About KB

40+ years of an average life has led KB to search for the absurdity in everyday encounters with those around her. Born blocks from the beaches of Southern California but raised in a rural farm community north of Seattle, Kate appreciates the humor of simple moments and ordinary people. The granddaughter of a world renowned author of nonfiction books that have been translated into over a dozen languages, a lifetime love of reading and writing guided Kate into being an English major at the University of Washington. After nearly twenty years of raising her four children and supporting her husband’s career, KB decided it was time to share her writing with others. On her 41st birthday she started her own blog, KBJackson.com. Now an award-winning author published author of three series, KB was represented by Dawn Dowdle of Blue Ridge Literary Agency until the time of her death and is now represented by Paula Munier of Talcott Notch. Her award-winning middle grade Sasquatch Hunters series is published by Reycraft Books, her Chattertowne mystery series is published by Level Best Books, and her Cruising Sisters series is published by Tule.

I’m Gumby Dammit! And Other Moments From Nathan’s 15th Birthday

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15 years ago, our son Nathan was born in the caul. For those of you who don’t know what that means, you might want to google it. I’m afraid if I gave an anatomical description of it, I will lose half of my readers. Let’s just say that he came out “still protected.” Medieval legend says that being born in the caul is a sign of good luck and being destined for greatness. I don’t doubt it for a minute. This kid is by far the luckiest one of our family. We found out he was a boy through an ultrasound on  St. Patrick’s Day 1998 and my doctor, Patrick, insisted when he was born that all of these signs pointed to the fact we should name him Patrick. We didn’t.

Although he looked quite a bit like Winston Churchill as an infant (see above picture) he quickly grew to be an adorable and sweet little towheaded boy.

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For those of you who don’t know, Nathan is the only one of our four kids not born in the middle of October. Sydney, Zoe and Parker’s birthdays fall between October 13-19th. This year we are spending that week (known in our house as hell week) in Hawaii, and since Nathan is the only one who won’t be celebrating his birthday in Hawaii, I decided to bring Hawaii to his birthday.

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image My mother made this little Hawaiian Nathan paper doll

He spent his day the way he wanted to- his friends had spent the night before and they played video games all morning, followed by going to see “Pacific Rim” at the theater. I dropped the boys off with their fandango tickets and $60 cash. My husband met them there. He said they went to get snacks and came back with one icee and three straws. I said, “But I gave him $60. They could have each gotten their own!” My husband’s theory is that one of them figured out that the large Icee was bottomless and thought sharing was the best way to go. He described how during the movie they would take turns keeping the icee in their cupholder, and then he would see a hand reaching for it. Whomever had grabbed it would then have to figure out which of the three straws was his.

Leading up to his birthday I had asked him if he wanted to go out to dinner or have dinner at home. He chose the latter. His tradition the past several years is to have the “World’s greatest sandwich.” Some of you may have missed that post, so here it is, recipe included. http://kbjackson.com/how-not-to-make-the-worlds-greatest-sandwich/

Thankfully things went much better this time, and I managed to make (with the help of my mother-in-law Toni) 11 World’s greatest sandwiches with no injuries or fires of any kind. It was a birthday miracle.

After dinner came gifts. Nathan tends to be a quiet kid, who is never comfortable being the center of attention.

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I finally got his birthday wish list on Tuesday, which gave me very little time to get his gifts. Another reason I love Amazon and prime shipping. Of course, one of his requests was for cash, but I didn’t want to just give him cash, so I ordered two different items (yes, from Amazon) to make it more interesting.

The first was a pinball machine. The object was to get all three mini pinballs into a certain hole, and then you were to press a “win” button to release the drawer. I had put two gift cards inside, so the only way he could get to them was to play the game.

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It was pretty hard. He was getting a little annoyed that he had to work so hard to get his gift. At one point he decided to go get a screwdriver and planned to pry the whole thing apart to get to the goodies. I convinced him to try again. Later in the night he was able to get the balls in and the drawer released. His persistence paid off.  But he was still peeved.

My other genius idea to give him cash was a puzzle box. When it arrived I realized that the box the puzzle box came in was even better a gift than the actual puzzle box. Clearly this was created by non- English speaking people.

image “Enlighten your IQ! The best welcome gifts for the children!”

image “Intellect game?” “Skillful devise” “Iron bead moved to the end with open up the lid”

image “Into the coin.” Or, perhaps you meant coin into the bank?

image “Stimulation fun game!”

Nathan tried for a while before getting very frustrated and setting it down to move onto his next gift. My father, the engineer, decided this was a challenge which he would like to pursue. He spent quite a bit of time trying to maneuver the “Iron bead moved to the end with open up the lid” before he started bashing it against my kitchen table. Defeated, he set it down.

A while later, Sydney was sitting with the puzzle box and pulled off the lid. She said, “Papa I think you already solved it, you just didn’t know it. Either that, or it never got set originally and all this effort was in vain. Maybe it was open the whole time.” I said, “There’s a life metaphor in there somewhere.”

My mother said, “Katie was always good at solving puzzles.”

I said, “I don’t know that I would say that. Although I am one level away from beating Candy Crush.”

Sydney asked, “Then what happens?”

Jeff said, “Then I get clean socks.”

Nathan’s next gift was a face bank. When I saw it on his list I had no idea what it was. This is what it is:

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqQ_cajpPmo

Above is the video I took as we tried to figure out how it works.

His big gift of the night was a Selk bag, otherwise known as a wearable sleeping bag. I have yet to understand under which circumstances he plans on wearing this thing, although he told me he slept in it last night. He awoke during the night in a panic over how hot and sweaty he was, so hopefully he didn’t break it trying to escape it.

I picked green because it was the only color other than pink that was available on Amazon prime shipping. The net effect is that when he wears it, he looks just like Gumby.

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The final portion of the birthday extravaganza was the ice cream cake he had requested. Unfortunately it was about 95 degrees in my kitchen and once I took it out of the freezer we were in a race against time to get it sliced.

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Parker was having a difficult time controlling his compulsion to blow out the candles.

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But Nathan outsmarted him by covering his face as he leaned in to blow them out.

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I think his birthday was exactly the way he wanted it. Hopefully he won’t hold a grudge about having to work for his gifts. I may never give cash or gift cards without a challenge ever again. Hey, there’s nothing that says I can’t enjoy watching them struggle to open their gifts from me, is there?

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“I’m Gumby dammit!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ouch! And Other Thoughts During Yesterday’s Mountain Bike Ride

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Yesterday my husband decided he wanted to go for a bike ride. I haven’t been in a while; a really long while, actually. I decided to go along. The following are my thoughts during yesterday’s outing.

> This can’t be my helmet. This strap is so tight I have created 3 additional chins. ( It was not my helmet, it was Nathan’s. You know it’s been a while if you can’t even recognize your own helmet.)

> Ooh, mountain biking is so much more fun than running, and yet still a good workout.

(One minute later)

>Ho boy, I am out of shape.

> Was that a bug? Did a bug just go up my nose? It did. A bug just totally went up my nose.

> Clearly my innate klutziness not only extends to mountain biking, it is exacerbated by the random holes, rocks and tree roots.

> Ouch!

> Oh good. Downhill. Too fast. Too fast. Toooo FAAST!

>Please, God, don’t let me crash in front of these real mountain bikers. They’re already annoyed that I’m here.

> Wait- what are they looking at? What are they- Aww dammit, I knew should have worn a sports bra.

>Oh look! My husband can still do wheelies, intentional or not!

> Ack! another bug up my nose. Don’t you guys have any sense of self-preservation?

> Don’t hit that rock. You’ve got plenty of room on either side. Don’t hit the rock.

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>You hit the rock.

>Is it forward or back on the gears to make it easier to go up the hill? Oh crap. Wrong way. Now my hands are too sweaty to shift back.

>I think I just heard a tree knock. Another one- yes, that definitely was a tree knock. I knew these woods looked squatchy.

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>I’m pretty sure we are on the wrong trail. This has to be a trail for more advanced cyclists.

> Actually I don’t think this is a trail at all. More like a gauntlet.

>What was that I was thinking earlier? Biking is easier than running?

> My hoo ha can’t take another bump. Can’t you trees keep your roots to yourself?

Trail outlined by roots

>Good thing I’m done having children. Pretty sure that last bump made me sterile.

>Ferns aren’t as soft as they look

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>Oof! I’m almost positive that bump just made me pee my pants.

>Bug in my eye! Bug in my eye!

>Oh goody. Only 1.6 miles to the parking lot.

>Hmm. Even tree huggers litter their clif bar wrappers. I thought you people loved the environment!

