JULIANNE I AM

Sarah Palin had an affair with Tiger Woods.

2009-12-09T16:43:00.005-07:00

If irrational thinking is the hallmark of Republican thinking, I picked the wrong party. Because research is tough and the truth is sometimes difficult. But as I discovered today, thinking like a Republican't is fun!

My BFF (for her protection, she will remain nameless herein) and I were chatting today about how I have a prescription sitting at Costco, but Sarah Palin is being all mavericky and signing books there, so I am stuck waiting until tomorrow to pick it up.

So I realized that Sarah Palin is preventing me from picking up my prescription at Costco. Sarah Palin is preventing me from getting access to my medication. Sarah Palin = death panel.

I asked BFF, why do you think she is charging $16 to take a pic with her? Isn't it bad enough that you paid $20 for a color by number work of fiction?

Further, why $16, and not $15 or $17 or $2 (which is closer to what it is worth)?

Simple. She had an affair with Tiger Woods and needs an AIDS test.

Julianne: So why $16 for the photo?

BFF:because it's four squared, and four is two squared
so it's two squared, squared
surely it has something to do with special needs babies
something about chromosomes
I actually think it's maybe something to do with the antichrist?

Julianne: Barack Obama. Don't they think black people are the antichrist now?

BFF: TIGER WOODS

Julianne: DID SHE HAVE AN AFFAIR WITH TIGER WOODS?

BFF: YES THAT'S WHY SHE WANTS $16
to get an AIDS test
she got with tiger because of her special needs - SPECIAL needs if you catch my drift

Julianne: so true! making irrational conclusions IS fun.

BFF:this is why republicans are republicans
because irrational conclusions are fun

See, when you are a Republican and aren't concerned with stuff like truthiness or those facts thingies, you can have way more fun.

So you try it! After all, does anyone else think it is ironic that after all of those Facebook posts, Sarah Palin morphed into a death panel?

This is fun too:

Don't believe what they say.

2009-10-17T16:34:00.001-06:00

photo
Originally uploaded by JulianneMarie

This sign was outside of Victoria's Secret at the Gateway the other day, and I feel compelled to post a notice regarding the sign, seeing as how the mall is swarming with 13-17 year old girls who could benefit from a little public service announcement.

Girls,

I don't care what the sign says. There is nothing free about lace thongs. You are going to pay for it somehow.

Love,

Julianne

Roman Polanski **UPDATED*

2009-09-28T09:29:00.004-06:00

Disclaimer: I don't know much on the rape case that sent filmmaker Roman Polanski on the run to France. When I heard the news that he had been arrested, I educated myself with a quick update on Wikipedia and gave it some thought. I love Polanski. I like his fims, I like his story (the part about his parents and his childhood, not about the drugging/raping thing).

I don't like him drugging and raping a 13 year old girl during a photoshoot at Jack Nicholson's house in the 1970s.

So I decided not to have an opinion on the arrest and pending extradition of Polanski from Switzerland last week; I have a lot of opinions, sometimes I need to know when to hold em. Until today, that is, when I started reading editorials and blogs online of people being pissed about the arrest and his possibly facing punishment in the USA.

What led me to have an opinion on the topic was a column by journalist Joan Shore on The Huffington Post stating that she hates the Swiss now. Shore argues that the case is "dead" because it is so old, that at the time, the age of consent in Cali was 14 (it is now 18, and I am pretty sure it never was superseded by the whole Quaalude/champagne thing), the judge "reneged" on a plea bargain. So like, dude, he is a nice guy, let it go!

You know, if someone like, let's say, Karl Rove, or Glenn Beck, or Ken Lay or Rick Santorum (sorry not feeling very creative today) - someone that we (myself included) commonly demonize daily for the people they are - faced the same charges, would we be so quick to say 'let it go?' The facts remain: Polanski admitted to drugging and raping a 13 year old girl in the mid 70s. He had a plea agreement with the now deceased judge and plead guilty, and the judge supposedly reneged on the deal. I thought you make plea agreements with the DA? Actually, I know you do. I can't find info on how the judge renegged on whatever agreement Polanski thought he had worked out, but regardless, when Polanski didn't get what he was looking for, he took off to France, where he has lived (very comfortably) for over 30 years. The girl got a settlement from Polanski and says she is over it.

There are for the most part no statutes of limitation on crimes of sex for a reason. If Polanski wasn't Polanski, would people be jumping so quickly to his defense? If he was just some dude, or an artist who produced horrible films, would we demand he didn't face consequences for his vile actions?

I am just saying.

**UPDATE***
I just heard on the BBC's World Have Your Say that the plea agreement and all of that mess had to deal with the judge not agreeing to not showing the 2005 scheduled trial on television.

