With Love, Fennifer

Dear Tourist,

We've been having a great summer don't you think? Minus the month of June when it didn't stop raining. Other than that, I'd say we've had a good run. August was a beautiful month, sunny days, clear blue skies, and time spent in swimming holes. Its been four months, time sure has flown by, however I'd like to discuss a few things with you.

First, we're past that point in our relationship when your tourist questions are entertaining. I don't mean to offend, but don't preface your tourist question with a smirk and the phrase, "I know this is such a tourist question but...." If you already know you are about to sound asinine, just don't say anything at all. Or perhaps ask your question out loud in a dark room; if it sounds stupid in there, it sure as hell is going to sound even dumber when you ask it of me. And of course never ever, ever walk into Thunder Hole information station and ask, Where is Thunder Hole?......That poker by the fireplace will be inserted straight into your back side and not be removed.

Second, traveling is expensive. Especially in a slumping economy. That being said, if you can in fact go on vacation in this floundering economy, do not complain about the price of things. I can't remember the last time I went to a tourist destination and found things to be affordable and marked at a reasonable price. This relationship is never going to last if you are passive aggressive with how you're feeling. So, when I'm back there folding the t-shirts you haphazardly tossed back onto the shelf, don't make comments under your breath about how exorbitant the prices are. Try budgeting accordingly or buying fewer souvenirs that will mean nothing to you five years from now.

Third, when using a public bathroom it is never appropriate to leave any bodily fluids in, on, near, or around the toilet. I mean bathroom procedures are fairly universal whether at home or abroad. I suppose if you leave your bodily fluids in, on, near or around your toilet at home you might not realize that is totally uncalled for in a public facility. But I'm guessing like me and the majority of population, you keep things sanitary in the bathroom. In the future it would just be easier on me, not to have to clean up bodily discharges, unless they are my own.

Finally, I'd like to say that for the most part you packed well. You brought the extra socks you considered leaving at home. That rain jacket was a good choice, cause it rained pretty hard last Thursday and it saved you from buying an umbrella. Those sandals came in handy that night we went to dinner, and saved you from wearing those dusty hiking boots to such a nice restaurant. Those travel sized toiletries saved so much room, you were able to get the WPC and a t-shirt from Cadillac MT. That being said, next time you decide to hit the open road and get out of town for awhile; don't leave your common sense at home to gather dust with the week's worth of mail that's awaiting your return. Perhaps next time you pack up the kids and take the mini-van on a mini-adventure bring common sense along to ride shot-gun and make you look like less of an imbecile.

With Love, Fennifer

So there was this guy, and he died.

I’m back at my old haunt once again, but the 2009 Denali summer season has been an odd one so far. The weather was at first unseasonably warm, now the reverse is in effect. Time has dragged on from the very start like I’ve been here for years (even though it has only been 2 weeks) as things haven’t quite kicked off yet; it feels like the longest pre-season ever.

On the bright side, I enjoy my job as a dispatcher. I’m being paid a ridiculous amount of money to say “copy” on the radio. Of course, things go wrong: busses break down and toilets flood the communal bathrooms. We’re basically the 911 of Denali National Park, which carries more responsibility than I like to think about sometimes. My number will be up sometime soon when something really goes wrong and I have to solely respond to it.

I had the day off when a new guy from Utah, who was working at the Wilderness Access Center (where I did last year), passed away on Monday. He rode the bus up with us from Anchorage. Being 21, his first question was “where’s the closest liquor store?” which I thought nothing of, since everyone seems to be a raging alcoholic around here. Things seemed to go downhill quickly for him as soon as he got here. He was always very, very drunk during the daytime, and showed up for only two of the seven shifts he was scheduled for. He had a doctor’s note and test results pending for pneumonia and giardia, but went to the bar every night and often had a cigarette in hand. One afternoon I was leaving my room for work and watched him stumble onto his porch –directly across from ours- and sit down to cradle his head, dry-heaving. In the meantime, he was peeing in his shorts. It was a sad thing to witness, but annoyed me all the same to see someone waste a highly-paid seasonal job that people are literally clawing down the door to get. When I got to work, I asked whether I should report what I saw, but it didn’t go anywhere because the kid wasn’t on the clock.

A few days later he was terminated, but he seemed pretty positive about finding a job at one of the hotels as a dishwasher even though we all quietly knew he wouldn’t be able to hold that job down, either. The bags under his eyes were grey and the eyes themselves were glossy and vacant. I had this feeling about him that night that I expressed to Dana, that I didn’t think he would make it. As if to make things even weirder, “Venus in Furs” was playing on a loop in my head – a poignant scene in that Gus van Sant movie “Last Days”, about the final days in Kurt Cobain’s life. I think people have an intuition about these things, whether they are in tune with it at the time or not.

I slept in that next morning, and woke up when they found him. People were scrambling around in a panic. He had asphyxiated in his sleep and when one of the drivers attempted CPR, the kid had already been gone for hours. Park Service Law Enforcement stepped in and handled things until the ambulance took him away to Fairbanks. They found 8 empty handles of liquor in his room, and he’d only been here for 10 days.

