WELL, IT SEEMS I DIDN’T HAVE TO GO THE EXTRA MILE TO EMBARRASS MYSELF WITH THAT LAST POST. My dad emailed me a photo of even better arsenal.

Let me repeat: MY DAD EMAILED ME.

And because of the magnitude of that event (well, that and the fact that the email was titled, “Blog This!”) I had to post it.

Internet, I would like you to meet me, at age oh seven or so, being what we affectionately call a “picky eater”, or alternately The Girl Who Thought She Was Dying When We Held Her Down And Forced Her to Eat Jelly.

Did I sound bitter about that still? Sorry.

Anywho. This is almost worse than my Hanson photo. I’m guessing by my expression, puffy red cheeks, the ear of corn, and teeny tiny piece of ham that it is Thanksgiving.

Or pretty much any night eating with me.

There’s times my parents thought it was funny, like when I mentioned above that they had my sisters hold me down and Dad shoved a tablespoon of strawberry jam into my mouth. Or the time when they replaced my peas and carrots with fake candy. But I’m sure there were other times that weren’t so much fun, when I was hissy and whiny and pouty all over gross foods that I probably still wouldn’t eat spilled milk. And for these times Mom and Dad, I am truly sorry.

I can only hope that posting this photo was some sort of retribution.

But I need to ask you one last thing: Did I have a mullet?

Much love,

- Your Picky Eater

I SKIPPED MADE ME LAUGH MONDAY BECAUSE I HAD NOTHING FUNNY.

Whoa boy, was I ever wrong on that account. I had something absolutely hilarious happen to me tonight, and that is how I almost set the kitchen on fire. I almost set the KITCHEN on FIRE.

Kevin and I have a favorite food called Chicken Roll ups. It’s chicken mixed with cream cheese and butter, wrapped in croissants and rolled in breadcrumbs. Pure deliciousness. Well, I decided to be Little Miss Helpful – a recipe for trouble all on it’s own – and preheat the pan he was going to use to cook the chicken, so I poured in some vegetable oil and cranked the heat up to high. But I forgot to turn the heat down before I moved on to the next task, MULTITASKING FOR THE WIN, and the next second I turn around to find the entire back side of my kitchen covered in smoke that was rising from the burning fluid. So naturally, I did what any freak of nature would do and I grabbed the pan and turn off the burner.

What was left of the oil instantly turned into flames.

At this point, it was safe to say it was a two foot high, spitting, hissing fire, in a pan that was half a foot away from me. I yelled “Babe!” which is a much better alternative to the unladylike words that easily could have slipped out instead, and I rushed the pan to the sink.

Mistake number one: leaving a pan of vegetable oil on a hot stove. Mistake number two: Putting the pan – which was now on fire, under a constant stream of cold water.

Yea.

Don’t do that.

Wanna know why?

Because you wind up with a flame that goes from a measly two foot flicker to a four foot roaring fireball straight up to the ceiling…while you’re still holding it. And you can say it, I’ve said it plenty of times. I’m surprised those ugly, 1970’s curtains didn’t catch on fire in the process.

I was pretty much lost for what to do at this point. Stop, drop and roll don’t really work unless YOU are on fire.

“Take it outside,” Kevin opened the door and covered his face with his arm as I walked past, awkwardly holding the pan out at arms length. I stood for a good two minutes like that, arm outstretched trying to figure out how to get this pan to stop hissing at me. I finally guessed the cold pavement would be my best bet, so I dumped the remaining fluid in the middle of the driveway and fell to my knees by it.

“Are you okay?” Kevin asked from the bottom of the stairs. I shook my head no and realized I was shaking all over. The odd noise I could hear was coming from me. It was somewhere between a laugh and a half-sob. He wrapped me in a hug and then coaxed me back inside to survey the damage. The entire downstairs was coated with a thick, nasty smoke that burned our eyes and noses. We used blankets to attempt to air it out. It’s one of those smells I’m sure will stick around for weeks. “We’re lucky it didn’t spread…Gram’s has oxygen tanks! Boom! But in the end, nothing can replace a life. I’m just glad we’re all okay.”

