So what the camera puts on 10 pounds?? Cry about it.

So, there has been a brief blogging break, but I’m back. This time with something to say about pictures.

Family pictures.. While I’m all about making memories and such, I’m also a decent human being which makes family pictures a tricky subject. Let me clarify this right now, this is not my family I am referring to, but families in general. It has been my experience that anything involving photography and family is going to be a problem. Take the Gabrielsen white sock-black suit fiasco of ’03. It was tragic really.. We got all the family together, everyone looked decent, everyone was THERE, but all the boys decided to wear white socks with their black suits. Some say it gives the picture flair, but I look at that picture & think ,“Wow, those white socks match Melisa’s wedding dress perfectly..”. Nice one boys. Then there is always the issue of coordinating the color combinations. Everyone has their own style, and I say to each is own just as much as the next person does, and just because I happen to be voted most fashionable in my high school days doesn’t mean I should have any stronger say in what we put on our fleshy bodies… But then again maybe it does… No one looks good in orange. Pumpkins look good in orange, and kids dressed as pumpkins for Halloween look cute in orange. Not grown human beings, I don’t think that the first word I want to pop into my head when I see a family picture is “Cute pumpkins..”. Okay, looking past the problem of colors and onto the picture day itself. If you’re a Gabrielsen you show up late. That fact is about as reliable as the sun rising and setting everyday. I’m sure other families are the same way, so what do you do? Tell the late ones that the pictures are actually a ½ hour earlier than they really are? Who is to decide who is always late or not? What if that person(s) finds out, they aren’t going to be nearly as obliged to flash those pearly whites for the man with the cam when all they can say is “DIRTBAGS” instead of “CHEESE!”. Why do you yell cheese anyways? We are grown adults people. Do you want me to feel like a five year old, because if so then you are going to need those squeaky toys and objects to get my attention then too. I remember one time when we went to go get our pictures taken at a professional studio when I was probably 7 or 8, my mom turned to me and said, “Don’t you dare let them touch you with that snot-infested multi-colored feather duster. Smile dang it.” Okay, maybe she didn’t say that, maybe I just thought to myself: I will never have that gnarly dust collecting heap-of-weird be smothered in my face or my children’s for that matter. Plus, I swear half of the kids end up sneezing right as the picture is taken, or they have that really concentrated sneeze face, but I guess as long as they still look at the camera?... Here is the other issue, I do not know many women that like to be photographed when they are pregnant, nor do I know any teenager going through puberty who is dying to work it for any camera, anywhere… So how do you schedule something like that? What, you take a look at the calendar, then little Suzy and her body reeking of adolescence, back at the calendar, then say, “Okay, 3 years oughtta do the trick…”?? No, that would devastate young Suzy and probably cause a stress pimple to appear on her face. Now I am not saying I am exempt to this in the least. In fact, I was going through my mother’s photo box the other day and reminiscing of younger more innocent years, when all of the sudden I wished I was dead, or that someone had run over me, or that I was blind. Any of the previous would have been a much better alternative to looking at my pictures ages 11-14. Middle school sucked obviously, and luckily someone thought that would be a great time to snap a million pictures featuring yours truly. Why? Why me? Why then? Why that shirt? Why those braces? Why glass? All these unanswered questions lay before me. What is even stranger is that since then, it seems that my life has gone undocumented… Coincidence? Probably not. In fact, definitely not. See, I’m convinced that families half way love you, and half way love to have blackmail on you. Its fine really, because since everyone has the same secretive motives, it makes everything balance out..

So I'll include proof of my debacle with teenage years & include that fact that this sits on my refrigerator in my apartment with a post-it underneath saying...

"HIYA! Hungry are ya???"

If you can't laugh at yourself, no one can.

Brace Face

The dentist. Now this is a blogger's heaven. I'm sitting in the chair thinking- thank heavens I will be able to write about my trials in the future. When I was a young tike I don't think I ever had an outward problem with the actually going to the dentist..

The problem dwelled within the minute details of those baby experiences.