There are polls now all over the place on the matter. Seriously, when did the court system get wrapped up in a democratic process? There were people out there ready to put Sarah Palin second-in-command of this country. I am not sure those people are qualified to make criminal court decisions. I am not sure I care about what those people think on this matter.

Damn. Now I am really just sayin.

PS, has Sarah Palin tweeted her thoughts on this matter yet?

THIS is what I do for a living.

2009-09-17T10:49:00.004-06:00

I haven't posted anything in almost a month. I have been busy between settling into my new place, finishing the landscaping on my rental house, and working 60 hours week at my exciting new job.

What is it that I am doing for work now?

Funny you should ask.

In the past, I would be bothered when my family and my friends were always scratching there heads on this topic. To me, it is simple: I am in marketing and communications, sometimes dabbling in business development.

So this morning, a friend pinged me on IM to check in. She asked what I was up to this morning. This was my reply:

"At the moment, I am trying to communicate with a guy in China about re-manufacturing a rock into a worry stone. Remember those from the 70s? Yeah well that trend didn't hit China in the 70s so explaining to him in broken English that i want an oval polished stone 6.4 cm long by about 1 cm deep with a thumb indent is testing my will to live, esp when I tell him the bottom needs to be flat and engraved with our logo.

By the way, what the hell are those stacks of rocks called that you find on hiking trails? Cairns? I can get the Chinese dude to engrave the base rock and send me flat shaped rocks to stack on top of it, but it is killing me to find a labor source in the states to assemble and glue them together so they stick. I am talking to one of those inmate labor groups now, but I don't know if I could live with myself if I had inmates assembling my direct mail piece.

Then again, the base rock of the carin will be polished and engraved most likely in a Chinese sweatshop by 7 year olds, so giving inmates a buck each to assemble 200 of these things probably balances that cosmic dilemma, right? And it is better than hiring the students of those deaf schools. Is employing the handicapped considered to be a good thing because you are giving them work, or is it bad because you are exploiting them for cheap labor? Or does it matter because work is work?

And I have a conference call on hiring an independent information auditor at 11 and two press releases to draft today.

What are you doing?"

Right after I typed all of that, it hit me like a brick. I glanced over my ongoing projects list and in my mind, tried to categorize the projects by organizational function.

Google alert strategy? A photo shoot plan? Email masthead with an Iron Man theme? Product GUI designs? A calendar competition and design? Competitive talking points memos?

I am glad that I am as ADD as my job is.

On a separate note, which of the following makes me the worst liberal on the planet?

Hiring a Chinese manufacturing plant to make my rocks

Hiring a inmates to assemble the rocks the rocks engraved by the Chinese (no, Abigail, we will not have them bake files into them)

Hiring handicapped people to assemble the rocks engraved by the Chinese

Dear AT&T: I already paid my membership fee.

2009-08-28T09:25:00.001-06:00

I like my wireless service. I have a phone I like, it doesn't drop calls all that often, and it is kind of like health insurance: you don't notice it until it isn't working for you.

A few weeks back, when I was in the store and signed my contract, the sales associate offered me a military discount because she saw my military ID. She said it was 15 percent. Of course I took it. Who wouldn't take a discount? And how nice of AT&T to offer me a discount for my service.

Well, it turns out that AT&T thinks it is cool to charge people a "Subscription Fee" for discounts. It is $36. I might (might) understand this fee if it was for employee discounts for large companies, but I have said it before and I will say it again: screwing people in the military is probably the worst thing you can do. Be it reckless profiteer elected officials sending troops to wars that don't need to be fought, companies who create scams and prey on young people who have (below the poverty line) guaranteed income, or corporations who offer services and goods to military personnel that is not in their best interest but is marketed with a few American flags. Military members who give up their lives and time, drop everything to deploy to godforsaken places all over the world, away from their families and relationships and comforts of home, at the risk of the most important thing anyone has: their own life. We get paid peanuts for the work we do, especially in comparison to the contractors who do our jobs for 16 times the pay. The American public rally in support of the troops, invoke the soldier's, sailor's and airman's name to show their patriotism, but glare at me if I am in uniform at the grocery store.

The least anyone could do is not charge me a membership fee for my damn military discount with AT&T. You see, supervisor Mary and manager Tamra, I already paid my membership fee. It came in the form of two deployments to Iraq that changed me forever. It came in the form of lost jobs, lost relationships, lost time that I gave without question to this country.

So no, I am not paying the $36 fee, and I am not giving my discount up. If you want to stop calling it a discount, we can discuss that. The term 'discount' is disingenuous, and your vulturous, fee-collecting approach to profitability is disgusting when applied to the lowest paid and hardest working people in this country. If you are giving me a discount, like Verizon did, in exchange for my service, then you don't charge me for it.