I was busy at this point taking photos of the damage and also of this warning label.

“But you got to admit…” he added a few minutes later as we both flapped blankets in the middle of the kitchen, “this’ll make for an awesome Twitter post!”

Postnote: I may have ruined our appetites and scared us a bit, but thankfully in my own defense I didn’t ruin dinner.

I just made him cook it.

Post-Postnote:

I have a confession to make, Internet. On Christmas Eve I came home to realize I’d left my hair straightener on all day, only two inches away from the wall. It left a burn mark on the counter (MOM I’M SORRY AND I GOT THE MARK OFF *thank you Magic Erasers*).

This all goes to prove that I shouldn’t be allowed to use electronics of any type, specifically those that generate heat.

Send help.

**UPDATE: My spreadsheet is found, I now have food  and life is good again**

IT’S MONDAY, AND I’M ALREADY HUNGRY. Is it not enough that it’s Monday? I mean, that’s a huge thing all in itself. Matter of fact, that works as answer to anything:

Aubrey what’s wrong?

It’s Monday.

How’s that spreadsheet coming (oh yea, the one that’s still LOST?!)

It’s Monday.

How’s your Grandma?

It’s Monday.

What’re you thinking?

It’s Monday.

Except this time, It’s Monday and I’m Hungry. I’m hungry and I’m on a quest – for Funions. Kevin and I were driving around the other day and for some insane reason I felt the need to blurt out of nowhere, “Whenever I find Funions, I feel like I’ve won something massive.” I clenched my fists together for added emphasis.

“. . .O. . .kay?” He asked, looking at me out the corner of his eye.

“Well, you just can’t find those anywhere, it’s like a prize. A prize of yummy goodness.”

“Eww.  Funions are sooo gross!” He proclaimed.

“WHAT?! You don’t like Funions?! You don’t like Funions.” I huffed. “You mean to tell me we’re similar in every other way but you can’t stand Funions? Well, then guess what? I hate the vinegar in Salt and Vinegar chips.” Oh yes, I went there. I hated on his favorite chips.

“Well then, I hate the onions in Funions.”

We both bust up laughing and that was the end of that discussion – he won. We agreed to disagree (and what a great first disagreement that was), and get our favorite type of chips anyway – except Chevron was lame and didn’t have either.

However, he made it up to me later when he found my stash of Easy Cheese and Wheat Thins. “Oh my goodness I love these! You’re probably mad that I found them.” Mad, no. Surprised that you like them? Yes.

I got thinking of how much my father hates Easy Cheese. He calls it “Fish Cheese” because he claims it’s so similar to the cheese bait he used while fishing as a kid. He won’t even come close to a can of Easy Cheese if you paid him.  Thinking of that got me thinking of butter. Both are so similar with how they can be processed and sold in so many different forms.

And now butter’s got me thinking about toast, and pancakes, and all the other stuff I’d like to make in the morning when I get up.

But wait.

It’s Monday.

Raincheck to Tuesday? Why yes please.

LAST WEEKEND WHEN DALE’S NEPHEW CAME HOME FROM SERVING HIS MISSION IN CHILE, we drove down to the burning lands of St. George for the welcome home and a luncheon get-together.

I was in a permanent state of euphoria due to the heat. That delicious, dry, skin scorching heat. The kind that makes a car into a moving oven, burns lawns, entices me to become lethargic and turns my skin a lovely shade of brown. Oh how I loved the heat.

The luncheon was fantastic, with hearty sandwiches, succulent salads, and Tang to drink. I was getting full just by looking at the buffet being laid out. It was about half way through the meal that we notice Dale’s younger brother and his new girlfriend in the kitchen, still hard at work on some secret concoction whilst everyone else is reclining back with full bellies and tightening waistbands. Upon further questioning (of family members of course. You never ask the person in question the actual question), we found out that the cute, darling, fantastic, friendly girlfriend was making everyone some fresh baked, homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Let me spell that out for you. C-O-O-K-I-E-S.