>Almost there. Try not to crash into the parking lot.

>Phew! Made it! I wonder how long it takes for a bruised undercarriage to heal.

image Sweaty, dirty, bugs in my orafices. But I survived.

 

 

 

 

Cats.You Either Love Them Or Hate Them.

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No, not those kind of cats.

These kind of CATS:

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Last night Sydney had several friends over to watch a movie and eat cheese. You may think I’m exaggerating about the cheese, but I’m not. We had brie en croute (A fancy name for Brie wrapped in Pillsbury crescent rolls and baked), pepperjack, mozzarella, and Beecher’s Flagship, No Woman and Marco Polo. If you haven’t yet experienced the beauty of Beecher’s cheeses, you are really missing out. Flagship is my favorite.

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Sydney and I once took a field trip down to Pike Place market in Seattle to sample the cheese and see how they make it. If you’re ever in the area, make sure you stop by and check it out. It’s right by the original Starbuck’s Coffee.

Wait- where was I? Oh yeah. Cheese and CATS

So last night as we were eating cheese Sydney’s friend Micaela says to me, “I really think you should go back and see CATS again.”

One of the boys, Alex, who was standing nearby said, “What cats?”

I responded, “Not cats. CATS. The musical.”

He said, “Oh, I know. CATS!” And then he did jazz hands. I should mention this “boy” is not a small boy. He’s a very tall, broad shouldered boy, so seeing him do jazz hands was almost as amusing as the time he played a shirtless Aladdin in a church skit.

Micaela had been at our house the night Jeff and I had gone to see CATS and had witnessed my retelling of the ordeal after we got home. But Alex hadn’t heard the story, and neither have most of you. I’ll tell you, it was a night to remember.

First, I should preface this story by saying  I have always loved Broadway musicals, for as long as I can remember. I used to listen to my parents’ record albums of “Oklahoma,” “The King and I,” and “South Pacific” all the time, singing and dancing and pretending to be a part of the story.

When I was about 7 or 8, my grandmother took us all to see “Annie” in Los Angeles. I was hooked. I took an old grey dress that my mother had made for my sister to play a pilgrim in a school play, found myself a locket, and transformed myself into an orphan. I even wrote a note that I folded and placed into the pocket of the raggedy dress. It said, “Please take care of our Annie until we come back for her.”

When I was about 9 or 10, my grandmother flew me back down to Southern California to participate in a two week workshop at “South Coast Reparatory Theater” in Costa Mesa. We learned all sorts of acting techniques.

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The first was miming. I could blow a fake giant bubble and have it pop in my face like the best of them. I practiced the “mime caught in the box” act for hours on end. My poor grandmother, God bless her soul.

I learned the entirety of the “Jabberwocky” poem from Lewis Carroll. I can still recite quite a bit of it: “T’was brillig, and the slithey toads did gyre and gimbal in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogroves and the momes wrath outgrabe.” It gets a little hazy in the middle until the phrase “frumious bandersnatch.” The poem, I think, is nothing but nonsense. I have no idea if there is deeper meaning to it or not, but more than 30 years later it is still etched in my memory.

Our big finale was to learn the song “Give my Regards to Broadway.” I can still sing that whole thing as well. I left that camp convinced I would have a career in the theater. That didn’t happen, as you might have guessed.

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I don’t remember any of the kids’ names. (I’m the chunky awkward blonde with the bad “Annie” perm in the middle) Please note the jazz hands in the front row. I have to believe he went on to do some sort of performance-based arts.

My love for musical theater has led me to see several live performances. And there are a lot of great ones. In my humble opinion CATS is not one of them.

Christmas 2011 my husband gave me two tickets to a spring 2012 performance of the show at the Paramount theater in Seattle. He didn’t do this intentionally. He didn’t say to himself, “I really want to see ‘Cats.'” Frankly, he didn’t know anything about it.

As the time approached to go to the show, I reminded him of it. He said, “So what’s it about?”

I stared at him for a moment. “It’s about cats.”

His eyes got a little bigger. “The whole show is about cats?”

“Did you even look at what you were buying?”

“No. I thought a night out at the theater would be fun.”

“Well, it’s a night out at the theater about cats. I’m sure it will be fine,” I said. “I mean it’s like the longest running Broadway musical ever.”

Wrong. It’s the second longest running. CATS closed after 18 years, and “Phantom of the Opera” has been going for 25. But still- 18 years, 7500 shows on Broadway alone. 7 Tony Awards. It’s gotta be great, right?

I remember when CATS was at the height of its popularity. I am pretty sure my mother went to see it, and had the sweatshirt to prove it. You know the one, With the eyes.

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Anyway, we got dressed up and headed out to a very nice steak dinner at Morton’s where we drank wine and ate like royalty. As we waited for our car at the valet stand, the other valet asked where we were headed and we told him. He got a strange look on his face and said, “My buddy ushers over at the theater. He says it’s an… interesting show.”

Our first clue that we were out of our element was the stream of people moving into the theater with cat tails attached to their rear ends. There were street vendors selling handcrafted cat tails. Some were normal cat colors (brown, white, black, tabby) while others were calico or rainbow.

Jeff said, “Do you want a tail?”

My response was a scowl.

We got seated in the theater, which isn’t the most comfortable place to sit. Back in 1928 when the theater first opened, either everyone was carrying around a lot less girth (they were) and/or they had less personal space issues. We were on the first level, about halfway, maybe 3/4 back. A couple about our age came down the row and the man sat next to me. I tried to give him room for his arm, but I felt as though I was practically attached to him.

The show began. Cats came streaming down the aisles and from the balconies onto the stage.

I don’t remember much, but I do remember this: for the entire first act the only dialogue and/or singing was one singular, terrible phrase. Jellicle cats.

Jellicle cats. Jellicle cats. Over and over again. Jellicle cats. Whispered, chanted, sung. Jellicle cats. Later on I found out that Andrew Lloyd Webber didn’t make up the phrase “Jellicle cats,” T. S. Eliot did, in his poem from the anthology “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats.” I really don’t care who came up with the phrase. I just never EVER want to hear it again. Ever. And I certainly don’t want to hear it sung.

I kept waiting for some indication of what in the name of all things holy was going on in this show. I tried to follow it, really I did. I consider myself to be capable enough to follow along even complicated literary subject matter. I was lost. I was as lost as a jellicle cat who can’t find his way to the jellicle ball. That’s a thing, you know. At least it is in this musical.

The guy next to me was clearly struggling as much as I was. Oh and my husband, too. Jeff was quietly watching, but the guy on the other side of me kept making comments under his breath like, “Oh for God’s sake” and “What the hell?” I started getting the giggles a little bit, and I think he did too. Not sure if his wife/ girlfriend was enjoying herself.

Just when I thought I was going to lose my mind over that damn jellicle cats thing, suddenly the air in the theater shifted. Everyone got extra quiet. The spotlight shone  on one haggard cat slowly making her way across the stage. I could hear the beginnings of the only tune I had previously known from this show, “Memory.” This was a big moment. It was also an indicator that I had almost made it to intermission.

Jeff leaned over to me and whispered, “That cat looks like __________.” I can’t say the name of who he was referring to, but I will tell you it is an older woman we used to know and his assessment was spot on.

I lost it. The sound of my guffaw echoed out through the theater like a cannon. The guy next to me almost lost it. Jeff could barely hold it together. The more I tried to stop laughing, the harder it became. Tears streamed down my face. I practiced Lamaze breathing and tried everything I could think of to control what was bubbling inside of me and about to burst forth.

The audience cheered at the end of “Memory,” and I cheered because I knew relief was coming.

Jeff turned to me. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

I nodded, unable to speak. He led me out of the theater into the night and I felt like I could breathe again.

Jeff said, “I think she’s the one.”

I looked at him, confused. “She’s what one? Who is?”

“That cat. At the end. I think she’s the one he’s going to choose.”

“The one who is going to choose to do what?!?”

“To go to cat heaven.”

I was stunned. “You mean- you knew what was going on in there?”

“No, not really. But I did get that. The big fat one was gonna pick the old lady cat to go to cat heaven.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. All I heard was jellicle cats over and over. I never heard any dialogue. I never heard any explanations. I kept waiting for them, but they never came.

Two women ahead of us were talking about how they were escaping and not going back. I said, “Did you have any idea what was going on in there?”

They laughed and one said, “No! I thought it was just me!”

We walked across the street and decided to hit the Ruth’s Chris for dessert; also booze that would take away the pain of what had just happened.

We took our seat in the lounge area on a comfy couch and I slumped back. I was free.