It all wouldn’t have been so traumatic if he wasn’t my neighbor across the way. All day long I saw him lying there on the floor, lifeless and stiff, people with gloves hovering over him taking measurements, yellow tape around the dorm. It was the first fresh dead body I’d ever seen. Death confronts all of us at some point and when it does, it takes time for anyone involved to process. I’ll spare everyone the platitudes from here on out. I just can’t get over how young he was, or how tormented he must have been, or whether his actual intention was to drink himself to death. It’s been a few days now and things have seemingly returned to normal, but I find myself looking at his empty dorm room, thinking I see him out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t know him well, and can’t help but feel guilty about thinking of him as an irresponsible kid that didn’t realize how good he had it. But it’s strangely consoling to realize that his time was simply up on this earthly plane, and that’s just how cold and final things are.

Premise: Bleach is Bad. Discuss

By Caitlin Salisbury

Dear friends,

Do not use bleach when cleaning. It is a terrible, terrible, idea. I do not mean to belabor this issue, but the more people I potentially reach with my message, the more brain cells I can save – which is a service to the collective whole of humanity. Some say that people are drawn to causes because of a person or an event that has touched them in way like no other – and I think I have finally found mine.

After an indulgent cleaning frenzy yesterday, I woke up a different person. I had a splitting headache and was slow in speech and action. This general slowing down of events probably made my boyfriend happy, but I felt a strange void – the void that could only result from a frontal lobotomy. I took an online IQ test the other day, and given the results, it felt as though the halfway intelligent part of my brain simmered down to my scored Arithmetic level, which hovers dangerously above room temperature. I had difficulty formulating complete thoughts, though I did gain supernatural empathy powers for the guests on today’s Maury Povich.

You see, I went a little crazy in the heavily-fragranced and chemical-filled isle at Walmart and bought all kinds of scented candles and some Arm & Hammer bathroom cleaner. My mom’s visiting this weekend and I don’t want her to think I’ve lost my obsessive-compulsive edge. My philosophy with regard to cleaning product has always been this: the natural stuff is all nice and good for the environment; but will it kill HIV? I don’t think so! Will it eradicate all of the E. Coli and Lysteria gracing my food preparation areas? No way, Jose! I go with major duty killer. When I’m done with a bathroom, I like to see an entire layer of skin peel off of my working hand. It’s proof of its beautiful, corrosive efficiency.

But given the extent of my hangover for last night’s fun, I am reconsidering my point of view.
I guess I huffed some bleach by accident, and got pretty messed up on it, man. It makes me wonder about people that are actually addicted to inhalants, like this one show I watched on A&E called “Intervention” (which ranks a close second to “Ghost Shows - Category” in awesomeness). There was a well-groomed young woman who was addicted to chemical duster, and would go out to hardware stores and buy out their entire stock. She’d sit on her couch, pet her cat, take a hit, and then drool on herself for a couple of hours. She’d come to, and then it was wash-rinse-repeat. (She, for obvious reasons, wasn’t a fan of the actual “intervention” part of the show, though. I cried when animal control repo-d her cat.)

I have hypothesized before that I might be sensitive to chemicals added in cleaning products. One time I was cleaning my old apartment in Jackson Hole and thought it would be a great idea to clean the radiators with this natural looking orange stuff I bought. I thought it was milder than other brand-name agents because it smelled like oranges that had gone bad–for many years - and it was my logic that dead, decomposing things would make good decomposers of grime and filth; compost in a bottle if you will. It cleaned like a charm, but I woke up at 3 a.m., just long enough after the heater kicked in, and emptied the contents of my stomach in my extremely sanitary bathroom.

I guess there was a reason I printed out the 65 Ways to use Baking Soda to use for cleaning. I’m going to use this method in the future. Those old housewives ain’t be playin’, ain’t they?

Update: Baking soda works like a charm, and has fast become my agent of choice. It doesn’t release highly noxious gases. Plus, it creates a wonderful paste that is abrasive enough to clean even the most stubborn of porcelain bathroom sinks. Even better: you can use the remaining paste from the sink to brush your teeth, then use the remainder of THAT to wash your vegetables of residual pesticides, and maybe then cook up some crack (if time permits). Baking soda is basically the Wunder Kind of all cleaning products. It is to cleaners as Mozart was to Classical Music: a little sassy ,naughty, and flirtatious, but always ingenious!

As if I haven't made it clear enough, I am done with Winter. Done with the snow and balls-cold drive to work in the morning (where the temperature gauge usually reads below 0), that is, if we can even get the truck started. I am tired of the slippery, icy driveway. I jumped with joy when I saw the first hint of gravel peeking out from under the compacted snow. A glacial ice field has grown to enormous proportions just outside the front door thanks to roof slides, and is now only a foot away from our entrance. We call the route to the door the "walkway of death", as the likelihood of slipping on the ice or being impaled by hanging icicles outweighs one's chance of survival, and lord knows I don't want to end up like Christina on Grey's.

