Don't Hate Me Because I Can Pass For A Mexican

So I went to a spa party the other night, hosted by my hair stylist Lez. I'd known about the party ever since I almost killed her dog, and was really excited to get my feet massaged and try nice smelly lotions and stuff. But I also knew that I was stepping into the Danger Zone of Cute Trendy Marrieds with Unbelievably Cute and Trendy Hair.

The last time I entered The Danger Zone was a few months ago when Lez asked me to be a substitute in her monthly Bunko group. My response was, "What's Bunko, and will there be food?"

I brought my friend Nicole along (the very same Nicole from the food smuggling incident at the movie theater) and was really excited for a night of pampering. But I knew that maybe I was a little out of place when we had to go around and say what group we fell into when it came to our beauty / facial care regimen. I don't remember the clever names of each group, but it basically broke us down into four kinds of people: those who have a whole line of products and religiously use them, those who have a whole ton of products and use them every once in a while, those who have a few products and try to use them routinely, and those who have no products and don't care.

I was one of two people in the last group. The other lady is bursting with pregnancy, so she has an excuse. Apparently, I have no excuse for having "a face you can fry bacon on". Apparently, I'm disgusting because I usually don't wash off my eye makeup for "three to five days". Apparently, some of the girls were grossed out by my "bacteria-infested facial hygene".

When I read it now, I realize how gross it really sounds. But I don't think I'm alone out there when I say that I'd rather watch "Hogan Knows Best" reruns than take half an hour to wash my face. And according to these gals, "washing your face" is not just washing your face. Apparently there's a whole routine and regimen to it. And it's no longer OK to use a wash cloth for washing your face. Who knew. This all seems a bit over kill to the girl who uses TP and spit to wipe off her eye liner.

Well, thats just me. It really just boils down to the fact that I'm lazy and don't feel like washing my face every night. But in my own defense, I do use the Equate facial wipes to get off the really gunky mascara. It's a good thing I went to the spa party, otherwise I wouldn't have had the chance to learn the extreme error of my ways.

I had no choice but to subscribe to the theory that they all hated my appalling regimen because despite my lack of care, I have kinda OK skin. Its by no means flawless, but in general its pretty clear. I'd probably hate me too if I was the girl who spent $400 on products and took an hour each night "washing" my face and still had breakouts, and then meet someone else who hardly washes their makeup off and see that they have OK skin.

Or maybe I'm just tan enough that you can't tell how bad my skin is, hence my addicition to natural sunlight. My tanorexic plan was going perfectly until I went to Costa Vida (the poor man's Cafe Rio) for lunch with Jen, my Guatemalan co-worker who also speaks fluent Spanish. Jen ordered before me, and the hispanic guys behind the counter spoke perfect, flawless English to her. But when I stepped forward, I thought I was going both deaf and crazy because I couldn't understand a word they were saying to me.

It only took a second before I realized that they were speaking in Spanish to me. I pulled my traditional deer-in-the-headlights move as the guy kept asking me something crazy about cheese. I looked desperately at Jen for help, who couldn't do anything because she was laughing too hard. For some reason, I spoke unnecessarily loud and slow as I said, "I don't speak Spanish - she does!!!", then pointed to Jen. The guy behind the counter then exchanged some kind of witty banter in Spanish with Jen (I can only assume it was witty banter because clearly I am not hispanic and clearly I do not understand Spanish, but they were having a hearty laugh about it.)

As Jen wiped the tears from her eyes, she kindly explained that the guy said he spoke Spanish to me because he thought I was Latina. He didn't think that she, the Guatemalan girl was Hispanic. Apparently I can pass for a mexican better than the real thing. Not that there's anything wrong with that - I just stayed out of the sun for the next few days.

The point of that story is to defend my natural tan-ness, and thus defend my lack of a facial cleansing routine. Of course when I told the spa party gals that I never wear sunscreen either, I was nearly chased out by the angry mob with pitch forks. Don't be jelly because I'm doing irreversible damage to my skin and you're not.

I'd also like to give a shout-out to my Lebanese cul'churd heritage - the only real reason for my OK skin.

As a side note, I learned today that you should never talk to your boss, Curtis, when you have a mouth full of Almond Joy. Otherwise, you might accidentally call him "coitus".