We overheard the group next to us. They had been at the play also, and, like us, had escaped at intermission. We bonded over our ordeal and laughed at the experience. Jeff kept apologizing, but I reassured him there was no way he could have known.

When our waiter appeared, I was so loopy that anything was going to set me off into a fit of laughter. Our waiter was a little person, which hit me as quite funny in the moment because it was unexpected and I’m an asshole sometimes.  I began the Lamaze breathing again, ordered the chocolate lava cake and an Irish coffee. When he walked away to put in our order, I was afraid to look directly at Jeff. I knew if I did I was not going to be able to recover.

Our waiter returned with our desserts and we, along with the table adjacent, regaled him with the story of our night. He was hilarious and charming and I no longer felt giggly about him, I just thought he was a cool guy.

In the end, I have to admit that night will be forever in my memory as one of the most entertaining I have ever had. I laughed until I couldn’t breathe. I gorged myself on filet mignon and decadent desserts. I met a really awesome little person. And I survived to tell the tale. Or tail, as the case may be.

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Dear Diary,

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Day 5 in the jungle. The natives are getting restless. Last night there was a full-blown scuffle involving Zoe, Parker and a dinosaur.

We haven’t seen Sydney for days. We think she either ran away or has been kidnapped by a neighboring tribe.  Tuesday night the rains came, and she had left all the windows and the sunroof open in her car. She should know better. Any sort of creature, especially a snake, could have gotten inside.

We can see where the food is but cannot navigate the treacherous obstacles to get there.

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You would think under the intense heat and moisture, and the lack of accessibility to food, I would be wasting away. Unfortunately, that does not appear to be the case.

Last night we ventured into a neighboring village for tacos and s’mores. This village was cooler and less muggy. We spotted a wild animal stealing a s’more before making a fast getaway.

image Very frustrating that you can never get a clear shot of these things, so no one ever believes they really exist.

We’re losing track of time.

Me:is it Friday? What day is it?
Parker: I don’t know. Yesterday was Wednesday.
Wrong.
Our camp has gotten a little messy. No one seems to feel the need to try. Parker has been holed up in the playroom surrounded by colorful creatures I never imagined existed (and sometimes wish didn’t).
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Zoe has been able to find fresh water twice this week to swim in. Nathan is in serious need of a shower, and Parker needs a bath. No 7 year old’s armpits should smell like a grown man who has just chopped down a giant sycamore tree with a hatchet.
I was able to make coffee this morning, but it’s too hot to drink it, and we have no ice. Isn’t that what they call an O. Henry irony? No, maybe more like an Alanis Morissette irony.
We lost one of our party this week to the heat. Carnival goldfish #2 simmered in his own bowl. As I said that day, probably an environment that ripens green bananas in 45 minutes isn’t great for a goldfish. We had a small ceremony for her. I said a few words, Zoe and Parker fought over who got to flush her, Parker took matters into his own hands (literally) and Zoe ran off crying.  RIP Carnival Goldfish #2.
Zoe just crawled into the room begging me to take her over the hill to the village IHOP for breakfast. She has beads of perspiration on her forehead and her cheeks are flushed. The workers came today and sealed off the kitchen and pantry with plastic tarps that have zippers. Before it was sealed off Parker and Nathan managed to acquire a mostly empty box of fruit loops and half a bag of goldfish crackers. Looks like IHOP it is.
And if you hear a Tarzan-like cry coming from our house, please just try to ignore it. You really don’t want to know.
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Ten Reasons Why A Kitchen Flood Ain’t So Bad

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Yesterday morning I awoke to Parker saying, “There’s water in the kitchen.” No, technically that’s not true. The first time he woke me up, he was talking to my husband about Skylander Giants. Again. Then they went downstairs and I started to drift back to sleep. The second time he woke me up he said, “There’s water in the kitchen.” “Yes,” I answered. He said, “It’s everywhere. It’s a flood.” I mumbled, “Is this daddy’s way of getting me to get up?” He said, “There’s water all over the kitchen. Everywhere.”

He wasn’t kidding. As I waded across my kitchen floor in my pre-coffee stupor, I almost had to laugh. This day was already supposed to be difficult because of some things my hubby had to deal with, and this was just the icing on the cake. There was still water coming out of our suspected culprit, the refrigerator. My husband was trying to move our giant fridge that’s technically too big for the space it inhabits so that he could get behind it to turn the water off. He spent about an hour sucking up as much water as possible with our shopvac, but it was clear that the water had been going for a while, and had been sitting on our hardwood floors for hours.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DsShi0yqdv8&feature=youtu.be

(don’t judge me for the laundry on the floor- it probably absorbed a ton of water preventing it from getting further. It may be the one time my laundry failings were helpful.)

I called the insurance company and left a message, since their office wasn’t open yet. Their response email seemed to indicate they thought I meant I had a little water around my fridge. They reiterated my thousand dollar deductible to scare me off. Eventually I convinced them they needed to send someone out.

So here I sit in a torn up house on a hot summer day, my kids haven’t eaten because our kitchen and pantry are unavailable, and yet I am counting my blessings. Here, in no particular order, are 10 reasons why it ain’t so bad:

1. The butterscotch schnapps bottle that Zoe knocked over a couple weeks ago, sending shattered glass shards and sticky sweet liquor all over the kitchen has now been thoroughly soaked and eliminated.

2. Last week, I finally got around to ripping up the carpet in the pantry so I could lay the linoleum tiles I bought for the Spring break project that never happened, as mentioned in my previous blog : http://kbjackson.com/in-case-youre-wondering-i-think-its-poprocks-an-apology-letter-to-my-housecleaners .

This was what I discovered underneath:

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It precipitated a lively discussion about what could possibly be down there. Someone guessed “Narnia.” Another said, “hiding place for Zombie apocalypse.” Some said it reminded them of “Being John Malkovich” or “Panic room.” My husband claimed it was his “escape hatch.” Of course there were the practical ones who said, “crawl space,” but they’re no fun, so I ignored them.  All I knew was that I wasn’t opening it. But I decided to tile around it, so that it could be opened without disturbing the tile.

IMG_5077 That white dot in the middle is a screw that, you will soon see, is useless, but I went out of my way to work around.

But my daughter’s curiosity soon got the best of her.

She decided to look.

Here’s how that went:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxBZwQ6AGeo

Ironically, less than 24 hours later, when Servpro asked me where the crawlspace was, I was able to tell them.

IMG_5143 This machine is now sucking the water out from under the house through the crawl space access in the pantry. Please note, they ripped up my newly laid tiles that I had very carefully laid so they wouldn’t have to do that.

3. The white noise of the 8 fans and humidifiers is blissful. When my kids are whining at me I just point to my ears, shake my head to indicate I can’t hear them, and then stare blankly at them until they give up. I also can no longer hear the youtube video Parker has been watching over and over of the kids playing “Skylander Giants.” They shriek and cackle and he giggles and I want to pull my hair out. I told him a couple days ago that I don’t want to hear some kid that isn’t even mine screaming in my house. The sound of his voice makes my head hurt. Why do kids watch videos of other people playing video games? To me, this is worse than sitting around playing video games.

IMG_5142IMG_5139 “WHAT??? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!!”

4. They ripped up the molding in my kitchen that was nicked and in need of repainting. I can check that project off my summer to-do list.

5. I don’t know if this counts as a “good thing,” but it was pretty funny. Last night at about 9pm and the Servpro guys were setting up their fans and laying paper down, I saw Parker sneaking around the corner with a giant loaded nerf gun in each hand. I said, “You can’t shoot them. They’re working.” He got a mischievous look on his face and crept closer. “Parker. You can’t shoot the guys. Take the guns upstairs.” He gave a look of disappointment, then went off in search of his brother to unload his ammo on.

6. A non-functioning kitchen means no cooking.

7. This isn’t MY idea of a good thing, but my husband is thrilled that the damage to the laundry room necessitates me washing the dirty clothes that got soaked to get them out of the way. *editor’s note- The Servpro guy just asked me if I wanted him to take the wet laundry to the shop and have them wash and dry the clothes. I almost fell over. “You do that?!?” He said, “Not me personally, but back at the shop they do.” I responded, “Well I certainly wouldn’t fight you washing my clothes.”

8. So much electrical equipment plugged in means limiting electronic use in this house. Nothing to do inside means heading outside with no guilt. This afternoon I will be sitting by the pool.

9.  The necessity to move the fridge revealed things that haven’t been seen in a while. My husband yelled, “Hey Parker! I found some fruit leather behind the fridge! Come eat it!” I looked at it. “That’s not fruit leather.”