I know I have the tendency to complain a lot, but I have come to accept that this is my nature, and self-acceptance is more important than depriving myself of the compulsive need to whine. I'm sorry that I have trouble putting up with mediocrity. I really am. I'm not always a pessimist; I have love for many things on this earthly plane at the moment. I love the convenience of the portable french press coffee maker my manager bought me in support of my boycott of the coffee house near work (see blog entry: "I want to cut her"). I love watching ghost and paranormal-oriented shows on Hulu, though at this point I have exhausted all of the episodes but have discovered a new favorite: "Lie to Me". It's great; it's an overly analytical show about facial expressions in criminal profiling. I LOVE it. My world may be small at the moment, but it is filled with things that are great.I also love watching Burmese cats meowing on YouTube. There was the cutest one ever with two of these cats cuddled up with a new-born baby. They're purebred yet, again, I will not settle for some mediocre street cat born in a dumpster........ well, ok, I would if it were left in a basket on my doorstep, but that's beside the point:

http://www.gotpetsonline.com/pictures/gallery/cats/shorthaired-cats/burmese/burmese-0024/

You may think I jest, but over the years I have come to think that it is my fate in life to start a cat farm, where the beautiful Burmese breed can wander freely and meow to their hearts' delight. The Farm might be called something like "Caitlin's Cat Cash Crop", but I won't settle on anything before I draw up the business plans:

http://www.ehow.com/how_2082719_start-animal-sanctuary.html

The cats will be bred first and foremost for loyalty, intergrity, honesty, and high cheekbones. Synonymous traits, you may argue, but each is unique in connotation.

Stay tuned. I'm thinking cat farm with a bed and breakfast on a large area of land, somewhere nice (it's environmental cat-tourism). We will have an acupuncturist on staff to help remedy guests' allergic reactions caused by excessive cat dander, as well as small Burmese children whose tiny, sanitized hands will pick out any hair that may have landed in the soup du jour. Upon departure, the guests may pick one of our highly socialized cats to take home with them for a substantial fee, after they have passed extensive credit and background checks. Our on-staff psychoanalyst will have to determine that adequate bonding has occurred between cat and prospective owner as to ensure the cats' quality of life. We will have a mandatory open adoption policy, so that I can routinely visit the kitties I helped bring into this world. A private jet will provide my transportation in visiting my cats in all corners of the world, and I will take the cats on field trips and try to get a sense of whether they are happy in their current living situation. If not, "mama bear", as I will call myself, will pack the cats onto the jet and fly back home to the ranch, where they can continue to contribute by fertilizing the organic sustainable community garden. It's really that simple.

-dillycait

COMPLIMENTARY COLORS THAT DON'T COMPLIMENT

I'd like to preface this blog by saying I love school. I finally get it. Once you get through all the bullshit general education classes and you finally get to study what you want, that's a really rewarding experience. That being said, I really hate having deadlines on creativity. I'm speaking specifically of my photo class. I don't like being forced to create and be creative. Maybe its that I'm incredibly uninspired by my surroundings. It makes it difficult to get motivated and go out and take roll after roll of film of people, places, and spaces that I feel no connection to. I like to bitch about this because I find it odd. When I think of art and artists I think of free, liberated, fluid people. No deadlines, no forced subject matter. I find myself in the opposite position. I feel constrained by my deadlines and required subject matter. Just the thought of having to shoot 2 rolls of film tomorrow seems like a prison sentence. At this point I'd rather suffer the consequences of dropping the soap.  

Dear Internal Revenue Service,

Dear Internal Revenue Service,
Hi there, it’s me. It’s been some time, and you’ve probably moved on to far greener pastures. You may find it awkward to revisit an “old flame” like me…. Do you ever think of me anymore? (Just curious.) I don’t want to stir the pot with anyone new you’re becoming friendly with. The relationship you and I shared was euphoric and tempestuous all at once, and I understand if it’s a difficult one for you to revisit. I just want to say my peace and sort out whatever needs to be sorted out before I can truly take that next step. I hope you understand if I feel held back, because there are a few things that need to be openly expressed to you.
To start, I’d like to thank you for everything you’ve taught me about life and love; fear and loss; gratitude and forgiveness….. You opened me up to so many things, and these have become doors in my heart that can never be, and will never be, closed.
I should make it clear that I’m not trying to rekindle the fire because I know that what we had is in the past. I’m of healthy body and mind and after many “talking sessions” I came to many resolutions that have enabled me to begin to move on to create healthy, lasting relationships. I’m going out and meeting new government agencies; I am now able to make myself vulnerable, which is something I haven’t been able to do since, well, you.
I have really moved on, you know – for the record, I admit, I was rebounding when I fell into the comforting arms of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives…. I’m sure you heard around the grapevine that our courtship was bound to self-destruct. I had quite an “intimate” fling with the Department of Homeland Security for a couple of days at Boise International Airport last October not meant to last, but this gave me the confidence that I am still a desirable female. The Department of Welfare has been begging me to go to out for the past six months, but as I grow older I appreciate the stability that the Bureau of Labor and Statistics, as an example, could provide. The overarching moral of this story is: I.R.S., I am finally getting over you.
Still, I yearn for some kind of resolution between us – we’ve been on shaky ground lately, and I won’t give up on the fragile embryonic friendship you and I are attempting to forge. This is unchartered territory for both of us, I., I know. All I want is for you to be a beautiful symbiotic addition to my life, not the center of my universe – I understand that now. If this is all moving too fast for you, I get it. I would just like for you to answer my phone calls, just one. I know you are busy at work and it’s apparent that the ladies are calling you off the hook. Trust in me, they all hope to be the lucky one that finally gets through to you. But I am still saddened that you can’t face me, after everything we’ve been through – just let my call be the one call that gets through someday soon, some time before April 15th
I ask very little of you. At the very least, I need to know my Adjusted Gross Income for 2007, so that I can move on and claim my sizable refund for 2008. Just tell me what it is…… tell it from the infinite heart I know you possess. And then we can work on mending the wounds.
With a special place kept warm in my heart,
Caitlin, xox