You (at least my mom kept it under wraps) don't ever get informed that you are indeed heading to the dentist, you just thought mom was picking you up from school early because she knew that you didn't know that one spelling word and you were way scared to take the test.. Ya right-- send me the hardest word you've got, just please don't make me go through the nightmare made of teeth again. You know, I remembered thinking as a kid that working in a dentist's office would be fun.. You could play with the little sucker thing and then you could use that squirty water thing and maybe- sometimes- accidentally- miss and send a squirt into the eye of the patient... Ya all of that seemed really fun while I was sitting there waiting for the dentist to come see me. Then he actually comes and you know its going to be bad because it always is. I cannot fathom a dental visit that ends in "Wow, Kylee, you are the cream of the crop, the dental daughter all of my colleagues and I wish for, can I adopt you?" No, no, no, no.. Its always a problem, there is ALWAYS a problem. If its not your gums, its your tongue, or this space, or that canine (why any part of my mouth is reference to a four legged shaggy animal is beyond my anatomical knowledge), or your bite, or your jaw. How frustrating would it be to work in a field where perfection cannot be defined or even exist? Not to mention the disgusting things one would see on a day to day basis. I probably could not help myself from asking, "What in the good name of everything where you thinking when you agreed to arrive for this appointment? Jenna (hygenists always seem to be named Jenna) get me an extra mask! No no- scratch that- give me two extra masks, a blow torch, and some liquor STAT!" Hence the reason I will stay bounds and leaps away from anything that forces me to meddle around in people's talkers... And heaven bless those poor Jennas.. I may despise them more than the actual dentist. They come in so, so, so cute-- I just wish they would stay that way. But no, they whip out that mirror and they check and attempt to make small talk (small talk will definitely be addressed later). Then they reach for the scraper thing, and I promise you that my enamel does not appreciate being dug into, nor do my gums. And I swear when they floss you its so utterly painful. They make you bleed- that's their whole ambition. Job description: See how fast and how much blood you can extract from the patient prior to the dentist's arrival. After all that they command you to perform this self inflicting pain twice a day. NO I WILL NOT FLOSS REGULARLY AT HOME!! Then you have cavities. Such a bummer, such a fetching bummer. It's like you walk out with a death sentence..

Receptionist: "So I see the dentist found 3 cavities.. What is your Wednesday looking like, want to come in then?"

You: (thinking) LIKE H**L I WANNA COME BACK IN THREE DAYS TO GET DRILLED INTO!!!! "Ya, 3 o'clock open??"

One last problem to address: When I come to the dentist, I do not plan to disclose my life problems, stories, or future with you. Especially when you have a large sharp spear half way down my esophagus. Thanks, but no thanks.. Just push the button that makes my chair recline, pin that bib on me, give me the ear phones and remote, and let the games begin, Jenna.....

I lied, I never addressed the braces concept-- partially because I'm so bitter about my experience with them I've blocked those 5, YES 5 years out of my life.. You can always tell the kids that come out from the orthodontic side of the office.. They look they have been through you know where and back.. There is also always like 3-5 adults parading out behind them looking the same way. You can guess that the mom was the soother, while the older sibling was brought to keep the child pinned down. Then there is the technician or whoever that brings up the back of the braces parade saying, "It hurts did you say, ya mom your gonna need to give him a little advil. And Jimmy, you were so brave, here is a packet of wax that you put on all those owie spots okay?" And here you are thinking as a ten year old... "Wax? I say it hurts and you give me wax? Mom- don't listen to her, I need drugs. Big boy drugs mom, BIG BOY DRUGS. (Pleading eyes) Then you look to your brother thinking you son of a gun, holding me down.. You're gonna pay for that buddy (demonic eyes). You'll pay-- unless you know how to take this blasted metal out of my mouth.. Maybe we could strike a deal (eyes full of possibility).." Little do you know, over the next X amount of months that those train tracks are cranking away in your mouth you face 100 problems with them such as: Do I have food in my braces? My mouth hurts. What color do I want? WHAT COLOR DO I WANT? HOW ABOUT THE ONE THAT MAKES IT SO THEY ARE INVISIBLE... OH WAIT I CAN'T THEY ARE MADE OF METAL! And the real kicker... How are you supposed to kiss other people with braces. You do NOT want to get stuck together.. Uh uh no way. Come to think of it maybe that's why they put braces on at that age....