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He said, “Are you sure?”

I gagged a little and flipped it over. “Yes. I’m sure.”

IMG_5130 Yes. That expiration date is September. Of 2011.

10. New floors, baby! Those dirty basketball-court looking ugly wood floors will soon be refinished with a lovely dark sheen. All for the bargain price of our $1000 deductible. If you’re gonna have a disaster, there are worse things to have happen than to end up with pretty newly refinished floors.

I’m sure in a week or so I will be very annoyed with the chaos. I already had to cancel the housecleaners for this week. (but at least that means no pre-housecleaning hysteria.) In the meantime, I am counting my blessings.

 

 

Devastated. But Not Surprised.

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Like that family member who has let you down, time and time again. Devastated. Betrayed. Angry. But not surprised.

“I am not angry, but my mommy heart is broken…”

” I’m not surprised, but Soooo disappointed!!!!”

   “I expected a not guilty verdict.  Since when has American justice placed any value on black lives?  I pray daily for my son that his name is not added to the ever-growing list of black Americans deemed unworthy of justice and dignity both in life and death… ‪#‎RememberEmmettTill‬ ‪#‎RememberNewOrleans‬ ‪#‎RememberRodneyKing‬ ‪#‎RememberWatts1965‬  ‪#‎RememberRonSettles‬ ‪#‎RememberRosewood‬ ‪#‎RememberTedLandsmark‬ ‪#‎RememberFrankWills‬ ‪#‎RememberTreyvonMartin
   These are just some of the posts that that came through my facebook feed in the early moments following the verdict Saturday night.
   But some argued those feelings of anger and despair weren’t justified. That political correctness and radical activists made this case about race, when it wasn’t really a case about race. It reminds me of that scene in “You’ve Got Mail” when Tom Hanks says putting Meg Ryan out of business “wasn’t personal,” and she responds, ” What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s *personal* to a lot of people.” This case was about race. It was about race from the beginning. As a matter of fact, it was about race before the beginning.
   We in this country have a bias against black men. Particularly young black men. They are thugs until proven otherwise. “There’s a real suspicious guy. This guy looks like he’s up to no good, or he’s on drugs or something. It’s raining and he’s just walking around, looking about.” “Ok, and this guy, is he white, black or Hispanic?” “He looks black.”
   Racial profiling is real. It happens every day. What was it about this 17 year old kid with skittles and an iced tea that made him look suspicious? That question cannot be answered without bringing race into it. Race came into this case because of the mindset that a black teenager walking through an upscale neighborhood must be up to no good. I wonder if there was anything Trayvon could have done differently to NOT arouse Zimmerman’s suspicion. I cannot think of any.
   Someone tweeted earlier, “How cool would it be to live in a world where George Zimmerman offered Trayvon Martin a ride home to get him out of the rain that night?” But that isn’t the world we live in. Does that make George Zimmerman any more racist than the rest of us? Not necessarily. George Zimmerman had black friends. He worked at a community center with minority kids. And if you asked him before this incident whether he would consider himself a racist, I’m sure he would vehemently deny it. As many of us would. But the ugly truth is we don’t even know how deeply embedded our biases lie.
   “What would you do?” did a segment about racial profiling by the general public.
That young black man was instantly surrounded by concerned citizens who immediately suspected he was up to no good. The white guy was mildly questioned but no one really confronted him, and the hot chick actually had men offering to help her steal the bike. This is the world we live in, and if you don’t believe it, you’re lying to yourself.
   I have no intention of trying to prove or disprove the merits of this case (or lack thereof.) I believe the jury did their job under the law as they understand it, according to the way the prosecution presented their case. I believe the system was in George Zimmerman’s favor. I believe the prosecution was either incompetent or made deliberate choices in both the charges and their handling of the case so as to achieve this outcome.
   What I do hope to do is provoke some thought amongst my white friends as to why the black community DOES view this as a case about race. And why there is not surprise amidst their grief.
   Fact: While people of color make up about 30% of the population in the US, they account for 60% of those imprisoned. 1 in every 15 African American men are incarcerated in comparison to 1 in every 106 white men. 1 in 3 black men can expect to go to prison in their lifetime. 1 in 3. Let’s just stop and let that sink in for a moment.
   Why might that be? Well, if we believe in the fairness of our judicial system, that is an indictment of a whole race of people.  To say the system is good and just means the people must be bad, right? Black men are just thugs. Criminals. Up to no good.
   In our rabid defense of our legal system, it might behoove us to consider a few things.
   “Individuals of color have a disproportionate number of encounters with law enforcement, indicating that racial profiling continues to be a problem. A report by the Dept. of Justice found that blacks and Hispanics were approximately 3 times more likely to be searched during a traffic stop than white motorists. African Americans were twice as likely to be arrested and almost FOUR TIMES as likely to experience use of force during their encounters with police.” *
   Those stats don’t even include the fact that just driving while being black, you are more likely to be stopped by police. I have heard it all from “Your music was too loud” to “Your windows were too dark.” They question. “Why are you here? What are you doing? Who are you visiting?” And then they search. It’s happened to my friends. It happened to my college boyfriend in my own home town.
   Fact: Black and Hispanic students represent more than 70% of those involved in school-related arrests or referrals to law enforcement. African Americans make up 2/5 of the kids in juvenile detention. According to the Sentencing Project ( http://www.sentencingproject.org/template/index.cfm) even though black juvenile youth make up 16% of the total youth population, 37% of their cases are moved to adult criminal court and 58% of African American youth are sent to adult prisons.
   I just had to catch my breath for a moment as I absorbed those numbers and the far-reaching effects of sending so many underage kids to adult prisons.
   I recently watched a stunning documentary called “Gideon’s Army” on HBO about public defenders in their crusade for indigent defense. ( http://gideonsarmythefilm.com/ ) I believe that poverty is a strong contributing factor to both crime and the failings of our legal system. And I believe that juvenile problems amongst minority populations are often in the schools with the least amount of resources and communities where most families are barely making it. I won’t simplify these stats and claim that race is the only factor. But it cannot be separated from them either. It’s all intertwined.
   And it gets worse.
   Fact: In the federal system, black defendants  receive sentences 10% longer than whites convicted of the EXACT SAME CRIMES, and are 20% more likely to be sentenced to prison than their white counterparts. How do you explain that, proponents of out “fair and just” legal system?
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   Yesterday Zoe had a 3 hour gap between games at her soccer tournament, so we headed to the street fair happening nearby. At one point, Zoe and Parker decided to escape the heat and plop themselves down under the shade of one of the booths to cool off. This particular booth was sponsored by the Kent Black Action Commission. ( http://www.kentblackactioncommission.com/ )
The gracious woman manning the booth offered them candy and told them they were welcome to take advantage of the shade.
   As I stood there feeling awkward and looking over her pamphlets, we began to talk about her organization , along with the Statewide Poverty Action Network.  (http://povertyaction.org/) She had voter registration forms, as well as information about the Voting Rights Restoration Act.
   Oh, you don’t KNOW what the Voting Rights Restoration Act is? There’s a very good reason for that. When it was passed, one of the stipulations was that there were zero dollars allotted  for advertisement. If people don’t understand or know their civil rights, they are less likely to exercise them. The cynic in me thinks that may exactly be the point.
   In this case, the Voting Rights Restoration Act was a 2009 law that the Statewide Poverty Action Network was instrumental in passing that reinstates voting rights to Washington State residents who were convicted in the state and have completed parole and probation.
   Not a fan of convicted felons regaining the right to vote? I used to feel the same way, back when the naïve me believed that all people could get a fair trial. I never once had a problem with the idea of convicted criminals losing their right to vote.
   Until last summer. I call it my “Summer of discovery,” when I read two books that turned my world view upside down.
The first was “Some of My Best Friends Are Black.”
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Do you have any idea how many times I had to explain what I was reading because of the title of this book? I cringed every time I said it out loud. But the book changed my life. I suddenly saw history in a way I had never seen it before. And I became aware that my idea of how we got here was very misguided.
The next book I read was even more intense. It’s called “Worse Than Slavery.”
Worse-Than-Slavery-9780684830957
   Up until reading this book, my linear brain had viewed things this way:
We had slavery. Slavery was bad. Good white people in the North decided to stop the bad people in the South from having slaves, so we had the Civil War. We (good white people) won! The slaves were free! Lincoln is awesome!  Oh wait… (cue the duh duh duh dramatic music when things take a turn for the worse.) The South still hates black people. Martin Luther King jr marched and inspired people with his dream. Rosa Parks wouldn’t give up her seat and move to the back of the bus. Someone offered to buy the world a Coke and we all lived happily ever after like that song I learned in Sunday School, “Red and yellow black and white, they are precious in His sight.” ( I am sure the person who wrote that song didn’t understand how offensive the terms “red” and “yellow” are. I’m sure they had the best of intentions.) The End.
   And so going forward, any black person born in the greatest nation in the world, America, had the same opportunities as anyone else, and they could either succeed or squander them. Anything is possible! We are awesome! And free!
   And if you fail, it’s because you chose it. We value personal responsibility. Overcoming obstacles. But as my friend said to me today, “All obstacles are NOT created equal.”
   The legacy of the greatest humanitarian crime in the history of the world should not be taken lightly. Approximately 4 million Africans died during the Middle Passage alone. 300 years of slavery. 6 million Jews died in the Holocaust. Mankind’s apology was the reestablishment of the State of Israel. But what of the freed slaves and their descendants?
   During slavery, the black family was broken. If you haven’t read the Willie Lynch Letter, please take a moment to do so. It is enlightening about the long term effects on the slaves and their children and their children’s children; About pitting them against each other, breaking parental and spousal bonds, inhibiting learning and self-sufficiency.
It is hard to argue the visible, tangible results that these tactics have had on the African American community.
   Slaves were set free, but soon the courts and prisons became slave masters. Prison labor was big business, and they needed strong men, disposable men. They worked in the coal mines, they built roads and bridges in the most dangerous of conditions, doing the jobs no employee was willing to do. But the prisoners had no choice. They were often stacked in cages when they weren’t working, left outside in the elements.
   The black community was targeted. A black child could be sent to prison camp for the crime of stealing gum. Sometimes people just disappeared off the streets, never to be heard from again. Often the white convicts were sent to actual prisons, but the black convicts were almost always leased out to do dangerous work under the direst of circumstances. I highly recommend reading “Worse Than Slavery” to get a clear picture of how our prisons have been used to profit off of the backs of black men and women.
   And yet, when crimes committed by whites against blacks occurred, justice was scarce. Kangaroo courts, mistrials, acquittals.
My friend Marques lost his cousin Friday night. He was shot and killed on the streets of Hollywood, Florida on his way to get a hamburger. Imagine being that family and hearing this verdict. What would that tell you about the kind of justice to expect for your own loved one?
   So friends, when you look at this case, and you say to yourself, “Why are they trying to make this about race?” Take a moment to read and study the true history of this country, the legal system, the injustice, the institutional racism that still permeates every aspect of our society whether we want to admit it or not, our own personal biases and prejudices. Stop being so defensive and try to understand. Try to see why just because it doesn’t feel like racism to you, doesn’t mean it isn’t.
   There is a privilege we have that we don’t even understand because it’s such a part of our lives. We walk down the street every day knowing that people will give us the benefit of the doubt. It never occurs to us that our boys look suspicious just because of the color of their skin, because they don’t. Not in the eyes of the general public. We cannot possibly comprehend what it is like to be black in this country. Most of us do not know what it’s like to be mothers of black or biracial children. To know that the lives of our sons are worth less to society, to each other. Someone earlier wrote that being a black male is often a fatal condition. We cannot possibly comprehend that. Not even a tiny bit.
   I want to end this with something my friend Charles said. It is profound and needs to be heard.
   “Our Judicial System sets the bar when it comes to the “Value” it puts on life by how it protects it. The value of a Black Life is not the same as that of a White Life in our society. That simple message is CONSISTENTLY reinforced in our courts and even adhered to by other Blacks. We don’t value Black Life either because of that fact. I don’t believe human beings are capable of being just. Nothing about history tells me that “Justice” and Equity are human traits. Those in control, fight to stay there. Eventually all societies crumble because of injustice.”
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* http://www.americanprogress.org/issues/race/news/2012/03/13/11351/the-top-10-most-startling-facts-about-people-of-color-and-criminal-justice-in-the-united-states/