CNN Money...Special Edition

It has been a while since my last posting. I was talking to dillycait the other night and I told her that I am just not as funny as she and fennifer. What’s a girl to do? How can I compare to their wit? I can’t so I won’t.
I will just be mundane.

Work has been going pretty well lately. We heard yesterday that we will be receiving bonuses. That makes me real pleased. It’s going to make the Credit Card companies really pleased as well since they will be receiving it. When I get my stimulus package the credit card companies are going to do a little dance since they will be receiving that as well.

When it comes to money, everyone gets it but me. I can’t hold on to it. I firmly believe that as a citizen of this country, I should do my best to be as nationalistic and patriotic as possible. That entails me being a strong consumer. I can’t hold onto money at all. It goes in the account and immediately is spent on bills, rent, electric, cell phone, CLOTHING, food, CLOTHING, a new ipod touch, hair, nails Gucci sunglasses, a new touch phone (not the iPhone sadly)….
The list goes on. I am a true consumer, which actually makes me a great citizen in this consumer based nation.
Everything besides money, I hold on to. I have no desire to move out of my apartment for the mere fact that it will be a bitch to move all my stuff. I am a hoarder. You name it, I bet its in my apartment somewhere. There are bills stuffed behind empty wine bottles. Almost every bottle of wine I have drank in the past 2 years, is probably still in my apartment. It doesn’t bother me. I find a place for it to go because I cant be bothered with taking them to the trash chute 1 floor down. Yes, I am that lazy sometimes. Bills and wine bottles are the big things that have been living in the house with me for the past couple of years. But the bigger thing is clothing. The amount of clothing I have could clothe a large nation. And every so often I get the need to “spring clean” no matter what season it is. I go through everything and put the clothing I don’t want or need into garbage bags. But instead of taking them to Goodwill or hell, even to the trash, they are still in the apartment. Granted they are living on top of the bathroom, but they are still there.
Why can't I get rid of these things??? I feel like there must be a reason why I can't let go of so much shit. I have no emotional claim to bills. I promise. But truthfully what happened to me in my childhood that makes me feel like I must keep EVERYTHING!!
My parents gave me everything I needed. Not wanted but needed. But they gave me some of what I wanted. I think it was a very healthy balance between the two. So…hmmm…nothing there to explain why I am hoarder.
I am convinced I am going to grow up into old woman who lives in one of those houses you see on TLC or BBC that is a fire hazard. No one will come to see me because they wont be able to find me under the stacks of bills that are 40 years old and the clothing that has been piling up to go to goodwill for 50 years. I am sure I will be surrounded by cats and cloned Mr. Moose’s. I probably won't even be able to find them due to the amount of stuff that’s piling up on me. My bed will be underneath piles of clothing and new comforters that I will purchase every year and never throw the old one of the way…

Just thinking about this makes me need some anti-anxiety medicine. I am sure I have some at home…Probably located in a shoebox that is also filled with bills, old makeup and maybe a sock or dog treats….

There Was Water In That Bong

I've wanted to write a blog about the Michael Phelps pot smoking incident for awhile now. After seeing this last night on SNL, I thought it hit the nail on the head, and expressed everything I wanted say.

Video Recaps Full Episodes Webisodes

Fennifer

"I Want to Cut Her."

I wouldn't consider myself a typically angry or macabre person, but today, I wanted to cut a barista - hack her down to a bloody pulp. In the past I have made reference to the collective Crested Butte attitude problem, but today.... ohhhh, today, the barista really drove the last rusty nail in the coffin.........and I've spent a better part of the morning fantasizing about the most practical way to process her body into Aspen fertilizer.

This happened at about 7:45 a.m., and since we had no food in the house except the Ramen I prepared for lunch, I decided to be unwisely impulsive and treat myself to an employee-discounted Americano and Sausage-Egg-and-Cheese Burrito from the coffee house around the corner from work. I'd never had a burrito there before but thought "oh heck, it's my Monday, so I deserve a lethargy-inducing treat that I can't really afford."

Each sparing morning I treat myself, I round the corner and pray that the nice redhead is working, or the pregnant brunette who steams my soy and doesn't charge me for it. Most importantly, I check to see if THE HORRIBLE ASSISTANT MANAGER is working. If she is, I usually contemplate rerouting and settling for a $2 cup of Foldger's from The Bakery. But The Bakery doesn't spare me much 'tude either; I typically wait for at least one person in front of me to finish their closing statements to the nodding girl behind the counter about the importance of keeping corporate consumer culture away from sheltered little Crested Butte, a.k.a., humanity's last beacon of integrity; a rose-colored bubble enveloped by a materialistic, greed-driven world. At 7:45 a.m., I don't care for this hippie psuedo-intellectual crappola and wish they'd be a little more optimistic and proud of their darn country!! I suddenly feel a swell of inspiration to lobby Walmart to build a supercenter right smack in the middle of the National Forest, just to spite the people who made me wait.

