Oh Utah, They're Just Jealous of You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bad Romance

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

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

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

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

Bad Romance – by Steenky Bee

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

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

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

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

{The end.}

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

Why Are People So Down on the Emos?

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

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

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

Here goes:

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

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

Jersey Can be a State of Mind Too

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.

Time And Water Conservation Are Not On My Side

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.

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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.

Best Songs, Like Ever

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!

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

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.

The Spin Cycle: Manipulation with Potty Training

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.

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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.

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

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.

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

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!

The Spin Cycle: Children of the Corn(field)

This week, the beautiful, handy-dandy painter of houses, Sprite's Keeper, asked us each to put our spin on Halloween. Well, gather round folks, I've got a Halloween tale for you. It involves pain, internal struggle, hunger and public nudity. And it happened to me less than a week ago. Many moons will pass before I will be able to completely forget the events of Saturday, October 25th and the mindless destruction I witnessed that day.

Our day started off harmless enough. Jeremy turned to me and said, "Hey, I've got forty dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Why don't we pack up the kids, take them to an extremely overpriced farm where we can pay out the nose for entrance fees? Then, the kids can run around like their hair is on fire and we can pick up some super expensive pumpkins before we leave?"


"Deal." I said, "But only on one condition. I'd also like to blow a ridiculous amount of cash on popcorn and soft drinks. Oooh, and pig races. For the love of everything I hold dear in my heart, please let there be pig races!"


On the way to the farm, that just so happens to across the street from our house, Henry looked up at his father and me with wide eyes and said, "If it's alright with you guys, I'd really like run you both ragged so much so that you'll second guess any sort of physical stamina that you think you might have. Also, I probably won't listen to a word you say about staying near you at all times. Oh, and I plan on throwing a fit when it's time to leave the farm too."


Super. The Steenky family stopped right there in the middle of the road and high-fived each other until our palms were red. We didn't linger for too long though because no one likes a bunch of cocky people standing in the street high-living each other. Well, that's what the nice lady in the minivan shouted at us as she sped past us.


As soon as we entered the farm, we made our way over to the Kiddie Corn Maze. Reese wasn't too hip on traipsing through a corn field. Instead, she opted for the "I'm too cool for mom" game.

Henry, eager to get going on the corn maze demanded that we get going now. I believe his exact words were, "Let's get this party started, yo."

I thought it would be nice to capture a family moment on film before the journey to the center of the corn began. Here's a picture of Jeremy and Henry just moments before Jeremy slipped on an errant cob of corn lying in the dirt. He tumbled to the ground and grabbed his knee, wincing in pain.


I asked him over and over if he was alright. He just kept screaming, "Gimme the juice, doc! Gimme the juice!"

A nice gentleman, who identified himself as a doctor stepped forward and offered his help. I knelt down by my husband and stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. I gently kissed his forehead. I looked lovingly into his eyes and asked him, "If I get you the help you need, do you promise to finally clean out the garage?"

With all eyes on Jeremy, I barely even noticed when Henry took off running at a dead sprint into the corn field.


I jumped up and ran after the little guy in what I thought was a powerful stride. Halfway into my first turn, an elderly woman asked me to get out of her way as she lapped me. Eventually, I caught up Henners. He was huddled up in a corner looking quite terrified.

I grabbed him and pulled him up to me. "I'll never let you go, son!" I exclaimed, "No matter what!"

I then noticed a piece of yummy looking candy half buried in the dirt. I immediately threw Henners aside and snatched up the treat before my son had a chance to get to it first. I mean, who doesn't love free candy? By the time I stood up with my sweet score, Henners was off and running again.

I stood there, stunned. What was happening to my little guy? Was Henners now possessed? Was there any more free candy further down the trail?

I was all alone. I panicked and just began Twittering everyone I knew. I thought my cyber friends would help me out of this mess. I wrote "Help me. I've lost my son and I am stuck in a corn hole."

I must say, I received the most disgusting replies to @jenboglass via Twitter. People. Do you all know something about corn-holing that I don't know? Thanks for nothing.

I tried my hardest to gather my composure. My head told me to remain calm. My gut told me to go look for candy. As I moved forward, I heard something rustling in the stalks up ahead. It was followed by laughter. I recognized it as Henry's. I increased my pace immediately.

