Let's Get Real

A couple weeks ago I watched what is advertised as being "the most dramatic season of The Bachelor yet." I must admit, this season does look promising. The premiere contained the perfect mix of craziness: blonds, booze, boobs, and one really desperate girl showing her aquatic side (just of word of advice, ladies: the way to a man's heart is not through wiggling your webbed toes in his face).

So there I was in my flannel pajamas eating some Triscuit and Easy Cheese, when mid-squeeze I had an idea. I sat there frozen - the Triscuit in my palm becoming completely overwhelmed by the mountain of cheese consuming its delicious low-sodium layering of whole-grain goodness - as I thought. I had been brainstorming for months on how to make the most cashola with the least amount of physical effort. The answer was literally staring me in the face: create a ridiculous and far-fetched reality show.

Over the years, I have watched my fair share of reality shows. I often reminisce about seeing my mom gag at the contestants eating coagulated blood balls and cow intestines on Fear Factor. I must admit that approximately 2 years ago, innocent bystanders must have thought me a British boarding school headmistress, as my insult of choice was a heavily accented,"you are the weakest link...goodbye." I openly admit to my reality nerdiness, but my religious watching of partly-scripted television has allowed me to understand what it takes to make it in the Real World AND how to create one successful reality show.

Nowadays, you can make a reality show about anything. All you need are the following three aspects: The catchy title, the witty one-liner, and the outrageous situation in which to house the absurd idea.

Survivor and The Bachelor both got this memo. The titles are a little bland by themselves, but once you add a flashy one-liner, they are gold mines. At the end of each Survivor episode when "the tribe has spoken," it is as if I am watching one of those secretly suggestive cultural shows on the Discovery Channel. The bachelor has the dramatic "Will you accept this rose?" After which I proceed to bite my nails and sit in pure wonderment over whether the ditsy blond with bronzer running down her legs will accept the opportunity to date the tall, dark, and handsome hunksicle. Both are casted with typical characters to add the maximum degree of drama. Gosh, these shows are suspenseful, and in no way predictable!

So here's what I have in mind for my own reality series. I picture the commercial to read something like this:

Thought Hell's Kitchen was the most intense show you've ever seen? Buckle that seat belt, baby! Does Flavor of Love take the cake in your bakery of ridiculous relationship TV? Prepare to throw away your cookbook! Coming soon to a television near you, get ready to experience a show of religious proportions. The Monastery will take twelve boisterous strangers from their noisy, fast-paced lives and force them into the ultimate vow of silence. Isolated from society and denied communication, their sanity will be pushed to the limit. Every week, one person will be voted out as they hear the fateful words, "you have said your last prayer." For every week they last, they will be one step closer to winning a million dollars. Will these loud mouths be able to keep their trap shut? Will the absolute isolation and silence drive them mad? Find out this Spring only on NBC.

Happiest Place on Earth

Next week, I will be traveling to Disney Land - the happiest place on earth...even though I may be older than the average Disney crazy. The following characters keep me going back. Most of their signatures are already in my autograph book except my number one. HOPEFULLY this will be the year!
#5 - Little Mermaid & Flounder. Who doesn't love this movie?? Who hasn't been a mermaid for Halloween? And I did have a cartoon crush on Prince Eric.
#4 - Although the Disney classics will always be best, I couldn't resist Dash from the Incredibles. Definitely one of the best. #3 - Even though I hate to be super cheesy, I love Sleeping Beauty. She is the ultimate princess and I will be visiting her castle shortly.

#2 - Thank you Disney for creating Jack Sparrow! He has added a new dimension to my life as I"m sure he has to many others.

#1 - Surprised? Besides being my relative (according to my uncle) Pocahontas gets to cliff jump, climb trees and play with animals all day. I truly envy her life.

When Life Gives You Wedgies...

WARNING! This post, while trying to keep it rated PG, contains material that might be offensive to readers whose iPods are limited to Kenny G, Barbara Streisand, and Michael Bolton.