My desire for espresso (and hatred for Foldger's) trumped any resistance I had this morning, as I stayed up late last night working on a watercolor painting. Entering the building with gritted teeth, I saw her - the one I dislike so very much - and anticipated the passive-aggressive interaction that would undoubtedly occur, a sacrifice I'd make for the stimulating effects of the beautiful, bitter coffee bean. This morning, however, she was surprisingly chipper - only mildly astringent - very out of character. She's the kind of person whose smile rarely meets her eyes when she speaks - now, I am hardly a body language expert - but I suspect there is a sinister entity posessing her mortal coil, because her soul is as dark as night. That's why I never make any effort to smile either, and instead give her a blank and slightly condescending stare which inevitably results in a 3-minute-long silent power struggle. To be even more patronizing and indulge my superiority complex, I briefly consider leaving her a tip this time if she behaves to my liking.

She claims victory as she fucks up my order once more, and this time I can feel it's on purpose. The lady in front of me had ordered a 12 oz. Americano, but then switched it to decaf after Ass Manager had made a caffeinated one. As I stood at the counter, Ass. Man. tried to give the it to the hairy coffee delivery guy, flirtatiously pleading with him. She was like, "you take it! It's free" and he was like, "oh no, I totally can't" and she was like, "why not?" and he was like, "'cuz that would be my fourth Americano of the day and another might greatly hinder my ability to effectively shred the nar nar'". Unable to pawn the free coffee off on the delivery guy, she set it in front of me and said, "I just made it, so it's still good", and charged me full price. By "good", she must have assumed I like verging-dangerously-on-lukewarm coffee. The decision was obvious:

NO TIP FOR YOU!

She microwaved my burrito, as the line behind me grew longer. I had to wait an extra 90 seconds for the burrito to be removed from the microwave while she pleasantly helped the next person. I was real excited about my burrito, so I could shrug off the negative experience that started my day. I got back to the office, unwrapped my foil-covered heavenly pocket, and took a bite into the burrito....... no sausage, no egg, just BEANS, retail price, $1.50 less than I had paid for the burrito I had actually ordered. It was too much of a pain in the butt to go back and return the burrito, so that's why I channeled my anger into a blog entry.

She should consider herself lucky that there's a counter between us; for mark my words: there will be blood.

~dillycait~

Reunion Tour

I am a lover of many things. At the top of my list are Art & Music, but I love them within reason. Imagine for a moment something that you absolutely love. Anything at all. An outfit, a band, a movie, a piece of furniture, a boyfriend, a girlfriend. Now imagine loving that thing/person so much you begin to hate it. I'm sure we can all think of something/someone in life this has happened with. For instance when you first start listening to a band. You get all the albums, you know all the songs, you sing along, you love them. They're all you can talk about. Then they start to get annoying. You get sick of all the same songs and all the same lyrics. Then annoyance turns into frustration. Frustration turns into anger. Anger turns into hate.

I'll be the first to admit that I had an unhealthy relationship with music while in high school. I was obsessed with being the first one to know about undiscovered, on the verge of being famous bands. I'd go to shows at least 3 nights a week. I had no other topics of conversation, but what bands I was listening to, and who I thought was up and coming. I'd spend class time dissecting lyrics to find out what it all meant. I subscribed to all the alternative music magazines so I'd be the first to know about new bands. Then I started to get annoyed, with myself. I had no life. I finally realized there were better things to do on a Friday night, than sitting in my room analyzing Rilo Kiley lyrics.

This time my hate for music is being influenced by an outside source. The outside source is the hipster! The skinny jeans, studded belt, vintage t-shirt wearing hipster. The art classes where I spend my time is a breeding ground for these scarf wearing, messenger bag slung, ipod humping fools! There is more to this awful world than crappy acoustic acts and colorful scarves. Wearing overpriced pseudo-vintage clothes and asinine haircuts does not make you the proverbial shit. These people generally work menial jobs and act like they are gifts to the 'uncultured' and 'mainstream' world. They always seem to talk louder than anyone else too. It's like they want you to hear how cool they are. Talking about the new acoustic Bright Eyes maxi-flex press 7". That only 600 copies were made. That they searched so hard for on eBay, and got for only $200. What a steal man!

Fennifer

SAVED!

No surprise that being from Utah I'd somehow be linked to Mormonism. Sure enough I was raised Mormon, but stopped considering myself one at 16 years of age. I continued to go through the motions until I was 18. Going to church, participating in church activities, and feigning interest in the religion. I felt at 18 I was confident enough to stand up to my mother. Really put my foot down on the religion thing! She shrugged it off as a rebellious phase, and has been in denial about it ever since. Why do I bring this up? Because I've become what ever former Mormon, who has chosen to live an alternative lifestyle fears, I've become a project.