"Son!" I shouted, "Are you alright? Do you know where they're hiding more of those Snickers Bars?"

Then I spied a familiar small blonde head hidden in the stalks. I sneaked in a little closer.

It was Henry. Finally, relief swept over me. I was overjoyed to finally reunite with him. If luck was on my side, he would have chocolate. But as I approached him, I noticed something odd, something not quite right about him.

"What are you doing!" I shouted.


As I got closer, I noticed Henners, standing there, semi-nude, peeing in the open wind. To make matters worse. He had used a snack size Hershey's Bar as a target.

I take no issue with public urination. But when someone defiles a perfectly good candy bar....well, that is just unforgivable.

Happy Halloween!

Programming note: The Steeky family is gonna party like it's 1987 and unplug from the interweb for a few days. See you all Monday!

Spin Cycle: More Than Meets The Eye

I’m not much of a trickster. I think tricks can be mean. However, I did trick Jeremy into marrying me. I constantly remind him that he promised in front of a bunch of people that he would stay with me for, like a really, really long time. Our marriage certificate is proof that he is contractually obligated to love me.

But tricks is what the newly coiffed Sprite's Keeper would like us to spin this go around on The Spin Cycle. Speaking of Sprite's Keeper, she has shiny, bouncy, new hair thanks to a pair of thinning shears. Also, when I figure out how, or even what it is, I'm going to super poke her on Facebook. Yeah, she should be warned.

So tricks, huh? You know what I want to know? What's the trick is to get those Transformer toys turned from a robot, into a car, then back into a robot without causing myself to suffer a mild brain aneurysm? I tell you folks, it’s a skill that I have yet to master. Usually, Henry has Jeremy assist him with all those complex toys with their whatsie-hoosits and fancy thingamajigs. Jeremy’s a whiz with those things and he quickly gained Henry's trust with all things small and plastic.

Henry learned early on in his life that I can’t be trusted with complex toys that require any sort of prowess to assemble. I hesitate to even bring up the Little People Barn House fiasco of ‘06. Let’s just say Henry was so traumatized by the way I handled the assembly of that particular play set that to this day, he still covers his eyes and screams whenever we pass by actual cows and horses in a pasture.

A problem arose this past weekend when Jeremy abandoned his family to stay in the wilderness for a week. He left us a car with no gas and a fridge full of nothing but bacon and tapioca pudding. (I will never let Jeremy go grocery shopping alone again. Ever.) So I grabbed the kids, gassed up the car went to the store and bought some chocolate pudding. Seriously, how does Jeremy not know by now that I don't eat tapioca pudding? It’s like he has no idea who I even am.

So, there I was at 9:00 at night, with two kids and a cart full of pudding strolling around Walmart in my snazziest track suit, (are you feeling my class?) when I made the fatal mistake of veering off course and passing by the toy section on the way to the exercise equipment. Henry spied an aisle lined with rows and rows of Transformer toys. “Hey, I have those at home!” he shouted.

"Yes, Honey, you sure do," I mindlessly replied as I searched for a Thigh Master in the fitness section. That bacon and chocolate pudding weight isn't going to come off all by itself, people.

We arrived home with pudding and a Thigh Master in hand and Henry immediately made a bee-line for his play room. About ten minutes later I heard a loud “Oh Man!” followed up quickly with a “Heck O’Friday!” (Yes, my 3-year old curses like an 80-year old woman. His best friend is his Grandma Granny, what can I expect?)

I ran down the hall and saw him standing there looking quite distressed. He caught sight of me and immediately hid his hands behind his back. Not knowing how to act casual about anything, he shouted, “Nothing! I don’t have nothing, Momma,” and tried to back away from me. After about ten minutes of coaxing and promises of lots and lots pudding, I got the little guy to show me what he was hiding behind his back.

He reluctantly held his trembling little hands toward me and revealed nothing but a Bumblebee Transformer toy. When I looked a little closer I could see that Bumblebee was missing one of his side panels. No biggie, just a little fix.

I scooped up the yellow and black toy and began manipulating it in my hands just like I’d seen Jeremy do hundreds of times. How tough could it really be?