Quiet! You're still on a Diet..

Costco. My mother's dreamworld, and my father's nightmare. Me? I can't decide whether Costco has improved or screwed up my life. For example, I walked into my house after quite a hard workout with my trainer Aaron (there are bound to be blogs about that poor fellow) and head straight for the refridgerator. All the way home I have been plotting my next nutrition move and have calculated the most pristine balance of proteins and carbs to complement all the work I just barely did. But trouble is bound to lie ahead as it always does. I walk through the garage and nearly trip over an empty cardboard box. I think to myself, "Self, why is there a cardboard box in the way of my path to the door?" Myself discovers the answer quite quickly as I glance around the dimly lit garage to find that this is not a lone cardboard box. This box has not only intruded upon my pathway, it has invited all of its boxy friends to take up residence in what should be my parking spot in the garage. This is clue #1 that someone has put these boxes to great use. Anyways now I'm on my way inside with eyebrows raised to find the next clue that someone has been to the land of costco. I find it quite quickly when I ritually look into the pantry (to obviously make sure that all the pantry products are in their proper place and none of them need me to move/eat them) and find it more stocked than usual. I do not recall those cans on the ground nor do I remember that box of gummy treats blocking my view of the dried mangos... Gingerly I walk into the kitchen. It looks cleaner. Why is it cleaner? I begin to get nervous. I make sure no one is around as I reach for the handle to open the machine that keeps my food at the perfect temperature. I touch, I grasp, I tug, I pull (it seems to be sticker than usual & requires a little elbow grease and effort to open now. Coincidence? Mostly likely not) and then it happens. All my fears are manifest as I gaze into a fully stocked fridge with an array of goodies cuddling together on the shelves. Suddenly it does not matter what I had planned to eat all the way until this point. Gym? What gym? Workout? Never happened.. I can't help myself, its a dieter's worst nightmare. It's as though the fridge has been surrounded by soft heavenly lights and an angelic choir has descended upon me to sing the song of my warmth filled soul. I regret ever eating that orange in the car when I open the thing of grapes. I call it the "thing" because no one knows exactly what to call that plastic container it comes in. Its not a box, but it not a bowl- its just the thing. Now you may think this gives you reason to mock me... You may laugh as I worry about consuming fruits of everykind, but its not the plump juicy crunchy grapes that are the problem, its the whole concept behind this overwhelming display of food in front of me. I become indecisive and end up eating a little of everything that was brought home, and then continue to eat a lot of what really tasted good to me out of those sample tastes. Sample tastes. Now that's another problem I have with Costco. Costco is large, it has to be in order to have all those rows and rows of food you never thought possible to have. Because Costco is large there is never really a "short/fast/brief/quick costco run". Call it what you want mom, but if your idea of short is like 30 minutes then lets never do anything that you would consider "long" together. But throw in those cute old women giving you samples and your costco trip just doubled in duration. Some feebly mumble out "sample" (although they don't need to because my eye is always searching for those red and white checkered tableclothes) and everything you taste seems like it just came out of that old woman's oven. You long to be this woman's grandchild, and you wish this sample was not just a sample. So now your costco trip is getting longer, more expensive, and a whole lot heavier to load and unload into your car. Not to mention you are losing agility and speed from all these freaking samples! Moral of the story: Costco is a trap. Smart skinny people don't shop at Costco. Well that was a broad accusation, those skinny people probably have one thing I feel like most of us lack, and that is self-control. They have goals, shopping lists, and time limits. They stop for no one and nothing-- not even you old grandma. Take your sample and give it to someone who cares. Apparently in my mind skinny people are also quite rude..

Emily Vs. Darla

3/21/10 7:30 a.m.