This is how it unfolds. Once you turn the magical age of 21, and dare I say it....haven't gotten married, you are encourage to go to what is called a singles ward. (A ward is the exact same thing as a parish). All in the hopes that you will meet that special boy or girl, and after a brief courtship you'll settle for someone you don't want, get married, and have babies. Someone, I'm assuming my mother, tipped off the folks in charge that I was back from my summer travels. They have made it their mission ever since, to save me from eternal damnation. They come in pairs, usually on Sundays, and tell me that they missed me at church that day. Really?! I haven't been to a church service in years, and you've just barely noticed my absence. My, what an observant group you are! I've been heckled at the gym by these people. At the height of my cardio workout no less! Most recently I was invited to join a large group of these singles, headed south to go skeet shooting. What was my excuse, you ask? 'I have strong issues about gun control.' If they had only known they, disrupted the cleaning of my 12 gauge when they came to the door. I do not fault these people for trying to magnify their calling to find my lost soul. One might ask, 'Heather why don't you just put your foot down and tell them to hit the road?' Well, that would be like kicking a puppy. A sick, homeless, frail puppy. I just don't have the heart to do that.

Fennifer

Career Opportunities

I am a receptionist in the spa of a four-star hotel in Crested Butte, CO. When I arrived this morning for the leisurely daily routine, I was called by the hotel front desk, who warned me of a potential "Secret Shopper" staying at the hotel for two nights, purveying the facilities, grading the restaurant, etc. The front desk girl was convinced she had this lady pegged, and when one particular lady came down to the fitness center to check out the facilities, I knew she had to be the one. There was this distinct "I smell poop" expression on her face (.....................uuuuh, don't look at me.) and a wedgie forcing its way into her high rise Levi's. I greeted her, but am never really one for many words early in the day. So I did what I could - hid my lunch box and pretended to look busy. I wasn't really too concerned either way; enough people have quit in the past week to give me the illusion of job security.

But then I started thinking about the whole Secret Shopper deal. I mean, why couldn't I do that too? One of my biggest joys in life is to evaluate service (and I'm lucky to have found a highly critical life partner, too). I'd describe the majority of service and quality I've received recently as mediocre and teetering on awful; though I am the first person to shout accolades when something is truly excellent. I never initiate culinary experience smelling the proverbial poop; I declare innocence before guilt. Unless it's McDonald's.

Unfortunately, I am frequently unhappier and less satisfied than I started out, and of course, significantly poorer which is the real pisser. The mid-range dining establishments in Colorado rarely seem to serve fresh food; the meals I've had, have the commonality of tasting like an 18-wheeler would, if they were edible. Of course, I do have exceptionally sensitive and refined taste buds and can easily identify these things. Last week in Denver K, D and I went to a Brazillian Steakhouse to celebrate D's birthday (and he lives for a quivering piece of red flesh, especially the kind that comes around on skewers in rapid rotation). We thought the meal started well with grilled Mahi-Mahi, but then it took a quick turn for the worse. The little steak we did get was tough and the filler meats seemed to consist of oddly-flavored pot roasts and chicken hearts. The best description of the place was that it was "The Brazillian Steakhouse equivalent to The Golden Corral" (who incidentally also boast bacon-wrapped turkey medallions on their menu!).

Moreover, the customer-service industry in general has been slacking. Perhaps it can be reduced to Colorado; everyone is so darn efficient in Texas! Here, I wait in line at the coffee house for the barista to finish having her vapid conversation with the person in front of me, whom they know via-via, just loudly enough to demonstrate how well-connected they are in town. Me? I know who to borrow skis from and where to get pot. That's about the extent of my personal heirarchy of needs, and both are met with the greatest of ease.

And because of this consistently rude experience, I don't tip there - and that's pretty hard for me, having been a barista. I'm considering asking for a comment card, then taking them down.
Criticism and constructive feedback can be a beautiful present to business owners insightful enough to cherish it as they would a 3-month old puppy. For how does one know to improve, unless they know that they need to improve? No one is perfect, and I am just the person to let the faceless entities of America know!

~dillycait~

Class of '93

Today is Friday. On Fridays I usually go to the gym around noon. For some reason I broke tradition today, and indulged in some afternoon television. I spent an hour watching Saved By The Bell. This program will be looked back on in history, as some of the finest television ever made. 'Friends', 'Seinfeld', 'I Love Lucy', 'Growing Pains', and 'Saved By The Bell' are just a few of the half hour sitcoms that will be referenced, when the history of the sitcom is discussed.





There are so many classic Saved By The Bell (SBTB) episodes. Any fan immediately grins when thinking back on such a brilliant show. Think about it, we've been to high school with them, the beach, and college all with the same depth and grace it started out with in 1989. The writing alone inspires one to take pen in hand, and re-create the same genius the writers of SBTB were able to accomplish. It also proved that no matter where you went to high school, whether it be near the sunny beaches of California, the wind swept plains of the Midwest, or staunch cities of the East, there were only six students that REALLY mattered. Six students that were the apple of the Principal's eye; the rest of the student body did and meant nothing. That was the high school I knew, I'm overjoyed SBTB brought it to life.