 

My WHAT Has Shipped?!?

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This is not an usual site on my front porch. Ok, maybe not quite this much, but it is a rare day that we don’t receive some sort of shipment from somewhere, and often from Amazon. I love Amazon. I love that I can think to myself, “Hmm I really want ______, but don’t feel like driving around looking for it. I wonder if Amazon has it.”

And they almost always do. And I can get it delivered to my door in 2 days with free shipping. It’s almost like having a magic genie to grant my wishes.

Because we own our own business, my husband also often has packages shipped here. My kids always get excited when there are packages on the porch, even though they hardly ever are for them. This was my conversation with Nathan last week:

Nathan: Did you see you got a package from Amazon?
Me: Yes. Did you open it?
Nathan: No. But I want to.
Me: It’s nothing exciting.
Nathan: I wanna open it.
Me: If opening that box that contains my Tahitian lotion will make you happy, be my guest.
-He opens the box and pulls out a jar
Me: Surprise!
Nathan: It’s body butter.
Me: See? Exciting.

He then proceeded to read the ingredients off the side of the jar, as if that somehow validated his interest in opening my package.

ProductBodyButter-TahitianFlower It really is amazing lotion. Smells like the ocean (If the ocean smelled like flowers and not dead sea creatures.)

Most of our packages are delivered by UPS. I always figured that my UPS drivers never paid that much attention to the houses on their routes because they see so many. One day the driver, a woman, had to deliver a large package that I needed to sign for. As I signed the paperwork she said, “I see you got a new car. Got tired of trying to park that giant Escalade on this steep driveway, huh?”

My friend Rebecca over at http://www.blushcelebrations.com is married to a UPS driver. Sometimes he works in my neighborhood. Last Christmas Eve she told me he would be out in my area so I put out some cookies and candy for him and his partner. I put a giant note on them that said “UPS.” I felt really bad, though, because it turned out that one of my expected packages was delivered by FedEx prior to them picking it up. I stopped feeling bad when it turned out that the other package that was supposed to be delivered at the same time mysteriously got lost at my local FedEx office until two days after Christmas. I am convinced they got huffy and decided not to deliver both packages.

Soon after, my friend’s hubby started vomiting violently and spent much of the next few days in the hospital. I’m not pointing any fingers or anything, but the timing is a bit suspicious. That’s all I’m saying. (*Editor’s disclaimer- I do not really believe that the FedEx driver poisoned the treats I left out for the UPS drivers. I think he actually had a virus.)

tumblr_m7lah1NMAs1qhqad1o1_500 Lesson learned- If you’re gonna leave treats for the UPS guy, you’d better leave them for the FedEx guy too.

Anyways. Back to Amazon. Since we use Amazon Prime all the time, sometimes the account doesn’t get logged out. This is where things have gotten complicated around here.

Parker is really into action figures. He likes to play out whole episodes of his favorite shows with the character toys. He seems to think every character from every show is represented by a real life toy, so he often is begging me to look for them. Somewhere along the line he figured out that Amazon is where I find the majority of his toys. Last year, when he was still 6, I allowed him to create an Amazon wish list in my account, where he can accumulate all the toys he wants in one spot for further evaluation.

One night last summer, I received this email:

314492_10151062988164089_24144485_n My WHAT has shipped?!?

What this was, was a giant blue balloon that cost $1.79 and an additional $2.99 for shipping. It wasn’t eligible for free shipping, so the shipping costs were more than the actual item. Nearly $5 for a balloon that wasn’t even blown up.

The next morning I said, “Parker, did you order a giant blue balloon on Amazon without my permission?”

He said, “It’s an adventure sphere.”

“A WHAT?”

“An adventure sphere.”

He told me that he was trying to order something he had seen on a commercial for one of his favorite shows, “Adventure Time.” Here is the commercial:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LgZhA2bIfgA

adventure-time-live-action 482120_10151062567529089_1613220176_n (Commercial on the left, Parker on the right)

About 2 weeks later, the adventure sphere arrived.

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Parker said, “That’s not what I thought it was,” and threw it down on the bench.

About a month later, Nathan walked into my room and was holding the balloon and the package.

“How long ago did my balloon get here?”

I stared at him for a moment in disbelief and then started laughing hysterically.

It turned out that Nathan had thought he was ordering a giant ball of some sort. I don’t think he ever attempted to blow up the “adventure sphere.” Later I asked Parker why he took the blame for ordering something he didn’t order. He responded, ” I thought I did it.”

A couple of days ago, Nathan mentioned wanting to order something for himself as an early birthday present. I said, “What is it?”

“It’s a wearable sleeping bag.”

“A what?”

“A wearable sleeping bag.”

I went over to the computer and got ready to google it, when Nathan came over and edged me out of the chair.