The Wedgie. It turns a lady into a man, a man into a Golden Girl, and forces imminent humiliation upon whoever it attacks. It could seriously be the most horrendous clothing experience of our existence - leg warmers and the Dickie following close behind.

In my family, there are two types of wedgies:

1) Wedgie (wej-ee) n. The natural occurrence of undergarment bunching between the buttocks. May also go by the name of "Snuggie" if you are under 8 years old, or are in the immediate family of my sister-in-law.

2) Melvin (mel-vin) n. A super wedgie in which the undergarments say hello to the outside world. These are usually brought on by gym class ridicule or an extremely bumpy water slide.

With this distinction made, I am prepared to tell you about my recent wedgie experience.

The day was doomed to failure from the get-go. My newly cut bangs decided to time warp to 1984, and my bright eyeshadow decided to follow suit. Hoping that my weird luck would stay back with stirrup stretch pants and Duran Duran, I began my 20 minute trek across campus thinking the glass was half-full.

But then glass started to empty...

Precisely seven minutes into my walk, I began to feel my undaroos creeping where they did not belong. Whether it was my stylish, yet constricting jeans, or sassy walk coupled with heels that were the cause of the unwanted movement, I may never know. It only took three minutes for a mature wedgie to develop, and had I been wearing overalls within feet of my older brother, I would have suspected a melvin.

I have experienced quite a few award-winning, may-i-have-the-envelope-please-wedgies in my day, but this one surpassed them all. The wedgie of 2004 caused by an awkward layer of underwear, thick tights, and spandex pants was definitely the most painful. And the most recent melvin of Fall '05 with my sweats was practically painless, but far too visible. My current campus wedgie was the perfect combination of the two: maximum pain with the greatest visibility.

The Ultimate Embarrassment.

So there I was, looking like a blast from the past with the Hulk Hogan of wedgies, trying to find a way to rid myself of this humiliation. I figured I had 2 options:

Option #1: The Pick.
Um...hello...unless you want to commit social suicide you never, ever just up and pick your wedgie. First, you are admitting that you have a wedgie, and second, you are drawing even more unwanted focus to your derriere. Neither of which will help your self esteem. Also, if you are unsuccessful with your initial pick, further picks will be needed and you will be reduced to a monkey. While I like monkeys as much as the next average Jane, we have come too far in evolution for me to resort to such primitive behavior.

Option #2: The Natural Release.
Most of the time the wedgie will eventually work itself out of your fanny naturally. Altering your walk usually does the trick - but for those who oppose to walking with more length between their legs and taking wider strides should probably opt for something different. Allowing the wedgie to find it's way back home will also provide you with extra time to find a restroom or wide-trunked tree for a worry-free pick. 60% of the time, it works every time. Stats don't lie, folks. My vote goes to natural relief.

So with approximately 13 minutes left before reaching my next class, I started taking longer steps with high hopes that my wedgie would go away. But with a group of cute guys feet behind my rear, I couldn't bare to look completely ridiculous. Alas, my steps were just not big enough to release the wedgie. I was forced to suffer with my shame. I finished my trudge to class with my puffy bangs close to the ground, and my glass practically empty.

I am happy to say that I am no longer a victim of the super wedgie, though my discomfort will not soon be forgotten. I tried to cheer myself up today by watching the horrible performance of Britney Spears opening for the MTV Music Awards. Throughout the entire song, she stopped lip syncing multiple times, had distasteful dance moves, and looked confused and/or disinterested. This got me thinking. Maybe Ms. Spears wasn't stoned at all (like I had originally hypothesized). Maybe those tiny shorts had given her her own mondo-wedgie, and she was just weighing the best way to get rid of it... You should have gone with Option #1, Brit. I'm living proof that attempting Option #2 in heels is a bust.