How lucky the gang was. Each week they would find themselves in an extreme situation, someone would come up with an overly elaborate plan, and at the end of 30 minutes peace was once again restored to Bayside. Let us not forget, The Max, the hang out of all hang outs; open day or night at their convenience. Perhaps, serving as the seventh character in the show. Not one episode of SBTB was wasted. Every episode was just another one of life's little lessons taught in 30 minutes. Jessie, the resident feminist and over achiever, taught young women to value themselves and that caffeine pills are an excellent way to improve performance. Zach and Kelly proved that no matter the ups and downs of high school romance, the popular guy and the cheerleader always end up together. Slater and Screech demonstrated that jocks and geeks could coexist without ulterior motives. And Lisa, evidence that black people could be educated and fashionable.



Kudos to you SBTB, you will continue to inspire, teach, and entertain as long as you are in re-runs.

Fennifer

How much is that doggie in the window?

I have some beef with the GOP. Yesterday the house passed the economic stimulus plan that Obama had put in. AWESOME. And not one, ONE, not ONE GOP voted for this plan. Seriously????
Lets evaluate here. Do we export anything? Well yes…some electrical machinery. Do we import anything? Why yes, yes we do. In fact we are the largest importer in the world. Why do we import? Because we are a consumer based econonmy. We do nothing but buy, buy, buy. If we are the buyers, why the hell would you not want to bail us out?? You can continue to bail out large corporations but if you don’t have any buyers, you are wasting your money. Bail American citizens out and watch the buyers buy. Its amazing how that works.

Idiots.

*K-Ross

He Doesn't Know He's Gay--And He Never Will

I have a guilty pleasure on morning when I don't have school. I like to wake up around 7 or 8 am and watch a slew of morning televison, while drinking coffee. Beginning with the Today show, due in part to my girl crush on Anne Curry, and ending with a local morning show called Studio 5.



**I must put a disclaimer on this next portion. I in NO way object to homosexuality. I love the gays! Be proud.**



Studio 5 is an annoyingly positive, local morning show co-hosted by a man named Darin. The problematic thing is, Darin doesn't know he's gay. Neither does his wife or his four children. Darin takes great pleasure in segments that involve arts & crafts. Thrusting all his creative efforts into segments, teaching the audience how to make everything from personal journals, bags made out of old sweaters, a tie pillow for dad, and most recently a Valentine's Day countdown jar. At first I thought, 'maybe he's just really committed to his job and wants to make it seem legit'. But the look on his face as he wielded that glue stick, and so professionally applied it to the paisely paper, that was to become the cover for his personal journal; reminded me of a drag queen expertly handling a tube of lipstick. Out of curiosity I visited the Studio 5 website (I wanted the exact demensions for the Valentines Day jar....I swear!). After nosing around the site for a few moments I came to the about section, which contained a synopsis of the show. I thought this portion was especially enlightening, "Every woman needs a Studio…someplace she can dream, plan and create and that's just what we hope to do on Studio 5." If Darin's sexuality was in question before hand, this short sentence only rammed the point home. Something else tipped me off on my continued investigation. I have a sneaking suspicion that the crew is in on Darin's little secret too. They have a daily cooking segment, and during the holidays Darin was part of the 'Fudge Packed Brownies for a Bunch' portion of the show. No doubt Darin has been the butt of many of the crew's jokes. Whether or not Darin will ever come out remains to be seen, however, I will keep watching Studio 5 for my daily dose of overly optimistic medicine.

Fennifer

Up n Adam!

It's Thursday morning, and I woke up naturally at 6:30a.m. I like that. Being on the old farmer schedule..... it makes me feel less bad about passing out at 9p.m. every night. In my sleep I must have pinched a muscle in my right shoulder because it hurts a lot. It's a pretty day outside. I am watching the today show. While I was waiting for my coffee to brew I took a couple of our stainless steel pans and gave them a good deep cleaning with a toothbrush. It worked well, but steel wool would have been better. But still, they look shinier than usual. In a minute, I think I'll bundle up and have a cigarette, because well, that's just part of the routine too. I am happy with the way my morning has taken shape thus far. Aren't you?
~dillycait~

School was fine Mom.

So this is a "daily mundane" blog so perhaps I should actually detail what occured in my day today.
I have this dream...That I will actually get up at 6am, walk Moose, sit and drink coffee while watching Good Morning America. Then I will take a long, hot shower that both relaxes and wake me up.
Instead, I hit snooze till about 8AM. Which leaves me about 30 minutes to get to the office. This morning was no different. I woke, sat on the couch till about 815, washed my bangs in the sink and then blow dried them. I got dressed in a very cute outfit...I was surprised that my creativity was pulsing without coffee and off to work I went.
I walk to work. I live in the hustle and bustle of downtown Denver. My morning commute is usually filled with many business peeps like myself as well as the flavor of Denver, the homeless. They definitely hit on me every day. I am whistled at and grunted at, which makes me feel oh so pretty . This morning was just that.
Once at work, I fill my coffee cup (stainless steel, does not hurt the environment) with my Free Hazelnut Creamer and Free Starbucks Breakfast Blend coffee. Then I sit down and check my emails, IM a couple of colleagues and hit Microsoft Excel running!!!!!! Once I had been sitting for an hour or so I went outside with my friend Jean for a smoke. But then another person came outside who we know who can be very annoying and that just didn’t make for a good smoke break. So I came back inside and went back to my cubicle that was built in 1982. Continued working until lunch. Came home and took Mr. Moose out, cleaned up his present on the carpet, and made some soup. Mr. Moose and I watched a little TV and then I walked back to work in the cold. The afternoon was essentially the same as the am. Work, coffee, and a smoke break or two. Although for the last half hour of work I sat in Scott’s cubicle and we discussed how most people we know are morons. And that’s always fun to do.