Amidst the bustle and harsh scrutiny of the various flight attendants making sure the degree of my chair remains in the upright position and that my bag is not exposed beneath my feet, I watch the most curious of human behaviors. A girl not more than 8 has so graciously decided to sit across the aisle from my chosen seat, and although she is clearly upset because she has been so rudely separated from her father (who is currently seated behind me) she finds menial tasks to entertain herself while her younger sister (seated next to her) picks at her like an ape. Her first chosen victim is the sky mall magazine, which resides in the seat back in front of her. Sky mall is seemingly harmless I would think, it offers me awfully interesting gadgets that for the duration of the flight I am convinced I need. Not just need, these items are life-sustaining necessities. Like for example, who doesn’t need the self-rinsing grass patch that apartment and condo dogs love? It even comes with a scented fire hydrant to attract my loyal pooch. Now, I don’t have a dog, but I imagine if I did I would want him to have this, and it would be possible all thanks to sky mall. Anyway, this little girl (who for the sake of resemblance we will call Darla, for I feel like one of her helpless goldfish in the all to small bag trying to escape) takes the magazine into her diabolical hands and begins to systematically rip out every page of the innocent paper product…One-By-One. Mind you, there are one or two other people watching this girl now, but she is oblivious. As her sister attempts to notify her by a gentle tap of the spectacle she has become to surrounding passengers she WHAPS her harder than an angry schoolteacher. She does this all without skipping a heartfelt beat in her shredding ceremony. After she finally realizes that the sky mall magazine no longer fits her fancy, she moves onto the unpeeling the southwest sticker off the tray table in front of her. Realizing that this too is a bad idea, she stops just in time to ask the attendant for a hot chocolate. This girl definitely does not need anything with caffeine byproducts in it, nor does she need anything with the words HOT. Suddenly the ground begins to rumble and the earth begins to shake, and I am sure that hell has opened up its mouth to welcome back its master. I realize that we have now only begun to take off. Long, long, weird flight ahead. She looks bored. I am almost sure she is bored. She at least is unamused enough to look over and make eye contact with me for approximately 10 seconds. Scariest 10 seconds of my life, I dare not breathe for fear I might light another vicious flame from within her. Good thing Daddy (who is definitely oblivious now reading his own un-torn copy of sky mall) has invested in a child size laptop. Maybe she should play some kind of violent game it to slack her thirst for aggressive interaction. Well farewell Darla, may your leopard print children’s glasses and your big Angelina Jolie lips take you far in life.

She scares me. Her beady eyes keep glancing menacingly in my direction. She knows. Omnipotence is one of her born talents. Taking note from afar, I believe she has peace earrings on too. Now that is what Mrs. Clark would refer to as ironic. Gum and Gameboys—both don’t last very long seeing as she has almost single-handedly made it through an entire pack and I don’t think we have even soared over St. George

My Self-Welcome To Blogging

Blogging.

The idea is just fun. F-U-N. My blog fancy was sparked because of my lack of journaling skills. I have always been a problem solver so first the problem: I hate journaling. The solution: make my thoughts accessible to everyone via the internet. Problem solver. Now I do realize that things are a little different with this blog then they would be in my journal.. First and obviously I cannot technically use the real names of the victims- I mean people- that are featured in my witty writing. The whole excitement of stealing away into my bedroom in my absence and looting through the my innermost unedited thoughts of my journal is going to be missing from your life. Believe me, it makes me sad too, but I think we can get through this together, with a little bit of can-do attitude and a whole lot of funny observations. A couple of ground rules, you can judge me if you'd like, but I don't care. This is MY blog, and if you don't like it, it doesn't like you. There will be times where I may-heaven forbid- misspell words or just plain old make new ones up. Its spunky, its what gives my new baby (the blog) character and sass. And like any normal human being, if you see an ugly baby (again referring to the blog) you don't just go up to that poor mother and ask why she would do such a cruel thing, you grin, make a small joke, fretfully coo at the thing, and run like heck. I expect you to do the same thing in this situation. Lastly, don't expect anything profound. Smart people intimidate me & I just want to write my observations... So basically I'm seeing everything you do, I just sit down and in the midst of my love affair with the my laptop, create cooler things.