That took a lot out of me. I just gained ten pounds thinking about it.

We keep conversing about the confections and his brothers blossoming romance, his siblings and I. “Maybe he’s over there trying to get first dibs on the fresh loot,” one sibling jokes. “Looks pretty serious. I wonder if they need help picking out a ring?” another offers. This is when my dear, sweet Dale decides to interlude.

“I told him that if she’s cooking, she’s definitely a keeper”. Notice two things right here. One being he did not make eye contact with me when he said this. The other being there were no remarks as to my cooking skills, which was probably a good idea. I knew I probably shouldn’t be offended. I shouldn’t feel hurt that I’ve invested two years into this relationship and I’m not the one getting the matrimonial remarks. But Internet, I am not the type to keep my opinions and sassy remarks all to myself.

“Well, if that’s all I have to do is cook,” I spoke up, forcing him to catch my gaze, “I can go and help!”

Postnote: On the drive home, when I was feeling rather solemn and sorry for myself, I apologized to Dale for my lack of culinary arts, particularly in the Nestle Toll House department.

“That’s alright. . . because nobody can make a mean meatloaf like you”.

Satisfaction, guaranteed.

“I THINK I’M GOING TO PUKE,” Machelle mumbled sweetly in my ear. “I think I’m going to wake up and puke all over you.” She rubs her sleepy eyes and stretches, turning ever so slightly towards me.

“Do it and die.” I am now hugging the edge of the bed in horror. Praying please, for the love of all things good, do NOT let my little sister throw up on me. I’ll do anything – fess up to beating up Mitchel in third grade, stealing quarters out of mom’s purse for sodas, and willingly going down a closed, abandoned mine shaft where I climbed ladders, walked around the one foot wide ledge of a bottomless pit and then ran out of light and had to use the luminescent screen of a cell phone the rest of the way. Just please, no puke on me.

Eventually my choke hold of fear started wearing off, I stopped shivering and drifted to sleep in Sam and Marks trailer. I was uncomfortable enough as it is, still wearing knee high socks, jeans and a sweater underneath layer upon layer of blankets. If Machelle was going to lose it, I didn’t think she or I would be able to move fast enough to do anything about it.

Don’t get me wrong. I love camping, love being outdoors, and especially love the time warp you experience when you pull off onto that dirt road and switch off your phone. What I don’t love is when I forget to bring tennis shoes (good one, Aub!), it rains the whole time, and the campfire is only strong enough to permeate me with the smell of smoke. Add to that two big wet labradors and we have a beautiful mess.

The night was going well enough – we played Apples to Apples, told stories of vacations and roasted string cheese (does anyone else do that?) and made smores.

No. The problem began when Machelle subconsciously decided to sleep warn me of her vomitous nature. And then, out of the darkness when my eyes had finally closed and my brain had stopped functioning  – not that it functions already  – I hear what I was dreading. “Aubrey hurry get up!!” I fought through the fog in my head, not wanting to come awake but knowing it would be foolish not to get out of the way when warned. “I’m gonna puke, now MOVE!!”Panic ensues as she hurries to the door and fiddles with the latch, then runs into the bathroom and looks around in there, back to the door and finally she asks Sam, “Where can I throw up?!”

Sam, in her sleepy stupor gives the worst answer you can give someone with nausea. “Just throw up anywhere”. And throw up she did. The wet sound of fluids repeatedly hitting the bottom of the shower curdled my stomach, and I covered my mouth and ears to drown out the sound. Poor Shelly, I thought. Poor us, we’re all stuck in here now, with the smell (you know “the smell”) and nothing to clean it up with. Isn’t life wonderful?