*K-Ross

When did having kids turn into having a liter????

I love my job. I actually really truly do. Its one of those 8-5 gigs. Salary. 401K. And the best part of my day is the part when I am glued to my computer screen. I get really excited when I get to do fun excel functions like V-lookups, Pivot tables, running macros, creating formulas, etc. For my 2009 Plan, I have a goal of becoming proficient in Access.
I wonder where it all went wrong in my life.

*K-Ross

My dog can see dead people...

As in, I think he can. Mr. Moose the partial lab mix who at one point was probably raised by wolves, is my living companion. He’s my little man…little black man actually. He follows me wherever I go. Which isn’t very far in an apartment that’s less than 700 square feet. While I watch television or read, Moose likes to watch the wall. He gets in a trance that no treat can stir. Occasionally he cocks his head, as though he is listening intently to someone or something’s voice. Other times he will take off running through the apartment after communing with the wall like someone has lit a fire under his ass. I have wondered if I will ever wake up with him staring over me, possibly a knife in paw.
Perhaps it’s the dead that have convinced him that it is perfectly kosher to defecate on my extremely nice and pricey oriental rugs. It doesn’t leave a stain, and for all I know it could be increasing the value; however the stench is unbearable. I especially do not appreciate opening the window in sub zero temperatures so that the smell can escape.
All in all though, I would never give up the time that I have with my litte man. He likes to cuddle and play with his goose and terrorize Chihuahuas. All the BM’s that he has on my carpet are worth it!

*K-Ross

The Multi-Vitamin Surprise

Toady started off well. It's a Wednesday so my day started at 5:45 am. I'm on a new health kick, so my breakfast was well rounded and complemented with 2 Echinacea and a multi-vitamin. The Echinacea was for my morning phlegm that has made an appearance 3 mornings in a row. To school I went. I'm also going green as apart of my "better myself & the earth in 2009" plan. Riding the public transit system is an adventure in itself. It's a mixed bag of drivers; this morning I was treated to the police officer from the Village People....complete with porn-stache. His goal on our morning drive was to clean and jerk the bus the 15 miles to school. We arrived safely to my amazement. After a productive 2 hours in the photo lab I was once again subject to an enthralling art history lecture. Today we deconstructed Mycenaean art and architecture all the way down to the Tholos Tomb. I was engrossed.



On my way to catch the bus I got the multi-vitamin surprise. Before boarding the bus I took a pit stop at the ladies. After a healthy and lengthy pee, due in part to the massive amount of water I consumed, I got a whiff of what can only be described as a distinctly cereal smell. The smell quickly disappeared with a flush. Hands washed and curiosity peeked I boarded the bus.



Hours have passed since my pit stop. I watched a couple of inspiring episodes of TOP CHEF, which made me rethink my course of study and wish smell-a-vision was a real technology, instead of an abstract idea. After changing the channel to OVATION TV and watching a documentary on the life and art of Claude Monet, I soon realized that my art history courses are more appealing than my culinary curiosities. Three more cereal scented trips to the bathroom have also occured.



To GOOGLE I went, to solve the mystery. I think most of life's dilemmas can be solved with a quick trip to GOOGLE. Has anyone proposed this to the President to solve the economic crisis? Perhaps this could really turn things around, but I digress. A swift search of 'my urine smells like cereal' I linked to site that seems credible; it explained that taking a daily multi-vitamin can cause your urine to smell like cereal. Medical mystery solved. Thanks GOOGLE!!!

Fennifer

So....

Apparently Katherine's a whitetail deer.

What kind of animal are YOU?

That's EXACTLY what we are trying to figure out!

Today, I had a nice day. I spent it by myself, which was nice. I have introverted tendencies, so sometimes I like to do things like sit in a corner and stare at the nail holes in the wall, or pace the room back and forth. Today, there was snow to look at so that made my visual experience more stimulating. I made a butternut squash spice cake, and it ended up tasting like a lot like everything else I bake. My cooking takes two forms: it tastes either like a heavy, fibrous breakfast cake that activates the intestinal region; or it tastes like lentils. I reading a book for people that can't cook that is quite patronizingly called: "Subtlety of flavor and its importance in my life". I did a load of laundry today as well. I had to empty the dryer because Jon's stuff was in it. So I folded his towels, pyjama pants and dish towels, then promptly stopped up his toilet. After much plunging, I decided to drink some coffee and call my mother. Then I decided to call Kevin, a supervisor at Moosejaw.com. I thought a little tooooo much time had passed to not give him a piece of my mind.Then I watched Dr. Phil, a scheduling upset that delayed my online webcast recap of the past two episodes of Grey's.Tonight, Dana and I have a date with "Paranormal State". SCCCCCAAAARRRRRYYYY!!!!