The Outdoor Summer Concert

It’s the best thing about summer. Forget the crème-topped snow cones, the farmers markets, or splashing in the community pool – the outdoor concert experience ranks #1 in my book. It doesn’t get any better than that. These feelings were rekindled after attending a recent Richard Marx concert with Miss Priss. Think what you might…but it rocked. It had all my qualifications for an amazing summer concert:

1. The Outdoor Amphitheater: This plays a crucial part in the concert vibe. Richard Marx was at a smaller venue with lawn chairs, crisp evening air, and a familiar voice from 1989. For me, any outdoor location will work. A few months ago I saw Chris Isaak on the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains. The same night, Miss Priss watched Incubus in the shadows of a Frito-Lay plant. The common thread – the same starry night. Different strokes for different folks.

2. Oldies and Goodies: I understand musicians’ tour to sell the newest album release…blah, blah, blah. In my opinion, the greatest hits puts the cheeks in the seats, man. Cough it up and play me all those cheesy love ballads. I will eat it up. I actually feel sorry when the artist plays a new song and the audience takes a collective smoke break. Luckily for me, I don’t smoke and try to avoid public restrooms at all cost (which makes it interesting if there's a long encore) – so I look at it as a private serenade of the not-so-familiar, but-still-live music.

3. The Impromptu Jam: I believe in seeing true musicians in concert, people that play their own instruments and sing into microphones, not headsets. Therefore the impromptu jam session is a necessity. Depending on the genre, I will sway, swing, and skank into a blob of sweatiness. And those who throw in a few cover songs into the mix receive bonus points (preferably in the form of scratch-and-sniff stickers – my favorite way of giving and receiving praise) and I will be a fan forever (oh yea…John Mayer…you heard me…keep up the good work…the tangerine sheet’s are in route).

4. The Post-Concert High: The lasting effects of a good concert are incredible. After the concert almost a week ago, Miss Priss and I have collectively listened to Hazard about 83 times and converted 6.7 friends into Richard Marx fans (our brother is a hard case…he’s in a big Hall & Oates phase). The last time we were this into Mr. Marx, I was driving a champagne 1990 Nissan Stanza and Miss Priss was 10. Yet after seeing him live, our "Safety Kids"-approved natural concert high has left us giddy and a little younger.

As a poster child for the effects of a fabulous live concert, I urge you to buy a ticket, pack the hoodie, and enjoy what’s left of the Endless Summer Nights.

Come One, Come All!

Good Afternoon.

This is a formal announcement to the world. I have decided to make it via Blog because a Press Conference is too 'I did not have sexual relations', and a Memo is best left for TPS Reports.

Beginning next week, I am taking a sabbatical to develop my 'special' talents. You see, I recently hiked Mt. Timpanogos in Utah. After climbing to an elevation of 11,749 feet without sunscreen for 9 hours, I have transformed to look like Sebastian robbing a Maverick gas station. My crimson skin is a shade never before seen on a human being. For the past week, I have been the target of pointing, gawking, and tongue-sticking-outing followed by many "look at the leper" comments. (I may be hideous, but can still hear you, little boy!!!) With this recent unwanted attention, I now consider myself a freak of nature. After being driven to seek sanctuary in my poorly lit apartment bedroom, I have decided to bid farewell to the comforts of home to become a carny. (Carnies... Nomads, you know. Smell like cabbage. Small hands.)

In all honesty, I have never been to a Carnival, and only after receiving a full round of immunizations did I go to the Circus as a child. I have a strong belief that top hats are best left on tap dancers, and those big stuffed animals take up way too much space. Despite my demise of traveling shows, after realizing that society will no longer accept me as an equal, the carnival is the best place for me.I will have many responsibilities as a carny. In between selling possums on a stick (you can really taste the rabies!) and running the tilt-o-hurl, I will be the newest attraction. People will come from miles around to see the amazing lobster-girl. I expect to be kept in a iron cage on a small stool. If I'm lucky they will give me a kitten to keep me company. At least I will be able to add to my mullet picture collection. I'm excited to see if anyone will beat Billy Ray Cyrus...that hair is art. Pure art.