“You’ll never find it. Here, let me pull it up.”

He then proceeded to pull up one of the most awesome displays of random useless crap I have ever seen in my life: http://www.thisiswhyimbroke.com/ .

Here are some of my favorite items listed for sale on this website:

suit-pajamas Pajama suit. As seen on “How I Met Your Mother.”

bottle-opening-sandals Sandal bottle opener- for those days on the beach drinking Corona and listening to Jimmy Buffet.

beer-bottle-chandelier Beer bottle chandelier. You could make one yourself with all the Corona bottles you opened on your sandal, but you’re too drunk to put it together. We’ve done it for you.

batman-brake-light-cover Batman taillight cover. You know you want it. You can also purchase the accompanying Batman Snuggie.

toiletbowlmug You know what your breath smells like in the morning. Why not just be real about it?

thug-life-fake-tattoos I’m getting this for all my Bible study friends to wear to our next get together.

baby-crib-dribbler What’s good for the bunny is good for the baby.

So finally after perusing things I never could have imagined actually exist for purchase, we came to the wearable sleeping bag.

wearable-sleeping-bags

My nearly 15 year old son is going on a youth group camping trip with the church. There will be girls there. I started hemming and hawing and saying thinks like, “Do you really imagine yourself walking around in this?” And, “What if it is too big? You might trip all over the place.”

He said, “Yeah, maybe I will get something else.”

This morning I received this email:

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I asked my husband if he had ordered some sort of metal. He looked at me like I was crazy. I looked up what it is, and this was the description:

gallium-metal“Experience the mind-blowing power of science every time you place some gallium in your hands. This unique metal transforms from a solid to a liquid while in your hands because of its unusually low temperature melting point – and once you let it go it returns to a solid form.”

It had to be Nathan.

Me: Nathan, did you order some sort of metal chunk from Amazon for $35?

Nathan: Yes, I got it instead of the wearable sleeping bag.

Out of everything he could buy, he bought a piece of metal.

I get why he didn’t get the “DJ catscratch turntable” since we don’t have a cat.

cat-scratch-dj-turntable “You might not know it, but cats are natural DJs. Now you can let Mr. Fluffums practice his wicked DJ skills while also keeping his nails sharp with these cat scratch posts shaped like turntables that will actually spin when your cat puts his claws into it.”

But at least maybe he could go with something more entertaining than a chunk of metal.

smartphone-laser-tag Smartphone laser tag. Now THIS is genius.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Fitness Rollercoaster And My Adventures With Abs Girl, Jersey Boy and Yoga Man

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I’m gonna be straight up honest with you. I didn’t go to the gym today. I didn’t go yesterday either. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time I went to the gym. I have what basically amounts to a lifetime membership at 24 hour fitness, and I think I have been there 10 times in the past year. My car got rear-ended last July, causing me back and neck injuries,  and working out and/or running have been difficult for me.  I actually thought about going today. My neck went out last Wednesday, but I’m feeling better this morning. Writing about going to the gym is ALMOST as effective as GOING to the gym, right?

I miss the gym. Sorta. I prefer running outside, but when you’re running inside on a treadmill, or lifting weights, it gives you more time to observe people than when you fly past them. Ok, maybe “fly” is an exaggeration. “Move slightly faster than the old couple out for a stroll” is probably more accurate. I miss the opportunities for people watching at the gym, and I’m not thrilled about the extra weight I have put on this past year.

I was never much of a fitness fanatic. If you may recall from my previous post- http://kbjackson.com/anything-i-can-do-you-can-do-better-musings-on-an-average-life/ I was not what you might call athletically gifted. I had asthma, a lack of coordination and a lack of confidence. I never quite understood people who exercised for fun. Occasionally I tried the 20 minute aerobic workout videos ( “4 more. 3 more. 2 more. Now take it to the left and one and two and three.”) And for a time in the late nineties I did “Tae Bo.” My need to take a shower after the Tae Bo tapes (and yes, I mean VHS tapes) was precipitated less by the workout and more by the dirty feeling I had from the creepy way Billy Blanks looked at me through the TV.

My favorite workout tape, though, has to have been “Seven Minute Abs” as seen here:

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http://www.popscreen.com/v/7Gg/7-Minute-Abs (the full clip from “There’s Something About Mary.”)

By the time I was 35, I had given birth to 4 children and had my gallbladder taken out due to poor diet. I knew I had to make a change. I tried the “Biggest Loser” DVD’s, but hit a wall after about 15 pounds. I remember saying to my husband, “I hope you like me exactly as I am, because I’m pretty sure this is the best it’s gonna get.”

His response was to take a pretty large risk by giving me sessions with a personal trainer for my birthday. That could have gone very not well for him. But I decided to seize the opportunity, and showed up at the gym with fear and trepidation. When I asked Jeff how he had chosen the personal trainer he said, “I looked around, found the biggest, meanest looking guy there and said, ‘that’s the one!'”

317156_4419244451842_1022087964_n Not intimidating at all.

And he wasn’t kidding. But in 3 months, Mike Cahl (still training in Orange County, CA if you’re in the area and need a kick-ass trainer) transformed me from a soft, squishy size 14 (plus ) to a rock hard size 4. I wouldnt believe it either if it hadnt happened to me. A colleague of my husband’s started calling me “Robomom.”

Soon this asthmatic who got out of PE with a doctor’s note for all of high school, was running an average of 20 miles a week. And I was spending lots of time at the gym.

When we moved back up to Washington from Southern Cal, I noticed there was a vast difference in the clientele of the gyms in each location. Whereas the Huntington Beach 24 hour fitness looked more like a nightclub or the set of a workout DVD, my new gym looked like the bar scene in “Star Wars.”

Over time I began to pick out my favorite regulars. There was Jersey boy,

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No, not that “Jersey boy.” Jersey boy was a guy who worked out every single day in what appeared to be his high school football jersey. He looked to be at least 5 years out of high school. Jeff’s theory was that he wore it because the cut of the shirt made him look broader in the shoulders. All I know is his mom must be really good at laundry to make sure he had the same jersey clean every day.

There was “anchorman.” I dubbed him this because he reminded me of this guy:

reporter_suspect

our former anchorman in Los Angeles. “Anchorman’s” mustache was tighter than this, though. Last year he shaved off the mustache and I was very disappointed. Maybe if I ever get my rear back to the gym I will see he has grown it back.

Every gym also has its resident anorexic. When I lived in HB, I actually mentioned to the front desk at the gym that they should do something about the fact that she was literally killing herself before my very eyes and they told me there was nothing they could do about it, for fear of being sued. The girl up here spends hours on the elliptical. HOURS. She wears a giant pink parka and looks like she’s being forced to keep moving even though her body can barely function. She smells like death. The front desk up here said that they limit her to two hours by policy, but then she goes to the other 24 hour fitness about 15 minutes away. If someone wants to kill themselves, there’s not a lot you can do about it, I guess.

There’s the old woman who walks the treadmill in her mom jeans. I’m not sure why she doesn’t just bite the bullet and get herself some comfortable workout clothes. I have also often seen a man wearing street clothes on the treadmill with a giant set of janitor keys hanging off his belt loop. He doesn’t walk very fast, so thankfully it keeps the jingling to a minimum.

About 3 years ago, a new guy showed up just after New Year’s. It was clearly a resolution situation. He had on a new blue sweatshirt, matching blue sweatpants and shiny white shoes. He came back the next day- same outfit. For two months I wondered when he would decide that the resolution was going to stick and he could invest in a second sweatsuit. It never happened. The last time I saw him, he was still wearing the same cornflower blue Hanes sweatsuit. I wear something to the gym and it doesn’t come back clean out of the laundry room for weeks. I can’t figure out how these people wear the same thing every day. Maybe he has several sets of the same exact outfit. That is more plausible to me than that he washes it every single day.

There’s a trainer who works there that I would never hire in a million years. Besides the fact that he has a serious paunch in his belly, he’s slimier than a slug. He has longish hair that he slicks up with some sort of greasy product, and he just has that “creeper” vibe. One day he showed up and he had colored his hair with blue streaks. It was not an improvement. I guess my feeling on personal trainers is that they should look somewhat like what you aspire to become. There is nothing about that greaseball I would want to be like or want my husband to be like.

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One day I was in the back of the gym doing curls. I looked over into the room where they do classes. There was an older man there in the back row, closest to the window. He wore tight yoga pants, and he clearly was enjoying the class. CLEARLY ENJOYING.  If you know what I mean. Two days later, I’m back there again, yoga is happening again, same thing. Eventually I had to change my workout schedule so that I was no longer doing curls during the 9 am T/Th yoga class. It’s like a car accident- I was horrified and yet couldn’t stop looking.

yoga2 “I really REALLY like yoga. Really.”