A wheel popped off and went flying across the floor. Henry looked terrified. “Don’t worry honey, it’s supposed to do that,” I calmly told him with a smile. If he even got a hint of my nervousness, he would quickly take the toy back.

I should have known to stop when I heard a loud snap and Bumblebee’s head went rolling into my lap.

“You’re doing it wrong!” Henry shouted. This immediately broke what little concentration I had as it brought back a flood of memories from my honeymoon night with Jeremy. My husband had shouted those exact words to me over and over in that hotel suite some eight years ago.

Eventually, I calmed Henry down and worked that little plastic toy over like it was nobody's business. Sure, Henry had a horrified look on his face as I continued to pull limbs apart and snap wheels back together in places they hadn't been before. But in the end, I convinced my son, that the Bumblebee he once knew and loved was now better than ever. How many other little boys have a Transformer with an arm where the head used to be and a left front panel held on by duct tape? Not many, I bet.

The rest of the night, Henry just sat and stared in silence at his Transformer toy as he cradled it in his tiny hands. I swear I even saw tears in his eyes a few times. Surely, those were tears of joy. I had made my boy the happiest little guy in all the world. I can't be sure, but that night, as he cried himself to sleep, I think I heard him say, "Oh Bumblebee, I'm so sorry," over and over. Oh how he loves that toy. I'm just so glad I could help.

The Spin Cycle: The Rhythm is Gonna Get You

Here we are again people. The ever Eloquent Sprite’s Keeper has put forth another topic on The Spin Cycle for us to chew on and spit out at you. It’s fear. Yeah, fear. Gather round peeps, this week, I’m going to let you in on a little fear that Jeremy has. He’s desperately afraid of my dancing face. I’ll say it again. My dancing face. Let me walk you through the whole sorted story, folks.

When Jeremy and I decided to adopt, we were standing in the parking lot of an In Vitro Fertilization office. We had just left a lengthy consultation with the doctor. On the walk to the car, Jeremy and I both agreed that we’d rather be parents than pregnant. At last, a huge weight had been lifted from us.

As Jeremy and I stood there and embraced in the parking lot, ready to start our future, I took his face into my hands and looked him in the eyes and said, “At least if we adopt, our children won’t have your revolting feet.” Jeremy gently kissed me on the forehead and replied, “And they won’t inherit your hideous dancing face either.”

After that we got in our car, drove off and ate the most delicious burrito ever. The burrito has no relevance on this story, but it was just THAT GOOD.

I first became aware that I had a “dancing face” in 2000. Jeremy and I were at a big, fancy company party with a live band playing 70s funk. I was so excited. I bought myself the biggest ball gown ever and slipped on my highest pair of strappy Payless heels. (Right now Stiletto Mom is choking on her bagel while reading that I wore Payless shoes. In my defense, I was young and naive and the word Manalos wasn't yet a blip on my radar.)

Anyhoo, I couldn’t wait to shake my groove thang on that dance floor. We walked through the door and I made an immediate bee-line for the middle of the floor dragging Jeremy along with me. I proceeded to get down and jiggy with it. I was throwing down my best moves, The Cookie Jar, The Running Man. Hell, I even moon walked. In heels. No, I moon walked in CHEAP HEELS.

I was just wrapping up my best Bounce and Lean move when Jeremy grabbed me by the arm and pulled me behind two giant tower speakers in the corner. Had my wicked dance moves made me irresistible? Turns out, not so much. Jeremy pulled me aside because he had got his first whiff of my dancing face.

Jeremy: What are you doing with your face?

Me: What do you mean? (still dancing)

Jeremy: Are you doing that on purpose? It’s really freaking me out. Why do you frown and wince when you dance? Do you mean to stick your tongue out the far? Did you know that your eyes go all crossed when you dance?

I ignored him and just kept on hustling out there on the dance floor. Jeremy just backed away and stood, staring at me from the sidelines along with a small crowd of his co-workers gawking in my direction.

The next day, we had my parents over for brunch and I brought up the subject of my dancing face. My mom put her fork down and looked at me nervously. “Honey, I think the time has come that we have a little talk.”