Put That In Your Pipe

So now that the Baby Bone news is out and I'm going to be Aunt Bone Junior, I've decided to begin cracking open my eggs of knowledge for everyone to benefit from. Three important things I've learned this week:

1. If on Sunday night you have really bad rotten egg gas and you stifle it with a fleece Elvis blanket so that no one else will smell it, on Tuesday night everyone in the room will smell the really bad rotten egg gas that has been stifled under the blanket when you lift it up off the floor. Hypothetically. And then the blanket will no longer be known as the Elvis blanket, it will be called the Stinky Fart blanket. Also hypothetically.

2. If on Sunday morning you tell a guy online that you're craving french toast and boysenberry jam, on Wednesday afternoon you might receive a FedEx package from Texas filled with french toast and boysenberry preserves. Seriously, the coolest package I've ever gotten. I think I'm going to frame the french toast.... or do I eat it and salmonella be damned? I'll keep you posted.

3. Apparently, the following Baby Bone name suggestions are not OK: Milton Bazookashorts Milmont, Exploding Bone Soldier Milmont, Ferdinand Hammertoe Milmont, Foghorn Kilimanjaro Milmont, Rusty Tuberculosis Milmont, and Paul.

In other office hijinks news, you all probably know by now that I work for a construction company. Our sales & marketing guy, Dennis, recently sent out the following company-wide email:

Superintendents/Project Managers:

If you have any grocery store experience at all, will you please email me the name of the project, location, and your role in the project? I am trying to get prequalified for some grocery store work and need this information. Your prompt response would greatly appreciated.

Thanks,
Dennis

I promptly responded with the following run-on sentence:

Dennis –

Having been a single person all my life, I feel like I have vast grocery store experience. One time, I went to Smith’s with my roommate, and we were standing in front of the peanuts when this guy from my ward walked around the corner, and I had a huge crush on him at the time, and I couldn’t even talk to him because I thought he was so cute, and he smelled so good, so I just stared straight ahead at the peanuts and pretended like I was deeply concerned with the nutritional value of cashews versus almonds, and didn’t move for like five minutes while he was in the aisle near me. Is that a good grocery store experience?

I hope this was helpful.

-Bone Junior

I felt so witty and clever and was sure that Dennis would have no response to my cleverness. However, not five minutes later, I received the following response:

Bone Junior -

EXCELLENT! Next time, try knocking the bottle of peanuts off on the floors so it will break. Then the cute guy from your ward will come over to help and you can have a special “ice breaking moment” right there on aisle 9! Let me know how that works out for you!

I hope this was helpful.

Dennis

I think I dug my own grave on this one, because now every time I see Dennis, he asks if I've tried the peanut trick. He also told everyone at my work that I freeze like a deer in the headlights when I see a cute guy. Then all the married people point and laugh, and I forlornly walk away in shame, because they're right.

Where did my game go??

See? I Really CAN Keep a Secret!

To Barbie, Andi, Gloriana & Erin:

Proud Mama

There comes a time in every mama's life when they send their little baby chicks out into the world and hope they can swim. Wait... am I crossing my metaphors? I should've consulted the Master of Metaphoric Speech before I attempted this one.

My point being that my baby, Samuel, my sweet little mannequin head, was sent out in the world a few months ago with nothing more than a box full of packing peanuts and a head full of dreams of becoming something.

The first stop on his road to fast cars and freedom was Connecticut, after which he made his way across the country to California with G, securely strapped into the back windshield of her car. This morning, I was thrilled to see that Samuel has made a second stop in Tejas. I'm not sure if my little heart can handle much more joy. He wanted to see the world, go places, and experience all that a caveman head could experience. His dreams were too big for an office in Orem. Now, thanks to UPS, his dreams have come true. I’ve never seen him happier than he is in those photos.

In honor of the fact that he is about to become an international tourist *keeping my fingers crossed* I thought I'd share my last memory of Samuel.
Samuel's last stunt in Utah, as the Bizarro Compass that always faced south. One of my bosses walked into his office to find this gruesome sight. Then he yelped like a little girl.

IN MEMORIAM

Somewhere in Oregon circa 2005. R.I.P. Suzie-Kin, even though you got your face melted and scratched off in a parking lot.

Do Not Trust Me With Your Pets

Last weekend was exhausting, to say the least. Being the token single person in my group of friends, I was double-booked as a pet-sitter. I was staying at Lezlie's house to watch her boxer, Rosie; and also was stopping in at Ryan & Erin's house to feed Chuck.