I gotta say though, my two favorites were Abs girl and Orgasm girl. Abs girl had the most spectacular abs I have ever seen on a human woman. Seriously. For a while, she seemed to have a thing with this giant buff guy who couldn’t turn his head because his neck was so thick. One day, they were no longer spotting each other. She had a new spotter, and he was with one of his other musclehead friends. He kept looking longingly over at her. I suspect Abs girl broke the big guy’s heart.

amazing-girl-abs1  Not actual Abs girl abs, but you get the idea. Is it any wonder he was so sad when she dumped him?

Orgasm girl, well, she was in a class all by herself. Every single thing she did in the gym came along with a vocalization. Every rep had a sound effect. Every bench press, every leg curl. Everything. And they were all straight out of a porno film. We get it. You’re hot. You want everyone to see that you’re hot and you’re working out. Not everyone wants to hear what it makes you feel like. I could do that too, you know, but I have self control and grunt it out like everyone else. I know the sounds I make are way less pleasant, but they are appropriate to the activity in which I am participating. One day I noticed Orgasm girl was no longer svelte in the middle. She was pregnant. Apparently her method of working out was more effective than I had imagined it to be. Or was it less effective?

As for me, well, I have a long road back to the peak of my fitness. I can still run 3-5 miles in a stint, but the next day my neck and back feel like I have been jackhammered. I may need to take up a new form of exercise. I tried hot yoga, and I didn’t die, but I didn’t love it. Plus I’m not good at scheduled classes. Every time I showed up right before the class was supposed to start, and the only spot left on the floor was directly under the heater. I felt like a rotisserie chicken.

Now that the weather is better I should probably take up walking. It’s tough on the runner’s ego to walk, but I think I just need to get over it. I’d rather be a semi-fit walker than an unfit former runner.

I do need to get back to the gym, though. My injured self can still do some toning and light cardio. Besides, I think it’s time to check up on all my old friends, and maybe find some new ones. It’s worth the pain for the entertainment. sits-down-at-a-machine-at-the-gym_last-person-wa It could happen. It totally could.

 

 

 

 

“I Think You Should Lose Your Back-Up Band” And Other Awesome Celebrity Encounters

celebrities-everywhere-meme

Last night, as my 9 year old daughter Zoe and I drove home, she said what she often says while riding in my car, “Can we PLEASE listen to something from the 2000’s?”

I like contemporary music, but I also love the old stuff. I go through phases of different eras and genres. I would apologize to my kids for subjecting them to that, but I love that my daughter can sing the lyrics to almost any Motown song, much of the 80’s music, and can often be heard belting out “Frankie Valley and the Four Seasons.” Currently as I am typing this, she is walking down the stairs singing “Love will keep us together” by “Captain and Tenille.”

So I ignored her request and flipped on the 70’s station. It was Glen Campbell singing “Southern Nights.” I heard a groan from the back seat.

“You know, your dad flew on a plane with Glen Campbell once.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and the plane got struck by lightning.”

“You’re making that up.”

But I wasn’t. Several years ago my husband was on a flight with Glen Campbell. He said at the time he got on the plane he knew he was someone famous, but couldn’t quite figure out who he was. He said that he was dressed really well. ( I asked him this morning if he was dressed like a “Rhinestone Cowboy.” He looked at me for a moment and then said, “No.” He doesn’t think I’m as funny as I think I am.)

Glen was in first class, and my husband was kiddie corner from him, so he had a direct view. He heard the murmurs all around, people whispering “isn’t that…” and it was clear the flight attendant was giving him extra attentive service. Jeff says Glen looked like he was trying to keep a low profile.

Partway through the flight, that all changed.  It was a bumpy stormy flight to start off. But suddenly there was a large CRACK! The plane lit up like Times Square and then dropped like a thousand feet in an instant. Everyone on the plane thought they were going to die. (He says now that he’s not sure if it actually hit the plane or was just very close. Would a direct hit cause all the electronics to fry?)

When they all realized they had survived, the atmosphere of the plane changed. Suddenly the flight attendants were serving drinks, everyone was getting liquored up in relief and celebration, and Glen Campbell was out of his seat signing autographs. Jeff said, “If he had his guitar with him, he probably would have led a sing-along on the plane.”

Sadly, Glen Campbell is in deteriorating health, but we have his music and this awesome story that will live on.

Glen-Campbell-picture

That story got me thinking about other celebrity encounter stories I have heard and/or experienced. “US” magazine says stars are “just like us!” and then they post ridiculous things like “Justin Timberlake pumps his own gas!” or “Khloe Kardashian has deodorant balls!”

celebrity_flaws_theyre_just_like_us

or this:

celebrities-are-just-like-us I don’t know who this guy is, or why anyone thought he might not use a basket when grocery shopping. Would he use his hands? Would he have a butler carrying his bananas for him?

As a general rule, I do believe celebrities are just like me… only with more money and fame. We are all human beings. And my instinct when I see one is to leave them alone. I passed Urijah Faber (UFC fighter for those who don’t know) in the taxi line at McCarran airport in Las Vegas. His butt chin was unmistakable. I felt that momentary buzz you get when in the presence of someone famous, but then I realized it was 95 degrees, he was in a line of a hundred other people, all of us weaving our way through the queue like lambs being led to slaughter. In that moment, he WAS just like us. I made eye contact and then looked away. It seemed like the right thing to do.

urijah_faber_1961143 Urijah “California kid” Faber

We had another UFC celebrity encounter in Vegas last year. The UFC is headquartered in Vegas, so I guess that’s not so surprising, but we lived in Southern Cal for 5 years and I never saw a celebrity.(*editor’s note- Sydney just reminded me that for a semester Bobbi Kristina Brown aka Krissi aka daughter of Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown attended her middle school.)

We were at SW Steakhouse at the Wynn hotel for our anniversary dinner when Chuck Liddell walked by. My husband almost peed his pants. Chuck Liddell is a former UFC light heavyweight champion who successfully defended his belt 4 times, and is now a member of the UFC Hall of Fame. (He’s also my friend Jami’s second favorite UFC fighter.) The next time our waiter came over, Jeff told him he wanted to send a drink over to the “Iceman.” A little while later he returned and said, “He appreciates the gesture, but he no longer drinks. He’d be happy to take a coffee, though.” I said, “Good one. You sent a drink to a recovering alcoholic.” We later found out that Liddell’s sobriety was short-lived when he began appearing in Miller Light commercials.

ufc49_chuck_liddell_015 “Go ahead. Try to buy me a drink.”

Nice restaurants are great places to spot celebrities, but I never expected to see one in Utah. We lived in Utah for 5 years, and when we moved to Southern Cal, our house in Utah was still on the market. It took several months, but it finally sold, and we had to fly back to Salt Lake to oversee the final packing and closing of the house. We decided to do it in style, so we stayed at the Grand America Hotel. One morning as we sat in the nearly empty restaurant having breakfast, I looked over at a group about 20 feet away and almost choked on my orange juice.

“Oh my God!”

“What?”

“It’s that guy. Holy Cow. The guy. You know, ‘Silence of the Lambs.’ One of the greatest actors of our time!”

I couldn’t think of his name. I had a total mind blank.

Our waitress came over. “Is that…?”

She smiled. “Yes it is.”

It took my brain another couple minutes and then I said triumphantly, “Anthony Hopkins!”

Jeff said, “Shh.”

I leaned forward. “Oh my gosh I can’t believe this. He’s amazing. I wonder what he’s doing in Utah of all places?”

Jeff responded, “Currently I’d say he’s trying to eat his breakfast in peace.”

A little while later he said, “You need to stop looking at him. ”

“I can’t. He’s Sir Freaking Anthony Hopkins!”

“You’re making me uncomfortable. I’m sure you’re making him uncomfortable. Stop looking at him.”

“I wanna go over there and ask him if he’s having some fava beans with a nice Chianti.”

Blank stare of incredulity.

“No.”

We eventually got the scoop from our waitress that Sir Hopkins was in town because he was filming the movie, “The World’s Fastest Indian” on the Bonneville Salt Flats.

I said, “Well that’s racist.” But it turned out the “Indian” in question was a motorcycle.

THE-WORLDS-FASTEST-INDIAN-MOVIE-POSTCARD-BLUE-POST

Jeff has had a lot more celebrity encounters than I have, in part because his old job required a lot of traveling. One day, when we still lived in Socal, he texted me.

” I’m at the airport sitting next to Jesse Jackson.”