Over time, I will become the master con artist. Twisting words will become my forte and even the most tattooed teenager will not escape my convincing tone. Soon I will encourage the World's Strongest Man to help me overthrow the Ring Leader. With Capn' Carny-as I call him- out cold, the carnival will finally be mine! My new power will unleash a chain reaction, and soon the carnival will not be enough. Within months I will have managed to overthrow the circus (take that Barnum and Bailey!) as well as Siegfried and Roy. With this new army of lions, tigers, and...elephants (take that Dorothy!) I will make my final attempt at ultimate power: Walmart.

It will take approximately 16 months of fighting alongside the Bearded Lady in the trenches for me to realize that Walmart is too powerful an enemy. Those always low prices really cannot be beat. And I thought I could accomplish world domination with a red smiley face...guess I missed the memo that red is definitely not the new yellow.

Trail Etiquette

So, since I haven't yet posted on here I thought I'd leave my mark on the world and reinforce trail manners. A hot day of hiking 16 or so miles up and down a mountain is enough to make anyone tired and grumpy. However, something is definitley wrong when the hikers struggling to go uphill must move aside so those happily letting gravity pull them down the hill can pass. My only message is this...let the uphill hikers go first! Beside that small complaint, the mountain excursion brought intense wildflowers, a mountain goat, and a lot of pain. This mountain goat was extremely photogenic and practially posed for this shot.

Tooth Fairy Smackdown

A college friend used to tell me that hate was a strong word, and that you don’t really hate anyone. But she was wrong. I hate the Tooth Fairy. After being up all night again because the babe is cutting his six tooth in a row, and after years of my own roller coaster relationship with teeth, I have had it. I’m ready to face the Tooth Fairy mono – e – mono.

I believe that my meeting with the Tooth Fairy would be a little one-sided, he being a male, and me being a Hot Mama. I would like think that the Tooth Fairy is a man, because only a male would choose to give kids a buck–twenty–five for a cavity-free molar. I imagine the Tooth Fairy looks something like Rupert from Survivor, wearing a loosely-fitting tie-dye tank top with an ironed-on “Tooth Fairy” logo that is starting to peel away. He’s up all night playing Tooth Fairy World of Warcraft, trying to gain levels by inflicting pain on innocent teething infants and headgear-wearing tweens. When he wins this pain battle, he high-fives his only friends, the googly-eyed Cookie Monster and the creepy Burger King. He’s big on torture, short on organization. And when its time to deliver new teeth, he’s too busy smacking on Listerine and Whitening Gel to realize he put the chompers in skeewompus or backwards, resulting in years of ridicule and orthodontic treatment for the recipient.

In a perfect world, the Tooth Fairy would be a type-A female, empathetic to the sleepless nights of the Hot Mama’s of the world. When she’s not manufacturing or shipping incisors, she’s lobbying on Capital Hill to get rid of colored-orthodontic bands, which although festive for the seasons, don’t help any 14-year-olds in the “socially acceptable” department. Working overtime, she would make it so after a few short days of discomfort, you would wake up to a mouth full of 20 pearly whites. And when the time came to trade in the compact teeth for the SUV version, you wouldn’t have to sleep on spare change; instead you’d get a new Izod polo with matching socks (much softer = less trips to the Chiropractor later in life). These grown-up teeth would be delivered as Chicklet-shaped beauties, straight and strong. No need for teething tabs, bottles of Tylenol, or having to gag while panting through one of those mouth-molds in the Orthodontist office (which don’t taste like Bubble Gum). Ah, life would be grand.

Sadly, I believe my version of the Tooth Fairy is the truer story. And I’ve decided it is time for a WWE Tooth Fairy Smackdown. Being that I’m already awake, I was thinking about running, but in my preparation of meeting the Tooth Fairy in the Octagon – I think I’ll pop in the good-old "Tae Bo" VHS workout tape. With Billy Blank’s help, I think I’ll be able to speed bag and roundhouse the Tooth Fairy into giving up the rest of my son’s teeth – pain free.