This is the third time I've dog-sat for Lezlie, who is convinced that I don't actually stay at her house because she can find no evidence of human hair on the bathroom floor or in the shower when she comes back. (In my own defense, I cannot stand the sight or feel of stray hairs on the bathroom floor, so I take care to clean up after myself.) I warned her that next time I'm going to leave a Dreaded Double Dookie floating in her toilet just to prove that I was there.

I love staying with Rosie. She is sweet and cuddly and adorable, and really easy to watch. Lez and Mike only give me two rules to follow: 1. No looking at porn on Mike's computer, and 2. No stealing cowboy hats. Easy enough. But every time I've dog-sat, something has happened, and each time, I feel like Lez will never trust me again to be with her dog. For example, last time Rosie got all these weird cuts and scratches on her muzzle. I swore to them that I wasn't scraping Rosie's face with a fork, but deep down, I think they weren't quite sure...

I thought this time I'd get away clean with no mishaps, but then on Sunday, I noticed that Rosie's eye looked a little swollen. She was rubbing her face on the carpet and scratching a lot, and I figured she'd just gotten stung by something - no big deal, right? I even put an ice pack on her eye to help with the swelling. Lez was coming back the next day, so I really didn't think too much of it.

In the meantime, later that day I went to check on Chuck, but Chuck was nowhere to be found. I walked through the house calling him in a high-pitched "Mow mow!!! Mister Chuckles! Mister Chuckney! Mow mow moowwwwww!" but he never came out. Just then, the neighbors upstairs kindly informed me that they had seen Chuck OUTSIDE on Saturday and that he'd run into the woods. Great. Apparently, the door to the garage had been left open and that's how Chuck had escaped. So he'd been living in the wild for 2 days before I knew that he was gone.

For those of you who don't realize the seriousness of my situation at this point, let me elaborate. Chuck is like a child to Ryan and Erin. Any time they go out of town, I'm Chuck sitting. He is more pampered and needy than most small children that I know, but I love Chuck. Even more than that, Erin and Ryan LOVE Chuck, and if anything happened to him on my watch, I'd probably have to give them my first born son, and even that wouldn't come close to making up for the loss of Chuck. Even if my first born was named Chuck and then given to them, it wouldn't come close.

After a painful phone call to Erin (who didn't belive me that Chuck was gone, and actually started to get mad because "Do you think this is funny?!?!?") I dragged myself home, feeling like a failure. Actually, I drove myself home and stopped for a Slurpee on the way, proving once again that I have no soul. I fell onto Lez's luxurious new chaise lounge and finished watching the Eagles game, feeling crappier and crappier by the second.

So I did what I always do when I screw up - I called my level headed, always-rational sister and cried to her while I simultaneously drowned my sorrows in a Burger King milkshake. But before you shed a tear for poor Chuck, rest assured that he did come home that night after Erin & Ryan came back. When I told my level headed, always-rational sister the good news, she said, "I told you so. Chuck's too spoiled to ever become feral." Thanks, Bone Senior.

On Monday, I scoured Lez's house for any rogue hairs and packed up my stuff to leave. They weren't going to be home until 7pm, but I figured that Rosie would be OK while I was at work, and I wouldn't need to go back over. Her eye still looked a little swollen, but she wasn't acting weird or anything, so I wrote a note telling Lez that I'd spent all weekend looking at porn on Mike's computer and also that I'd stolen some hole-y socks. In the note, I also mentioned Rosie's swollen eye, and that it might be an allergic reaction to the corn dogs I'd fed her. And I always sign my notes, "Seacrest out."

Lez called me on their way back from the airport, and I, being the responsible pet-sitter that I am, informed her of the eye situation, but told her that I didn't think it was a big deal. She said she'd call me after they got home and let me know how Rosie looked.

An episode of Prison Break, and two episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia later, I was listening to a somber voicemail message from Lez: "Sair" (we have cool, one-syllable nicknames for eachother) "It's Lez....we're at the vet with Rosie now, the vet says she was bitten by a black widow spider. She's going to be OK, we're just lucky we got her here in time."

While I tried to swallow my tremendous guilt, I called and texted Lez but she never answered. I was panicked and texted that I would pay for the vet bill, and I was so so sorry, etc. So I called Erin and cried to her about what a terrible pet-sitter I was because I lost Chuck and I almost killed Rosie, and where was I going to find another hair stylist because surely Lezlie wouldn't do my hair anymore after I almost killed her dog, and on and on and on. Many sniffles and snot bubbles later, I had cried myself to sleep on my Elvis pillow. Because I was responsible for the near-death of a dog and I had to find a new hair stylist.