“Shut up! You are not!”

“I am. Do you think I should sidle up next to him and say, ‘Hey my last name is Jackson too?'”

Hmm. Should you, a white man, tell Jesse Jackson, civil rights activist, that you share the same last name? Probably not. But I replied, “Totally. You totally should.”

He didn’t. I’m pretty sure he was joking.

jessiejackson This is not a current pic of Jesse Jackson, but it’s awesome, so that’s why I picked it.

I have to say, though, my favorite celebrity encounter story is my mother’s. My mom was born and raised in Southern California. She went to high school with David Ward (Oscar winning screenplay writer of “The Sting.”) and musician Jackson Browne (who taught my aunt to play guitar.) She went to college at USC at the same time as Tom Selleck, George Lucas and OJ Simpson. She’s also a people person, can strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere, at any time. Celebrity status doesn’t phase her.

Back in the 70’s when she was living in Huntington Beach, there was a local club called the “Golden Bear.”

320246_10150273255707056_5654020_n Note- Hoyt Axton’s name on the marquee. See my previous post http://kbjackson.com/any-man-can-be-a-father-it-takes-someone-special-to-be-a-dad/ to learn more about Hoyt Axton.

My mom was a regular down at the “Golden Bear.” It was a place where you could go hear rising stars and past their prime musicians perform in a cozy atmosphere. The small space lent itself to a feeling of familiarity with the performers. Early in her career, Linda Ronstadt played the “Golden Bear” and my mom went to see her several times.

thCAL1K9LC

One night Linda said that she was trying out a new band. At the break, my mother walked up to her and said, “I think you should lose the back-up band.” She went on to tell her that she felt the band was overpowering her, that she loved the acoustic style and that these guys were just too loud. Linda thanked her for her feedback.

She didn’t lose the band. Good call on Linda’s part…

It was “The Eagles.”

0 R Maybe “Witchy Woman” was written about the lady who tried to get Linda Ronstadt to ditch them at the “Golden Bear.”

 

 

 

 

How NOT To Make The “World’s Greatest Sandwich.”

image

Several years ago, Jeff and I discovered a gem of a movie- “Spanglish.” This was not your typical Adam Sandler movie. In it, Adam plays a successful chef, and Tea Leoni his neurotic, insecure wife. She hires beautiful Paz Vega to be their housekeeper even though she’s just arrived from Mexico and speaks little to no English. I’m not going to give an in-depth review of this movie, but I heartily recommend it. While funny in parts, it’s also very poignant at other times. I wouldn’t even call it a comedy.

The best thing that came out of the movie, however, was what has become a staple meal at our house. “The World’s Greatest Sandwich.”

Created in real life by chef Thomas Keller specifically for the movie, when we first saw Adam Sandler’s character make it as a late-night snack, we actually rewound the DVD and took notes on how he made it.

The recipe is as follows. Recipe courtesy mission-food.com. (Serves one)

Ingredients:

3-4 thick slices bacon

2 slices Monterey jack cheese

2 slices pain de compagne (rustic country loaf) toasted

1 tbsp. mayo

4 slices tomato

2 leaves butter lettuce (aka boston or bibb lettuce)

1 tsp butter

1 egg

Directions:

Cook bacon until crisp, drain on paper towels and set aside. Place slices of cheese on one slice of the toasted bread and place in toaster oven or under a broiler to melt the cheese. Spread the other slice of toast with the mayo, top with cooked bacon, sliced tomato and lettuce.

In a nonstick skillet, melt butter over medium heat. Fry egg, turning over briefly when the bottom is set. You want the yolk to be runny! Slide the finished egg on top of the lettuce. Top with the other slice of toast, melted cheese side down. Put on a plate, and slice sandwich in half. The yolk will ooze down in a beautiful way.

That, my friends, is how TO make the “world’s Greatest Sandwich.”

And now, ten steps on how NOT to make the “World’s Greatest Sandwich.” ( What I am about to tell you is the completely true story of last night’s dinner.)

So, you’ve had a long day, and don’t feel like making dinner but have already been through the drive-thru twice this week and it’s only Thursday? Have you hit your limit of ordering pizza or making Kraft mac n cheese?

Have I got the dinner for you!

Step one:

Take an inventory of your needed ingredients. No pain de compagne lying around? No idea what pain de compagne even is, much less how to pronounce it? No problem. Go ahead and use the loaf you bought from the Safeway bakery two weeks ago that is too wide for your toaster, so no one in your house will use it. No lettuce and your tomatoes look like they’ve seen better days? No biggie. The kids won’t eat them anyway. In fact, your youngest likely has recently sworn off bacon. AND toast. AND cheese. He will only eat the egg.

Step two:

Turn on the oven’s broiler setting. Soon you will smell something burning, and the smoke alarm will go off. I would advise you to calm your children, but they will probably be unfazed and just assume, as always, it’s an indication dinner is almost done. Open the oven door. Wait until last night’s French fries that fell off the tray are no longer engulfed in flames before attempting to retrieve them. Carefully, as in the game of “Operation,” use your tongs to remove the still-glowing embers that once were crinkle cut potatoes. Drop them into last night’s dinner pan that you currently have “soaking” in the sink. This will help them cool down. DO NOT place them in the trash where they will burn a hole through the plastic bag.

Step three:

Heat a large pan for the bacon. Heat a medium pan for the eggs. Add butter. Turn the stove to high and walk away to maximize the chances you will burn the butter and have to start all over again. Add the bacon to the pan and then get distracted. Some pieces will be so crisp that they turn to powder when you touch them, while others will merely be “extra crispy.”

At this point you should make an attempt to shove the bread in the toaster, just to reaffirm that it won’t fit, and there is probably not a slot toaster made in which it WOULD fit.

Step four:

Take a cookie sheet and squeeze as many pieces of your giant bread as possible onto it. Probably you will only be able to fit enough for 3 1/2 sandwiches. Add cheese to only two pieces, because none of the children want cheese on their sandwich, thus demoting the “World’s Greatest Sandwich” to an egg and bacon sandwich.

Broil these pieces of bread so that they are completely browned on top. Pull out the pan. You will later discover that they are completely untoasted on the reverse side, but only after it’s too late to do anything about it.

Because the bread is so large, remember you won’t be able to fit them all on the tray. You will need to broil 3 more pieces of bread (no cheese!) but should wait until after you’ve made the first few sandwiches. This way you will have children impatiently waiting while the others eat in front of them.

Step five:

While awaiting the bread to be toasted and the next egg to cook (it’s taking three times as long now that you’ve turned it to low to avoid burning more butter), place the next child’s plate on an unused burner next to the pan frying the bacon. This will ensure that when you go to move the plate, it will burn off the entirety of your thumbprint, not just a partial. Think to yourself that this may come in handy at some point if you ever commit a crime. While you run your blistering thumb under the cold water, the bacon will suddenly increase it’s cooking speed by double, and the three additional pieces of bread under the broiler (as it turns out, the last three pieces of bread in the house) will char to a nice “Cajun” look. This will set off the smoke detector for the second time that night, conveniently alerting your 14 year old that it’s time to make his way downstairs for dinner.

image Still not toasted on the other side

*Note- It is important that when your thumb makes contact with the 500 degree plate, you yell the most profane word your two youngest children and your neighbor’s 8 year old daughter have ever heard. This will not, however, increase the chances of your husband getting off his computer game and rushing in to see what has caused you to cry out in pain, but it will make you VERY popular with your neighbor.

Step six:

Because you so smartly burned the thumb on your right hand, you will now discover you can no longer crack the eggs. Make a few pathetic attempts at cracking eggs with your left hand. I believe a little shell is good for you. Tell your son this, and try to be convincing. Call your husband in for help. He cracks one egg and then goes back to the computer.

Step seven:

Once everyone is happily (or unhappily depending on who got the most burnt bread and bacon) eating, tend to your wound. A search of the medicine cabinet will reveal that your Neosporin expired 6 months ago, and none of your band-aids are large enough to cover your entire thumb. You will need at least two. Attempt to take pictures of the burn, but dismiss the idea of posting them because you see that every picture looks like a tiny male appendage.

imagethe red is the part of the burn the band aids can’t cover

image The piece of aloe your neighbor thoughtfully sends over with his daughter prior to learning of your outburst.

Step eight:

Find someone who has two working hands and knows how to use a corkscrew.

 

Step nine:

Wine.

Step ten:

More wine.

And that is how to Make the “World’s Greatest Sandwich.” Or not.

Join me for my next installment: “Why I need to keep a stocked first aid kit in my kitchen at all times.”