If you really need my $36, call the corner office. Randall Stephenson made $15 million last year. Maybe he has 36 bucks laying around and he can pay it for me.

I look forward to hearing from you. You know where I am.

Best regards,

SSGT Julianne Hancock

Home

2009-08-15T16:09:00.000-06:00

In honor of my last weekday drinkfest before moving onto my new life, Chelsea and I enjoyed $2 champagne at The Green Pig all Thursday afternoon, and then wandered to The Gallivan to meet Abby. We managed to swig two bottles of wine there and found ourselves playing Scattergories at 2 AM with a shit salemsan (literally) and his red velvet cake. Friday, I spent 11 hours at school with a not small hangover, complete with a cocktail hour (Westminster College...does your school give you wine and heavy appetizers after a long day at school?). Needless to say, I came home Friday night beat with a good buzz. After being told to hold off on my opportunity/threat analysis of the upstream suppliers in the automobile industry, I put down the computer, and like any girl with a good buzz and a great big hangover, I filled my wine glass with wine and the bathtub with bubbles, put Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros in the stereo, and submerged myself in warm liquid contemplation goodness.

Izzy, of course, posted herself right outside the bathroom door, and twenty minutes into my Deep Thoughts of a Single Gal, I was singing Home to her. The song was one of the few that I reserved for my lonely days in Iraq a few months ago, when I was comforting myself with the now-broken promises of somebody I used to know, dreaming of a better day.

Home is a sweet little ditty, and I am glad that it is one that doesn't hurt my heart to hear after the past two months. Cuz Izzy, hot and heavy, pumpkin pie, chocolate candy, Jesus Christ, there ain’t nothin’ please me more than you. Even when you won't stop nuzzling into my lap after I have been gone for a long day. It sure is nice to know that home is wherever I am with you, lovely lady.

I still like cheese dammit.

2009-08-12T18:37:00.005-06:00

When I deployed, I became a half-hearted pescetarian. There is something about meat that came in boxes marked "for institutional use only" that makes it lose appeal. I say half-hearted because if someone prepares me a delish slab of beef, I am not one to say no. However, I am not buying meat at the store anymore, and I don't eat it when I eat out much. I still love my fishies.

Anyway, so the other day I bought a Kashi frozen pizza. Sicilian Veggie. I like veggies, it was the only flavor they had without meat, and they were on sale, so I just grabbed it and checked out.

Yesterday I took it out for lunch when I noticed it was the thing didn't have cheese.

This is not the first time I have encountered vegetarian dishes becoming vegan. It happens in restaurants and in prepared foods all over the place. Note to whomever designs these meals: I still love cheese. I eat a lot of cheese, it is not good for me in quantities, I know, but it is a comfort food and it is just so delish. I love port wine cheese, sharp cheddar, white cheddar, gouda, brie. I even eat a lot of cottage cheese.

I get that for product development, it is less expensive to group your vegans with your vegetarians and develop the same product line for both demographics. Unfortunately, I like cheese more than I don't like meat. Additionally, I know a lot more cheese eating vegetarians than I know vegans. In fact, I know only one vegan. And I think she is only a vegan because it is trendy. She probably has stashes of animal products hidden under her bed. Chocolate cakes with eggs and milk stuffed in the pockets of her fur coat.

Anyway, I like cheese, Kashi people. Please put the cheese back on my pizzas. Because I tried to do it when it was cooking and it just wasn't the same.

Any questions?

2009-08-11T13:26:00.003-06:00

This is your dog.

This is your dog on drugs.

Any questions?

Izzy, my little neurotic princess, has been through a lot in her short three years of life. By the time I picked her up in April 2008, she was a little ball of nerves. She had bowel issues, separation anxiety, depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, aggression, fear of water, fear of people, fear of her own shadow. She got spoiled when I lost my job, depressed when she lost Paul, and is now a confused fur ball who can't sleep for more than two hours at a time in our new place.

And now I am going back to work. Granted, I will be working from home a lot, but there will be office time in Provo and some travel. As much as I would like to gradually transition Izzy back to her workaholic mom's old life, we are running out of time.

So this morning, Dr. Good (I mean, with a name like Good, how can you go wrong?) put Iz on some antidepressants to take the edge off. I am on an 12 hour Izzy-watch, making sure she doesn't completely loose control of her bowels or has any seizures. She has spent most of the day sleeping, which isn't usual, however, apparently the drugs make her sleep on her back with her legs in the air. Which is kinda cute in a prozac-nation sort of way.

And yes, she still wiggles her toes and wags her tail in her puppy dreams.

Palin/Taitz 2012

2009-08-03T20:00:00.003-06:00

You know, there were some nervously laughable moments in the Palin campaign. Katie Couric interviews, $150,000 wardrobes and $25,000 make up artists, foreign policy experience based on geographical proximity.