Intervention

I’m worried. I called my sister this morning to see if she wanted to head to IKEA for some inexpensive Scandinavian furnishings and Swedish meatballs. She didn’t answer her phone. I think she’s hungover. Not hungover from a night of competitive bowling and too many White Russian’s, but a different kind of hangover. You see, Miss Priss has an addiction. And this is an intervention. No undercover cameras, no Chris Hansen from “Dateline NBC,” no A&E special, just this simple post.

Before I start, I must let you know I believe the Internet to be a wondrous place chalk-full of fascinating people and interesting information. I use the web to feed my compulsion for information on being a Hot Mama. My brother uses it to watch Limahl’s music video for The Neverending Story over and over again. Since then, he has requested that we call him Atreyu on weekends (Sunday dinners are a riot in our family). Essentially, sufficing your hunger for a deadly sin is only a click away. Priss’s chosen sin: You Tube Gluttony.

I came to the conclusion that Miss P had this addiction yesterday while chatting with her over cheese bagels and Italian sodas. I believe someone across the café whispered “You Tube” under their breath, and demon was released. I could see a twinkle her eye and her body start to twitch. She began to stutter quotes from Charlie the Unicorn (“shun the unbeliever, shuuuunnn”) and Shoes (“these shoes rule, these shoes suck!”). After being removed by security, I knew we had an addict on our hands.

You probably don’t think watching You Tube in excess is an addiction. There aren’t any G.I. Joe/You Tube Public Service Announcements, nor are there any YTA support groups. But the threat is real. I’m afraid Miss P will never be able to appreciate cinematic quality again since she has numbed herself with the low budget shorts of You Tube. Her fingers are getting knobby and socially we can’t take her anywhere without her quoting Cunningham Muffins. Hopefully this intervention will work. Because currently there’s no cure. Therefore, while you’re with Priss, please keep this treatment handy. I have invented what I call “Miss Priss’s Crazy Delicious You Tube Suppression Kit.” The remedy for temporarily curing her You Tube addiction, oddly enough: Mr. Pibb and Red Vines.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

It has recently come to my attention that the average national age for women to get married is 25. In Utah, that average age drops to 22.5. I just so happen to be a fine, foxy Utahan in my early twenties, and frankly, I think I'm in trouble.

I have never actually had a boyfriend, so I am not an expert on the subject of relationships (unlike my friends Oprah, and newcomer Tyra Banks). According to the state average, if I don't jump on this marriage bandwagon soon, all the good guys will be gone. I will be forced to live a life of solitude with only my fourteen golden retrievers to keep me company. I will have the need to purchase a cane to chase all the hooligans off my perennial-infested front yard shortly after converting to the Jewish religion so my vocabulary can include such words as 'putz,' 'mazel tov,' and 'shlep' (which, to my sister and my dismay, means 'to drag around').

It is obvious from my ring less hand and sudden urge to buy a colonial-style house (complete with veranda and rocking chair!) that I must be doing something wrong in my ritual courting. Hopefully, by sharing my few tipplets, you may find love before the dreaded state average gets you and beats you down with the newest issue of 'O Magazine.' Best of luck.

1. Never under any circumstances go out on a blind date.
You never know when you are going to get that crazy guy who for no reason at all shows up with one pant leg rolled up, introduces himself by his alias 'sensual cricket,' and drives 15 under the speed limit so he may admire the exact precision of the white lines on the road.