Before you shed a tear for poor me, rest assured that there is a happy ending to this sad tale. I woke up at 6:30 the next morning to a text message from Lezlie: "We didn't think you would believe us, Mike thought it would be funny to play a joke on you."

Well.

How do you like them apples?? I blame it all on Mike.

Sure we laugh about it now, and we spent a good few hours hanging out that night with Mike and Lez, laughing about it. More like laughing at me for being such a sensitive crybaby about it. They said they felt really bad, and when I told Lez that I had cried myself to sleep, she said, "Awwwww! You cried because you love Rosie and you were worried about her!"

You'd cry too if you thought you had to find a new hair stylist.

Just one question.... In what sick, twisted, bizarro world does it SNOW less than two weeks after Labor Day??

Caution! Food Smuggler Ahead!

I had a near death experience at the movies this weekend. I was approaching the concession stand in my brand new, high quality $2.50 flip flops from Old Navy, when a greasy butter stain appeared out of nowhere and caught me completely off guard.

I could've played if off very easily, but here's the thing about me: when I slip, stumble, trip, fall, or otherwise make an ass of myself, I seem to lose all control over my vocal capacities, and the most horrendous sounds are produced. Its the pefect blend of the TiVo "be boop" and a moose mating call, and it attracts the attention of everyone in a 90 foot radius.

Luckily, this time I escaped humiliation - sort of - by catching myself before I completely biffed it in the greasy butter, and holding myself in the spread-out sqaut position with arms extended to steady myself. Unfortunately, the TiVo Moose Mating Call had drawn attention to me, and I felt the need to defend myself by pointing out to everyone that there was greasy butter on the floor. I even made a big stink about it to the teenager behind the counter, pointing to the oil slick and raving like an old lady. "This is very dangerous! I almost broke my hip!" In return, I had a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign erected in my honor.

I think the real reason I felt the need to defend myself so vehemently is because had I actually fallen, I probably would've been thrown out of the theater for smuggling contraband food items. Normally, we hit the dollar store and stock up on Buncha Crunch before going to the movies, and sneaking in candy like that is no biggie. But it became a challenge for me to see how much I could actually fit in my purse, and Buncha Crunch just wasn't doing it for me anymore.

But this was to be the day that Fink beats the Stomach*. On this particular day, I felt like I was a drug mule attempting to achieve the ultimate smuggle. This day, I had a Subway hoagie and a box of Panda Express chinese food wrapped up in my huge purse. (Before you jump to conclusions, this food did not all belong to me. My partner in crime, however, "conveniently" forgot her "purse"...mmm hmmm.)

As a credit to my dexterity and finely tuned balance, I was able to maintain the secrecy of my stash, as well as my dignity. I also make no apologies to the other movie-goers who had to smell the Panda Express. Maybe next time they'll plan ahead and not have to salivate with jealousy.

* Bonus points to anyone who can correctly identify that movie reference...

Open Casting Call for Comments

Like Tanto before me, I've decided to jump on it and allow anonymous comments to be posted to my blog. So comment away, all you fuzzy-faced, voice-altered strangers!

A Special Kind of Stupid

Last night, strange things were afoot at the Circle-K. I was getting ready for bed at 1:30 AM, and went out to my car to get my purse. I was surprised to find a guy in the front of the house, lying in the flower beds next to my driveway, unconscious. Yes, you heard correctly – I was going to bed at 1:30 AM on a Saturday night. Lame, I know.

There were two other guys there – one was sitting in his car in the middle of the street, ready to peel off at a moment’s notice, and the other was kneeling over Unco Guygo, clapping in front of his face and lifting his arms in a pumping motion – I assume these were all feeble attempts to revive him. Concerned Friend told me that Unco Guygo had been long boarding down our street, had “a bit of trouble” navigating the turn in front of our house, and had rolled a few times and hit his head on the concrete.

[A bit of trouble? Our house is at the end of the block, with a 90 degree, uphill turn in front of us that loops back around to the next row of houses. It’s an oval. A paved, sharp, asphalty, loose-gravelly oval. Next to our house is a steep drop off the mountain. Literally. Off. The. Mountain. No guard rail, no nothing except Mohammed and the mountain. Good luck, long boarders – enjoy the view on the way down.]