We had hit a point where all five of us – Mark, Sam, their friend Mel, me and Machelle were all awake and gagging, longing for the taste of untainted air. It was that point that I decided I needed an escape option. No way could I go back to sleep in there, and it had nothing to do with vomit. No, I couldn’t sleep because of myself, and here is why. When I get uncomfortable, and I mean, really, really uncomfortable in a situation, it’s all I can do to keep from laughing. So I chuckled. I snorted. I whined and whimpered and bit my cheek but there was no helping any of that, especially when Machelle joined in and kept whispering words like “chunks” “so gross” “go in there” and by far the nastiest “It must’ve been the mushrooms I ate. I think there is one stuck in my nose right now. I can feel it”.

We had to go.

I drove the sixty miles home in the dark, and the clock on the dash read 4:02. Happy Memorial Day everyone! Hope yours was just as memorable as mine, but for happier, less gruesome reasons.

I SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED SKIPPING THIS MONDAY POST. The only things I’ve found this week are so stupid, so random and so unrelated that it didn’t even seem worth it. But then I remembered hey! Isn’t that why I started this series?

LOOK AT THIS DUCK.

Look at it. I’m not sure why. Just do it.

Anyone wanna go on a blind date?

You wouldn’t believe how long I spent staring at that picture, trying to figure out the punch line before it hit me – there really IS no punch line. Commence laughter. I know I know, hardy-har-har.

I guess I could have just read the blog title…

But that would’ve been a little too complicated for me.

And finally, as if my PhotoBooth photos didn’t scare you enough, here is the best find of the day.Take a deep long look Internet. I know I had to. It’s okay. It happens to the best of us.

FRIENDSHIP IS PRICELESS. It’s one of those things that you can’t quite describe, a good mix of the feelings that you get from your soul mate or relatives, without actually having all the lovey-dovey stuff and the sybling fights. You can’t buy friendship. . .but for this next picture, I’d dang sure try.

Notice the eyes at the bottom of the staircase? This reminds me of a horror story my Grams and mom would tell us girls before we went to bed. . .about two ghosts called Bloody Bones and Ginny Grinteeth that lived in the attic, and how they were going to kill us in our sleep and eat our ribs for dinner like they were dining at the Chuck-O-Rama – or something like that.

Friendship is not only about pushing your buddy down the stairs first bribes and dares, it’s about truth. Nothing beats being able to be truthful with your closest pals. Margo sent this to me, and even though she found it online, it’s still spot on with the type of stuff we’d say to each other.

Margo: A. this is true. B. this is funny

Aubrey: You just made me laugh and snort up my snickers and mountain dew!

Friendship is not fearing what the other person will think of your opinions. For example, if someone (not me) tells a story four times, then posts about it, and tells you the story again (would I do that?), the other person can comfortably tell them that they find them certifiably crazy and that’s ok too.

And lastly, to commemorate a very happy birthday, friends will send you obscure humor because they know you’ll see the true value that is a simple drawing. Mmmm ice cream…

Post note: I triple dog-double doughnut-Dr. Doodle dare you to say this post title five times fast.

TWELVE YEARS AGO WE WERE IN A DUSTY BACK ROOM, all crammed onto metal chairs in front of a paper backdrop. Machelle was only two or three at the time, but she was grinning like a natural born camera ham. I was about eight, with long blond hair that hung down my back. Sam had bangs, Ashley had glasses. Mom had a different shade of hair, and Dad had more hair overall (sorry Dad. I love your hair just as it is).

Oh how things have changed.

We’ve all outgrown our bangs. Ashley and Sam got married and have children of their own. I’m living in my own apartment. Machelle is in High School and is commonly mistaken for being older than me, even with a five year gap between us. Mom and Dad have moved to a different house that is their pride and joy. It was my dad’s Grandfathers house, so it means a lot to have it stay in the family.