2. Do not continue the date if his car is 'lacking.'
If he picks you up in a POS nailed one to many times by birds with problematic bowels, has more than 2 bumper stickers, or has not been vacuumed in the past 3 years, RUN. Might I suggest he drive nothing less than a Honda, Acura, Mazda, Nissan, or Toyota. Bonus points are awarded for guys that show up in a Beemer, Mercedes, Porche, or Rolls Royce. Nice cars mean money. Money means comfort. I ain't sayin' I'm a gold digger, Kanye, but a girl's gotta have standards.
3. Make sure his visible body is void of any deformity or additional extremity.
Families and friends will find just about anything wrong with a potential boyfriend. On one such occasion, an interest (who, I must admit, had not discovered the beauty of a minor tweeze) was affectionately referred to as 'eyebrows' or 'caterpillar' by my siblings. After an all-too graphic dream of mammoth brows trapping me in a cocoon, whatever relationship that could have blossomed was quickly clipped.

So there you have it. Three dating tips from a defective dater. Now parden me as I leave to prepare for the Sabbath before Yente arrives. Perhaps she has finally found a suitable husband for me. I only hope he is not like the shlemiel she found last week. Oy vey...

Obituary Facelift

So here it is, the weekend. Some people kick back by drinking coffee, others go running, my husband watches “Cops.” I read the obituaries. I’m a self-defined critic of obituaries, although I like to think of them as the “Cliff Notes” of a lifetime.

Lately I’ve been fascinated on how you can describe decades of time in three inches of vaguely-written text. I’ve found that obituaries have a top secret coded language (unfortunately not the kind you can use with your Ovaltine decoder ring). Regretfully, this code only allows the use of 25 adjectives including: courageous, noble, valiant, and gone fishing. I’m always looking for more description about the deceased, rather than a list of relatives or directions to the funeral home. After perusing hundreds of obituaries, I’ve decided to request an obituary facelift. Look at it as “Flip this Condolence” or “Project Whitelight.” Its pretty simple – more creative visuals, less form and structure. I have attached an example of my own obituary (but let’s hope for the real deal my family coughs up the cash to attach a picture and a few more paragraphs).

Hot Mama passed away Friday from eating too much processed cheese and not getting enough sleep.

She lived life on the edge, never using her Rollerblade brake to stop, just preferring to jump on the nearest grassy surface or use the old “squeeze the thighs together” technique. She loved the free mini energy bars you receive after running a 5K. A master of gimmicky dance moves, her favorites were the running man, pencil sharpener, and booty shake. She believed that for every one part bagel there should be two parts cream cheese. A funny gal and first-class belcher; her favorite days were spent gossiping and laughing with her family.

Family, friends, and pets of Hot Mama know who they are and know that she loves them. A barbeque/dance party has been planned for Saturday night. In lieu of flowers, please bring a copy of your favorite song, as Hot Mama has requested to be buried with her i-Pod so she can jam out while in line for heaven.

Sleep Deprivation Torture

As I was fumbling towards the fridge to grab a glass of Sunny D this morning, I got to thinking about how I’m about 67% sure my death certificate will list “sleep deprivation” as the reason for my passing. I also got to thinking about how efficient it is as a form of heinous torture. You forget your name, how to dress yourself, how to pay for items at Rite Aid, and how to make anything that resembles a complete sentence.

Now I know that sleep deprivation isn’t glamorous or exciting. You don’t hear the blond Russian from “Rocky IV” muttering “I must wake you” or see Jack Bauer begging for a power nap. Wikipedia says it isn’t an actual form of torture, but I beg to differ. If “Mythbusters” ever does an episode on torture myths, I like to see if they can prove that sleep deprivation is a true torture device. I'd love to see Adam and Jamie without a few nights of sleep and see if they can still do those fancy-dancy math equations.

Alright, so you probably guessed it…I’m bitter. I’m a self-proclaimed connoisseur of sleeping. I could easily write Joy of Napping or Snoozing for Idiots. I kissed those days goodbye a long time ago. After about day 273 of no sleep, I think you just learn to accept your new identity of a sleepy, stuttering zombie. One day I’ll be able to list “sleeping” as my fondest hobbies. In the meantime…I’m still waiting to watch a trailer for a new Jean-Claude Van Damme movie where I hear the movie trailer voice guy say: “He’s survived being shot, stabbed, and forced to watch reruns of ‘Small Wonder,’ but can he survive the torture of…sleep deprivation...?”