After a minute, it was obvious that Friend #1 and The Transporter were increasingly nervous that Unco Guygo wasn’t waking up. Who knew that clapping and arm pumping won’t necessarily revive an unconscious person? Will wonders never cease? I asked them if they needed help, and the response was, “No, he’s OK, I’ve already checked him out. He’s just a little slow getting up.”

So I did what any concerned citizen would do – I ran downstairs to tell my roommates that there was an unconscious guy in the flower bed, and we took up post at my bedroom window, next to my life-size Elvis stand-up. By the time we got back there, Unco Guygo was still unco, except that Concerned Friend and The Transporter were awkwardly lifting him into the car. It was kind of eerie to see two guys carrying a body like that and stuffing / strapping him into the front seat. After the placement was successful, The Transporter collected Unco Guygo’s strewn belongings (wallet, keys, front teeth), pulled on his leather driving gloves while looking around maniacally, and peeled out. And just like that, they were gone.

It was at this moment when I began to wonder if Unco Guygo had just hit the pavement and rolled, or if maybe he had hit my car in the fall - which was parked at such an angle that I could easily imagine Unco Guygo flailing uncontrollably around the corner and painting his face with my bumper before doing the duck and cover into the flowers. We went outside to inspect the damage, found none except for the tell-tale skid marks into the dirt, and stood around for a few minutes wondering if we should do anything.

We finally decided that all we could do is watch the news for any reports of rogue long boarders with a serious case of road rash. Hopefully, that whole arm-pumping revival tactic paid off for them.

On a side note, a movie is being filmed at the old county jail next to where I work. I'm determined to get in the movie somehow. Am considering throwing empty diet pepsi cans at the craft service people...

Guilty Pleasures and Retarded Tingles

Am I the only person left who hates Paris Hilton? I've never liked her. I've seen four seconds of The Simple Life, and that's only because my clicker got stuck. She's the Bizarro Penelope Cruz, and they can both go stick their long-necked ostrich heads in the sand for all I care.

So when the guys in my office were soiling themselves over her new single, you'll understand when I say that I was less than interested. But being the good sport that I am, I obliged them to try and listen to their latest iTunes purchase.

I listened long enough to realize that Paris' voice was more digitized than Phil Collins, which was all the time I needed to give me one more reason to dislike her. I left their office thinking, "There's thirty seconds of my life that I'll never get back ", and resumed hanging up the latest Tiger Beat J.T.T. heartthrob poster in my cubicle.

Not long after, I walked into a movie theater and caught myself fake dancing and humming along to a catchy song. I knew it sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.... Ashlee Simpson? No, too upbeat. Hillary Duff? Nope, too breathy and digital....Wait.....digital? BINGO. That's when I knew, and that's when I hated myself, and that's when my nipper was raised with retarded tingles for myself.

I hate myself for loving Paris' new song, and I hated myself even more when my roommate burned me a CD and I jumped for joy because Stars Are Blind was included in the mix. Loving her song goes against everything I believe in and shakes me to the core.

I'm not normally caught off guard this way, so imagine my surprise when I kept hearing another song on the radio that I love love LOVED, but had no idea who it was - until I cranked it up at work, and "someone" snobbily informed me that it was *gasp* Nick Lachey.

I turned down the volume and publicly snubbed The Lachey, so as not to blow my cover, but between you and me, I was secretly stoked that it was him. Ever since I rocked out to 98 Degrees...and Rising, Mr. Ex-Jessica Simpson has always had a place in my heart.

However, I must not be doing a good job at hiding my secret guilty pleasures from my roommate - The Lachey was also included in the mix CD.

Show Me Your Calvins

After seeing Invincible (twice) this weekend, it has to be said.
The tshirt was created for one purpose: to magnify Mark Wahlberg's arms in all their glory and splendor.

He doesn't just wear the tshirt. Not this leader of the Funky Bunch. He beats that tshirt into submission until the seams stretch and scream with pain - the kind of pain that hurts so good. Then he tells that tshirt to make him a sandwich, and the tshirt asks, "Mayo or mustard, sir?"

Cases in point, see Here, here, here, and most definitely here.

It's not that I don't take him seriously as an actor, its just that I've never wanted to be a tshirt so badly in my entire life.

Seeing Mark Wahlberg like this makes me forgive him for Planet of the Apes. But as for The Funky Bunch, no apology needed, Marky Mark. I still have your cassette tape, and Donnie's got nothing on you.