My mom went on to explain that she and my father had discovered my dancing face “condition” at an early age. When I was three years old, my parents enrolled me in a beginners dance class. At the first recital, they noticed my face would contort into an odd expression when I performed on the stage with the other little girls. As I got older, it just got worse. My mom said that by age seven I had developed the most severe case of “white girl overbite” that anyone had ever seen. She even took me to a few specialists, professional choreographers of sorts, to see if they could help me. None could. They all felt my dancing face deformity had just progressed too far.

“Mom, what about the box full of ribbons I have for dance competitions?” I demanded.

“Those are Participant ribbons, honey,” she gently replied.

“Yeah, but they don’t just hand those out willy-nilly do they?” I asked.

Tears formed in my mom’s eyes as she explained to me that every little girl received a Participant ribbon with their registration packet.

“But remember how I won fifth place in the individual dance competition in grade school?” I protested. My mom explained that even though placing fifth was quite an achievement, only four little girls had entered.

My dad suddenly pulled a picture out of his coat pocket. He handed it to me across the table. “Here, sweetie, take a look at this,” he said. I looked down to see he was holding my prom picture from 1990. "Wow, my hair was really bad back then," was my first thought. But then I saw past the high bangs, past the bad perm and focused on my face. There it was, my ugly dancing face.

My dad has yet to offer a reasonable explanation as to why he carries my prom picture around in his pocket. But that's for another day.

From then on, Jeremy ran our house like that mean dad in Footloose. Music was kept to a minimum at our place. If I wanted to dance he asked that I do so in the bedroom behind closed doors. Sometimes, when we was out of town, I would get in the car, turn the radio up really loud and just jam out. When the cat’s away, the mice will play.

In 2004, we were blessed with the arrival of Henry in our lives. And as fate would have it, Henry came to us with superior dancing genes. His birth mother was a breakdancer. I’m. Not. Kidding. A breakdancer with very good-looking feet, I might add. Double jackpot! Jeremy and I were high fiving all over the joint.

At eighteen months, Henry could cut a serious rug. When he heard music, he was out on the dance floor shakin’ his little money maker. People would stop and comment on what a coordinated little boy we had. “He’s definitely got the rhythm!” Jeremy would respond. I, on the other hand, was quick to point out to total strangers how handsome Henry’s feet looked in open-toed sandals. We each had our own priorities.

About six months ago, I began spending a lot more time working on my dancing face in private. I would tell the kids, “Mommy’s going upstairs to rehearse! I’m locking the door.” Jeremy would just smile and nod. I was beginning to think my dancing face was improving with time. My white girl overbite had noticeably receded, my squinty eyes were definitely less prominent. I was ready to show Jeremy my progress.

A few nights ago, after both children were tucked away in bed, I pulled Jeremy and my portable boom box into the kitchen. I qued up Milkshake by Kelis’ (my practice song of choice) and launched into my self-choreographed routine that I had been perfecting over the past two years.

Before Kelis’ had even reached the first chorus about her milkshake bringing all the boys to the yard, Jeremy stopped me. “No, no, no! It’s all wrong, Jen! Your mouth contortions have grown worse. When did you add that wink? Why do you keep sticking your tongue out when you moon walk? And WHY do you think it’s still acceptable to moon walk?” He shouted.

I stood there, looking at him defeated. I thought I was doing so much better. I had been working hard, practicing nightly in front of our full-length mirror.

Just then, we heard a rustle from around the corner. Jeremy and I sneaked down the ahll to investigate. We found Henry huddled in a large box spying on us. He poked his head out from the top of the box and gave us a little grin.

“What are you doing up?” Jeremy quizzed him.

“I heard mommy’s dancing music and I wanted to come dance,” he answered.

Henry then began bouncing and clapping to the rhythm, even throwing in a bootie slap here and there. I was so caught up in the ease and grace of his movements that I totally overlooked his face at first. But eventually my eyes made their way upward and saw Henry making the very same dancing face that I have.

Jeremy and I shrieked at the same time and grabbed on to one another. Jeremy cried, “No, son, no! Not you too!”

Yes, it seems that Jeremy’s greatest fear had come true. The rhythm had gotten Henry. He had inherited my dancing face.