But some things never change. We are still a family, even if we have extended family now. So when Mom told me she wanted pictures of her four daughters for Mothers Day, I started scheming and made an appointment with Kiddie Kandids. Ashley and I had already talked about getting new ones taken (the last sister pictures we had done, I was about twelve).

But then another thought occured to me. We should have our parents there. Twelve years is a long time to go by when all you have is snapshots from cheap Kodak cameras to show the passing of time and the growth we’ve all went through.

The photo shoot went perfectly. Nobody fought (would we do that? Nawww), everybody came and everyone smiled. Best yet – I haven’t been disowned for making everyone do this.

Without further ado, here is my family.

From top left: Sam, Machelle, Ashley, Dad, Mom, Aubrey (Hey! That’s me!)

I’m glad the photographer thought to do different things, like photos of all of us together, mom and dad alone, and then some of us daughters. Mom doesn’t like this one, but us girls love it! She had to hurry and snap it before either parent shied out and changed their mind.

The four daughters all together. Can I get an “awww”?

This next one is probably my favorite picture of us. I’m particularly glad that my hair didn’t do anything funky, my eyes weren’t going in two different directions  – which I will explain in another post – and my collared shirt wasn’t too preppy.

Funny thing about my shirt. I’ve had this whole thing planned out for two whole weeks. For two weeks I’ve called everyone and told them these exact things:

• Be there at 11:45.

• Wear a white tee-shirt, with blue jeans. We’ll take off our shoes.

• Bring something for the pot luck.

and…BE THERE AT 11:45. My family is notorious for saying we’ll be somewhere on time, and showing up hours later. And no Ash, I’m not just talking about you and Niel. We all do this.

Surprisingly, no one was late.

But back to the tee-shirt. So I have it all arranged, pictures are in twenty minutes, and DEAR GOD MY WHITE SHIRT DOES NOT FIT. Remind me to try stuff on before I wear it to something as monumental as our once-every-decade pictures. I’m the planner, and I’m the only one unprepared! The shirt in the pictures was compliments of my shiny silver Visa, right after I got to the mall. Thank heavens for clothing stores in close proximity to photo shops.

Finally, a close up of all of our faces. After looking at this, we all laughed. The photographer had the two shortest sit in the front (Ashley and I) and the two tallest in the back. If we were to  go in the order we were born, it would go Ashley, Sam, myself and then Machelle.

Afterwards, we all met at my house for a pot luck. I gave an Emmy Award winning speech thanking everyone for coming, participating, chipping in financially and bringing food for the pot luck. I wasn’t joking. Thank you everyone. I’m so proud to be able to call you my family.

THIS MADE ME LAUGH MONDAY IS 100% RANDOM. Just the way I like it.

Because Store Meat is Made of Tofu

I had a delicious steak on Friday when catching up with some friends. First thing that popped to mind? This picture.

And NO. It does not make me feel guilty, because Friday’s cow was delicious.

Penalty For Dying

I don’t remember how this conversation came about, but Margo (my coworker/friend/twin sister from another life) and I were talking about funny things that were absolutely ridiculous, and she brought up this article. I spent the whole week chuckling about it. Apparently, there is “severe punishment” for DYING in a town in Southwest France…No, I am not making this up.

I’m game for not dying. Who wouldn’t want to live forever? Only thing is, they’d have to find the Fountain of Youth or I’d be the first to give up my mortality. I do not want to be 152 for all time, stuck in wheel chairs and diapers, listening to the hits on an eight track and talking about those “good ol’ days”.

Just This Once

Hm. I think they don’t want you to park here but I’m not sure.

What to do in a Terrorist Attack

Thank you Dale for this one. These are real signs from http://www.ready.gov, that people have discovered the true meaning to. Some of my favorites are listed below.

Michael Jackson is a terrorist. If you spot this smooth criminal with dead, dead eyes, run the f*** away.

If you are trapped under falling debris, conserve oxygen by not farting.

If you lose a contact lens during a chemical attack, do not stop to look for it.