Going down?

I'm not a fan of elevators. Not because I'm claustrophobic or anything, I just hate the painfully awkward moments that are unavoidable in the elevator. Especially when those painfully awkward moments involve your boss and other higher-ups.

Working on the top floor of a corporate building, I'm forced to take the elevator everyday. If I'm not wearing heels, I'll take the stairs, but I choose to take the elevator because the less opportunities I have to trip or stumble in my heels, the better.

Riding down at the end of the day is the worst, because I inevitably end up sharing the elevator with other people, usually middle-aged business men, and I spend the entire ride basking in the retarded tingles I get for them. The guys I work with are fine - its the stragglers that we pick up along the way that really get the tingles going. Yesterday, I could only close my eyes and shake my head in shame when I had to listen to two guys exchange the all-too-familiar Dumb and Dumber reportoire - "Big gulps, eh? Well, see ya later!" Grooooooaaaaaaaaaaaannnnn..... I wanted to tell Bachelor #1 that his trendy-spiked-platinum-dyed hair and ultra-pastel lavender shirt were too much for his own good, not to mention the use of The Big Gulps line. But I guess its not his fault, he's simply too cool for his own good as well.

The problem with elevator conversation is that you know its all fake, so why bother investing? The ride is too short to get comfortable, and small talk only stretches so far. The only satisfaction I get is the looks on their faces as they smell the remnants of my SBD from two floors ago. I can't imagine being an elevator operator (do they even still have those?) and constantly having to feign interest in the weather or continuously making lame jokes. It's painful. It's awkward. It's painfully awkward.

I wish I could come up with witty yet disturbing sentiments to share in the elevator, but I freeze in the wake of everyone else's fumblings. I wish I would get hit on or something so that I had an opportunity to throw out one of my zingers (much like the time in Memphis, when an old British man leaned against me and said, "That's not a gun in my pocket" - SERIOUSLY - to which I promptly replied, "That's not a gun in mine, either" just before I vomited in my mouth.)

Sadly, I think my elevator friends are destined to remain always that: the ships of brief, shallow relationships that keep the corporate world going...minus the SBD part.

Remember That One Time I Went Slummin...

Now that I've returned to the real world, I feel its my duty to report on all the strange sightings and encounters from Memphis, as if the pictures didn't say enough. I should preface this account by saying how much I loved the south and its natives, because without them, I'd have nothing to blog about.

We knew our trip would be interesting when we entered southern Virginia and saw the confederate flags waving freely and proudly. We stopped off at a roadside souveneir stand which was not unlike a broke down shack complete with hillbilly in overalls on the front porch. We politely poked around the junk outside (your usual garden-variety gnomes and bird feeders), and were about to sneak away unscathed when the hillbilly yelled to us, "AY! Ya'll ever seen a live bobcat??" After much persuasion - ok, not that much persuasion, after all, I hadn't seen a bobcat - we went into the store to see the hillbilly's bobcat.

We followed the hillbilly through stacks of rattlesnake skins and "Virginia is for Lovers" t-shirts until we found ourselves in a back room, with the hillbilly yelling out "BOBBY!!!!! BOBBY!!!!" This was a clever hillbilly - naming his pet Bobby the Bobcat.

Now, I know you're thinking that we must've been some kind of stupid to follow the hillbilly into the back room of his store (I've seen Deliverance), but I ask you, when was the last time you had the opportunity to see a real live bobcat up close and personal? Besides, the hillbilly (named George) assured me that he was no perv, and warned me not to soil myself on his linoleum.

At this point in the story, while George searched for his bobcat, I turned to Johanna and said, "If his 'bobcat' looks like a penis, I'm out of here..." because I had no idea what I'd see coming out of that room. My heart was thumping and I really did pee a little when a tiny, striped, baby kitty came bounding into the room. The only bobcat-like thing about it was that it had no tail. I knew then that I was dealing with a whole nother kind of crazy down in the south.

After escaping with our lives and carnal treasures intact, we listened to some banjo music on the porch with George, afterwhich he showed off his prized rattlesnake skins and shoved their fangs into our faces - afterwhich I had a brief panic attack and told him that I really didn't want those things in my face. We left with gifts of cheap paper fans, Virginia key chains, yellow tomatoes, and a new found resolve to walk away the next time someone asks if we want to see their bobcat.

