to meet him under a freeway overpass just ten miles outside of town and she was already there waiting for him. When we hung up and Krisann and I did a little jig in honor of what we thought was our complete coolness. In our minds, we had reached the epitome of awesomeness. The fact that we were home bound and dateless on a Friday night never even occurred to us.

The next Monday at school, rumors were flying that Benji had been arrested over the weekend for marijuana possession with intent to distribute. I wasn’t surprised. I was suprised, however, when two uniformed police officers entered my Russian History class and pulled me out for questioning in connection with Benji’s arrest. It seemed that once Benji got himself thrown in jail, they presented him with stacks of phone transcripts detailing all the calls that he had made over the past twelve months. The Feds were particularly interested in all the calls to our apartment. Benji lawyered up pretty fast and insisted that somehow Krisann and I set him up for his bust.

I was escorted to a cop car and hauled off to the police station in front of everyone. There were no handcuffs, but there was a plexi-glass window and my Miranda Rights. I was terrified. Was I arrested? Was I going to do hard time? Who would I use my one phone call to contact? Was I going to have to wear an orange jump suit? The officers could tell I was visibly upset. Why wouldn't I be? Orange was the most diffiult color to accessorize.

Krisann was already at the station when I arrived. She was sitting on a bench bawling uncontrollably. I nudged her and asked her, “Whacha in for?” We made a pact right there in the waiting room, that I would be her “bitch” in prison and if one of us broke out first, they would come back for the other one.

I was nervous when it became my turn for questioning. I mean, if there was one of those one-way mirror thingys in the interrogation room, should I wave and acknowledge someone was behind it? I was sort of hoping that at some point during my interview that one of the officers would slam his fist down on the table and shout, “Are we going to have to do this the hard way? I need answers now!” just like they did in the movies.

But that never happend. My iterrogation with the arresting officer was pretty anticlimactic. In fact, I've had visits with a loan officer that were more dramatic. I was seated in a fairly comfy chair, given all the lemonade I could drink and even got in on a Subway sandwich order that was going around. I'm not kidding. The police in that town were downright folksy with me and Krisann. Little did we know at the time, all that hospitality was part of the whole good cop/bad cop routine. I was just beginning to settle in, when the Federal Officer showed up. When I saw him I immediately stood up and shouted, “I’ve got a wire on me, you should be warned!” That’s when they turned the heat up on old Jenbo.

The agent strutted over and sat on the desk in front of me. He held our red rotary dial phone in his lap. “I have over 300 phone calls follwed up by instant hang ups between you, your roommate and Benji over the past nine months. We’ve gathered up your class schedules and work timecards. I have personally been tracking your whereabouts for over six weeks,” the FBI agent declaired. “Are the hang ups some sort of code for drug related activity? Are you helping Benji sell drugs to students? What’s wrong with your hair, is it always that nappy?”

I was fine with the line of questioning until the agent brought my hair into the mix. That comment was a little personal and definitely below the belt. Also, a few things were weighing heavy on my mind. How did this agent get our rotary phone? Why did he have our phone? And why was there mayo on my Subway Club when I specifically told the officer, "hold the mayo." I thought, given the circumstances, I would let that one slide.

The FBI agent announced that he had been following Krisann, Brandi and me for weeks. They had our phone lines tapped and had been listening in on every conversation for over three months. They sat outside my work and sometimes came in to scope out what I was doing there. They had even followed us from class to class just because of a few little phone calls. Well, alright, a few hundred phone calls.

After about two hours, the agent could see that Krisann and I were clueless. I imagine he felt a little sorry for us since, as part of our alibys, we admitted that we each spent an unhealthy amount of time watching Heathers over and over. I wouldn't be surprised if his official report mentioned that we were just two dumb twenty-somethings with an unhealthy obsession with Christian Slater.

The agent found Krisann and I innocent of any Federal charges, however, we were charged, at the insistance of Benji by the local law enforcement for phone abuse. Yes, phone abuse, a Class B Misdemeanor. We were booked, fingerprinted, photographed and then released. Krisann looked at me and shrugged, “Well, at least we got a free sandwich out of the deal, huh?”

Krisann and I pled guilty two weeks later in court. The judge, along with everyone else in court, snickered at us when she sentenced us to 100 hours of community service. She even made the comment that she didn’t think in all her years on the bench she had even heard of phone abuse. When we reported to a nursing home to fufill our service hours, we were told that due to our charges, we would not be allowed to answer any phones, or even be in any rooms alone with a phone. The director couldn’t even get that last part out without breaking down and laughing at us.

So Krisann and I spent that summer at the nursing home, playing checkers with and taking the elderly on walks. We fixed their hair, painted their nails and even ran a few errands for them. However, if any of them needed help making a phone call, we had to call the director to come down and actually dial the phone for us. Yeah, for reals.

So, good people, I guess you can consider old Steenky a hardened criminal. If you didn't get enough of this brush with the law, then contact me and I'll tell you about the time my boyfriend used my car (without my knowledge) to steal beer. Better yet, why don't you give me your phone number and I'll call you. Over and over.

Fattie: Week 3

2008-11-03T05:01:00.001-07:00

Today kicks off the third week of the HASAY Challenge. Casey, the HASAY founder and President, asked me to post my progress over at her site today. She told me that she was highly suspicious that I had not been sticking to my exercise regimen so she refused to let me email my write-up to her. Instead, she forced to to jog across this great country of ours and hand deliver my post. So I pulled a Forrest Gump and jogged my butt to Florida. I then sat on her couch and ate a bunch of chocolates in front of her. (I wonder if she forced Mrs. Bear to do the same thing last week?)

Click on over to Casey's joint at Half as Good as You to see my progress for the week.

Not sure what HASAY is? Click here.

My other HASAY Challenge updates can be found here:
Fattie: Week 1
Fattie: Week 2