The Joys of Texting

This Sunday, while enjoying a most relaxing afternoon with Hitch and Wendy's Frosty Floats, my sister discovered the joys of texting (welcome to the cyber world, Hot Mama). For your entertainment I have posted the texting conversation that took place between her and my poor, defenseless guy friend:

Hot Mama: "Hey big hunk, you are so sexy and hot...smootchies bootchies xoxo"
Victim: " Alright who was that?"
HM: "What? Why would you say that?"..."Sexy baby..."
V: "Whats up?"
HM: "I want your body...good lookin' Mmmmmmm"
V: "Well what are you going to do to get it?"
HM: "The tickle monster is going to get you."

By this time, I had feared for my dear sister's sanity (and my freind's!), and decided to call this poor lad. After many minutes of uncontrollable giggling and outbursts of Right Said Fred's 'I'm Too Sexy,' we have admitted him to the Valley Mental Clinic, and the doctors tell us that he is expected to make a full recovery...after he stops singing the Campbell's commercial jingle...Possibilities! Sadly, the doctors fear he will never stop screaming at the sight of wiggling fingers. My sister, having been exposed to the heavy addictive substance deep within text messaging, has requested that she be buried with a Sidekick so she may attempt to contact ET in the afterlife.

Our prayers are with both of you...and anyone who has had to dance with someone rocking the 'Q-tip'...please throw it away.

Narrating Life

Recently in my daily parenting reading obsession, I came across an article about talking to infants. It told readers to narrate your daily life to increase the baby’s vocabulary. I automatically wondered what my life would sound like narrated, by Clive Owen (my narrator of choice): (Mr Owen’s voice) “She slowly opened the cabinet and reached for the three-pound jar of peanut butter. She sighed as she spread the PB on her piece of whole wheat white bread, realizing it was the 82nd day in a row she had made this exact lunch decision.”

I already talk to the babe a ton already, but after reading this article, I decided to step up my game. I soon came to the conclusion that narrating your life can sure make life interesting. Here’s a few phrases the little one heard on a recent trip to the grocery store:

“Yippee! There’s a sale on Kraft singles! Aren’t these like Twinkies and have an expiration date of ‘eternity?’ Hopefully, because we’re buying a few packs. I wonder if these work like garlic…because if so…I might start smelling like processed cheese.”

“Mom needs cloves to make applesauce cookies. What?! Seven dollars for ground cloves? They must be filled with some secret addictive drug for that price. That’s it, from here on out, our applesauce cookies are getting seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, and crack.”

What I found to be interesting about letting my internal monologue come out (other than the weird looks and death threats), was how much I had to censor myself. It’s a good thing too, because the last thing I need done is to be slapped upside the head with cold cuts for letting some of my inner thoughts slip out. Although, I guess as I was being beat down by thinly sliced salami I could narrate: “Oscar Meyer has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A.”

Knock On Wood

Yesterday, while in a heated conversation about radiant heating with my sister, I made a comment regarding the possibility of getting an A on my Anthro. final. Immediately after making said comment I frantically searched for the nearest wooden object to bang my knuckles on. With much dismay, the best I could manage was the wall, which, I can only hope, had some form of wood beneath the painted surface.

This got me thinking: why do I have to 'knock on wood' in the first place? I'm sure I could hop on Google to find where this jinxing superstition came from, but sadly, the ambition needed for a task of this magnitude was lost after the Jenga incident of '04... so sad...

Why wood? What makes wood the weapon of choice in this superstitious situation? In all seriousness, what if to save ourselves from the possibility of a jinx (that, I'm sure, would alter the entire course of our lives) we had to slap tile, or poke linoleum?

Where am I going with this? Knock on wood protest, baby! From here on out, I, Miss P, am no longer falling prey to this odd behavior. I will take the risk of a jinx! Superstitions are for suckers. Take that Stevie Wonder.