And that was just the first few hours of our trip. The folks in the south proved to be every bit as entertaining as I'd hoped. Some of my favorite sound bites:

When I asked the redneck from St. Louis about why he had a tattoo of a hammerhead shark, he said, "Cause its kewl." Enough said.

The cashier at a gas station in Tennessee, after Johanna purchased ephedra: "Ya'll be careful with that, it landed me in the hospital. I have a heart murmer, and my daddy's had fiiiiive heart attacks, and TWO triple-bypass surgeries. We just found out he's got the syphallis - ya'll heard of that? That STD? He caught it from my mama - she's been sleepin around on him for some time."

At which point Johanna asked, "Is it treatable?"

To which the cashier replied, "Oh yeah! They can treat everything cept the herpes and AIDS nowadays. So ya'll be careful if ya ain't married, cause you can catch the syphallis."

The woman behind me in line at Graceland, picking up bits of trash, "What is with all this traysh? Show some respect! This is ELVIS HOUSE!"

And my personal favorite: A redneck at a Waffle House in Mississippi, on his cell phone having an argument with his girlfriend: "I didn't call you FAT, I just said I like fat chicks!"

An Ode to Elvis Tribute Artists

All of these sightings were from the candlelight vigil on Tuesday night. All of them looked like Elvis from a distance, but as you'll see, the darkness was deceiving.


We realized that this kid's name is Austin, not Justin, when we saw him at the candlelight vigil.








"Hey Elvises!" *click*



This one was from Bethlehem PA. Johanna wasn't impressed: "Where did he get that belt...Kohls?? It doesn't even look like an Elvis belt!"








By far, my favorite picture.

His name was Clarke, and he wore New Balance sneakers with his jumpsuit. Johanna also told him that he smelled better than most of the other Elvises.






I liked this Elvis because he wasn't too sweaty, he smelled good, and he wore purple.





This Elvis was spotted pushing a baby stroller down Elvis Presley Blvd.









This Elvis was from Brazil and he kissed us.


This Elvis was from Israel, and none other than the same one we saw at the dance party.


And this Elvis was just plain sweaty.

Don't Ever Call Them Impersonators

Our first Elvis sighting! In the words of Johanna, "He was really sweaty and moist." I tried to keep a safe distance, aside from being smashed into his pit for this picture.

This was to be the first of many many pictures we took with Elvis Tribute Artists - I learned not to call them "impersonators", because they don't really like that. At all. And they've got a mouthful of peanut butter and banana to prove it.

The tribute artists we saw came in all shapes and sizes, and it was amazing how they all looked like Elvis from a distance, but once you got up close, it was a whole nother thang. Regardless, our goal was to get pictures with as many as we could, and I think we succeeded. Most of them turned up for the candlelight vigil on Tuesday night, and I was like a fat kid in a candy shop - running around, begging for pictures.






One of the many Elvis karaoke performers. This is one grandma who is not afraid to accessorize.








The dog's name is Tinkerbell, and what else really needs to be said?

I didn't get a chance to talk to her for very long, I was too busy getting Elvis' face airbrused onto my shoulder...










Outside Sun Studio, where Elvis first recorded.

















The motel where Martin Luther King Jr. was shot.


The most awesome painting in Graceland. My flash accidentally went off while I was taking this one, and I got yelled at by one of the Flashers - people who's sole purpose is to yell at the dumb tourists who use their flashes. I especially love the wisps made of clouds and dreams around his feet... he looks like THE original pimp.

In My Element

The Dolly Parton bridge in Tennessippi






My life is now complete.

Living it up in Maimphas

This is the fake name I'm using here...

Taking pictures of Asians taking pictures of Asians at the Jack Daniel's distillery.














My first official fried peanut butter and banana sandwich.












Oh shoot. Check out her bling, and yes that's a real tattoo.




















Fancy and big haired at the official Elvis Tribute Week Dance Party, posing with a young impersonator.











Who's that pretty little thang down in the jungle room?










Bee boop! Bee boop! Modeling the latest in puffy paint fashion - the back says "A little more action..." Does it get any more classy than that?

Roadtripping to Memphis

A photo journal of our escapade to Memphis:



We went all out, right from the start. The ribbon tied to the antenna (lovingly named "Flapper") says "ELVIS LIVES". Also notice the high-class fabric pictures of Elvis' pelvis taped to the side windows.









Scotland, PA.