Jeremy turned to me and held my face in his hands. As tears rimmed his eyes he croaked, “Well, at least he still has good-looking feet.”

The Spin Cycle: Unorthodox Therapy Sessions

This week’s Spin Cycle, hosted by The Amazing Sprite’s Keeper is Anger Management. I must admit, I rolled this topic around in my head for a while. Not wanting to burden everyone out there with a long list of my anger issues, I did what any sensible person would do. I secretly dipped into our savings, went on an undeserved shopping spree and hired a clinical therapist to watch our family interact with each other. That way, with professional help, all four of us could get to the bottom of our anger issues.

Unfortunately, I blew too much money on clothes so I had to hire someone off Craig’s List instead. A guy named Cody answered my ad within minutes. When he showed up, Jeremy demanded proof of his credentials. He was suspicious of a therapist wearing a hoodie asking if he could set up a half-pipe in our driveway. Did you know you there was such a thing as a TV/VCR Repair-Psychology Degree? Cody said he did everything through the mail in just under 4 weeks. A double major, huh? I was impressed.

Cody, who insisted we call him "The Codester", interviewed each family member separately. I thought it a little odd that he used kitchen napkins for a notepad, but who was I to question a real doctor? I copy/pasted his report below. I haven’t had a chance to proof it yet. Let's read The Codester's findings together, shall we?

**********
Steenky Bee Family: A Family With Issues. BIG TIME.

Subject: Reese
Age: Almost a year? (Guessing)
Observations: Don’t get me wrong, Reese is cool and all, but she’s just a baby. How the hell am I supposed to diagnose her? She’s just sitting there babbling and drooling. When I answered her mom’s ad in Craig’s list I thought she said "Expert in Danger Habits Wanted" (online game about mercenaries) not "Expert in Anger Management". But whatevs, I’m getting paid so I’ll stick around. Why does Reese have that focused look on her face? Pew. Reese dropped a stink bomb in her shorts. I don’t do diapers.
Diagnosis: Unwilling to communicate, inconsiderate, a drooler

Subject: Henry

Age: I dunno. (He just keeps holding up a bunch of fingers and saying “This many!”)
Observations: Henry seems like a cool little dude. Why does he keep asking me to change his transformer into a car and then back into a robot and then back into a car? Make up your mind already. Henry did NOT like it when I TOTALLY HOSED HIM in Mario Cart. Oh yeah, he's a bawler when he loses. Buck up little dude, cause I just totally won my SEVENTH GAME IN A ROW! Uh-oh. He just ran off because I shouted “Who’s the man! Who’s the man!” in his face. I bet he’s totally telling on me.
Diagnosis: Sore loser, tattler

Subject: Jeremy

Age: I dunno, but I could totally take him.
Observations: Jeremy is a total a**hat. He keeps eyeing me up and down and asking me what I’m trying to pull showing up like this. Trust issues much? Note to self: Jeremy DOES NOT like me asking questions about his wife. What’s the harm in asking what she wears to bed? Dude needs to chillax.
Diagnosis: Paranoid, jealous of my coolness, intimidated by me, trust issues (big time)

Subject: Jen

Age: Won’t say. Is she flirting with me?
Observation: I’m cool with her not telling me how old she is. Hello, Mrs. Robinson! Me digs me a cougar lady. Rawr. How can I score her digits? Ugh. Why does she keep talking? She just said, “I just want to talk about my feeeeelings.”

She just stopped me from texting on my phone to ask me what I think about her anger issues. How should I know? I'M NOT LISTENING TO YOU. I told her to “Lose the zero and get with the hero”. She just gave me a funny look. I bet she’s into me.

Diagnosis: Secretive, totally wants me, talks WAY too much

I'm outta here - The Codester

**********

In the end, I think our therapy was a success. Although Cody was a little unorthodox in his approach, he did offer me some solid advice. I think he told me that I should see myself as a hero or something. I’m not quite sure how to do that exactly, but Cody keeps texting me asking me to meet up with him. I’ll ask him when I see him next exactly what he meant. He keeps mentioning something about Oz Fest. Have any of you heard of this? I can only assume it's some new fangled approach to dealing with my anger. I can't wait to find out.