Although it looks like I'm getting all up ons, I'm actually doing a "cheerio / old chap / pip-pip / chimney sweep" scottish thing. Also I'm saying, "Allo, guv-nuh!"











Somewhere in old Vuh-GIN-yuh, a restaurant serves Mule Burgers... also known as a bologna sandwich. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.








Johanna set up her camera on the roof of the car and had to run really fast to get in the picture. It took a few tries to get this one right.







Me and Ol' Jack Daniel in Lynchburg, TN.

My only souvenier from the Jack Daniel's distillery... an empty box that says Jack Daniel's Distillery. That, and some kind of confectionary goodness called whiskey balls. But we all know that the real souveniers are the treasured memories I'm making... and the whiskey balls.

The Mystery of the Tasties - SOLVED! Mostly...

Remember the IT guy from my work who was of no use to me because I wrongfully assummed that he was some kind of master code breaker? Well it turns out that IT guys are good for something other than encriptions - apparently they also read the newspaper.

My excited IT guy approached me this morning, waving a newspaper article in front of my face with the flourish of a fancy pants waiter. It was cut out from the Daily Universe, and the mystery of the Tasties was finally solved.

The following is an excerpt from the article, including the picture that was featured:

John Beeson is an English professor at BYU. Beeson's main message to students is to constantly be "on to something" in life, and fight against "everydayness," and he has followed those same edicts all his life.

One activity Beeson has found to help him live by those principles is painting.

Roughly two years ago, he called up the local Borders bookstore, asking to display some of his paintings throughout the store. The store obliged, and the paintings hung in the store for a week.

Out of the blue, however, Beeson got a phone call from a Borders representative, notifying him his paintings needed to be taken down because of a complaint.

Beeson was upset, but he obliged and took matters into his own hands.

"I was so mad that I nailed one to a pole outside Borders when I left," he said. "And it was so addicting, I mean that's really the best word. Then, the next day when I drove by and I saw them, I felt famous, like it was the weirdest ... I don't know ... it was like this self-inflicted fame. Delusional fame," Beeson said.

From that point on, he's gone out on random nights and nailed paintings to telephone poles lining the route on his way to work.

"It's about making stuff, that's why I do it," Beeson said. "Thoreau said live life deliberately, and that's what my paintings are all about."

Beeson has made over 500 paintings in the past two years, and his goal is to finish 730 by the 31st. That's one per day for the two years since the Borders episode.

"They're not good, but there's a lot of them," he said with a grin. "Quality fades, but quantity lasts forever."

Beeson says he's not out to hurt anyone or damage anything. He says he's too old to spray paint, and, with a wife and four kids, he's a bit reserved, but he's still passionate. His goal in painting is to get people to see the world around them in a new light.

"The theory behind it is to see the things you see every day differently," Beeson said. "It's to avoid everydayness."

You can read the entire article here.
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So, that's it folks - that's the whole mystery behind the Tasty signs. A BYU professor who paints them just for fun. While I'm glad to have the answers, I can't help but feel a little disappointed that the signs weren't clues to underground raver parties. Now what am I going to do with all these glowsticks?

I emailed the Professor to try and get more information about all of the Tasty trademark symbols, which remain a mystery to this day. I'll keep you posted if I get any more information from him.

In other news, this will be my last post for awhile, but I should have plenty to blog about after my return from Elvis Week, or as Andi and Adam call it, the continuation of Graduation Tour '06...

Elvis Week is the week-long tribute to the King, leading up to the anniversary of his death on August 16. My BFF Johanna and I are driving to Memphis from Philadelphia for 5 days of greasy food, rock n'roll, humidity, and Elvis fanatics. Did I mention that we're going all out for this? All I can say is that I busted out the puffy paints for our homemade tshirts...

See you in 2 weeks - Viva la Elvis!

Flops are a part of life's menu and I've never been a girl to miss out on any of the courses.

Rosalind Russell

You scored 19% grit, 52% wit, 28% flair, and 14% class!

Once again, this sounds NOTHING like me, right?

You are one wise-cracking lady, always quick with a clever remark and easily able to keep up with the quips and puns that come along with the nutty situations you find yourself in. You're usually able to talk your way out of any jam, and even if you can't, you at least make it more interesting with your biting wit. You can match the smartest guy around line for line, and you've got an open mind that allows you to get what you want, even if you don't recognize it at first. Your leading men include Cary Grant and Clark Gable, men who can keep up with you.

Which classic dame are you?