The media has turned their kind eye to the Birther Movement and its ringleader, attorney-slash-dentist, Orly Taitz.

The other night, Orly redefined the Constitutional description of a natural-born citizen. The Fourteenth Amendment clearly states: "All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside."

Much like Palin getting all mavericky and redefining the role of the Vice President of the United States on national TV, Orly is getting all mavericky and rewriting the Constitution. According to Orly, a natural born citizen is one whose parents are both born in the US of A.

I just watched her crying on MSNBC, saying that Ann Coulter, who called her crazy, is part of the main stream media, and referred to the MSNBC anchors as 'brownshirts.' Brownshirts, for those of you who don't know, were the paramilitary organization within the Nazis that played a key role in getting Hitler into power.

Ahem.

Too bad Taitz's parents weren't born in the states. She and Palin would keep us all entertained in the runup to 2012. She could go to Hawaii, though. I hear they'll give anyone a birth certificate.

The Colbert Report

Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Womb Raiders - Orly Taitz

www.colbertnation.com

Colbert Report Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tasers

Blue Moon? Really?

2009-07-29T23:01:00.003-06:00

So the other day Abigail and I predicted what beers Obama, Gates and that cop will drink at their mini summit. We had predicted eclectic taste for POTUS and the Harvard guy, and nothing but high school beers for the cop.

Boy were we wrong.

Gibbs is reporting that Obama will drink Bud Lite(?!?!), Gates likes the Red Stripe, and the cop (he has a name, and that name is James Crowley) drinks Blue Moon.

A cop not having good taste in beer is sadly predictable in my book. Maybe he really does like the Natty Lite and got all freaked out when the WH Social Secretary called him for his order so she could run down to the Sev and pick up a six pack. Perhaps Blue Moon was the classiest thing he could think of. Much like when I started drinking wine and drank blush wines. Out of boxes.

Perhaps not. Maybe the man likes Blue Moon. But so does my mom, and she won't drink wine unless it is a White Zin. So I get my sort of victory there.

But Obama? Bud Lite? Dude, you don't have to drink the schwag beer. I get the whole America thing, but there are plenty of awesome domestic microbrews you could support.

Bud Lite. I just cannot get over it.

True, true.

2009-07-27T14:17:00.004-06:00

So President Obama invited Professor Gates and the cop who arrested him over to his crib to kick a few beers back this weekend. I am going to ignore the obvious shift in White House policy towards "beer solves everything, including racial misunderstandings" (that I totally subscribe to in all reality) and instead ask the question that everyone has been wondering: what kind of beer do you drink on a date like that?

Abigail and I were discussing this over IM.

me: did you hear obama is having gates and that cop over for beers this weekend? and we thought murphy's was cool
Abigail: omg. that sounds more awkward than [NAMES OMITTED IN THE INTEREST OF PROTECTING ABIGAIL OR MY HYPOTHETICAL POLITICAL FUTURES]. I wonder what kind of beer they'll drink
me: but obama will be there. that is like hiring the corona party guy on the cruise.
Abigail: Yeah, probs. Like if we'd invited a moderator the other day.
me: wow that is a good question. gates probably only likes belgian beers.
Abigail: or a counselor
me: obama probably drinks the fermented sweat of angels.
Abigail: yeah, and the cop obviously will want PBR
me: and that cop only likes natty light
Abigail: Or natty llite

You know, if Obama is inviting people over to soothe tensions resulting from preconceived notions and stereotypes, I think that Abigail and I should get an invite to Pennsylvania Ave, stat. I mean, it never occurred to me that cops would have anything but a similar taste in brew as a 15 year old Judge student.

Editorial note: The redundant Natural Light beer suggestion was made simultaneously, but because of the nature of chat transcripts, it is not conveyed accurately. You know, great minds and all of that.

Call to action: send NASA composition books

2009-07-16T09:23:00.003-06:00

When I was in Father McHugh's Honors Chemistry class in high school, we used composition books to write stuff down. The pages don't fall out. They are uniform. Catholic high schools like uniform.

This morning, I was listening to On Point on NPR. Everyone is talking about space travel again, which confuses me. I mean, Americans can't find jobs on this planet. I know we got Tang and Velcro from our Cold War space exploration period, but really? Anyway, so Tom Ashbrook is interviewing Senator Jack Schmitt who was an astronaut during the moon travel thing. Ashbrook asks him if we go straight to Mars, and Schmitt tells us that we have to go back to the moon first. Why?

"We have to learn how to travel in deep space again."

Um, we gave those NASA folks a lot of money, I am sure. Did we budget for some good composition book for them? So they could write some of that shit down? Maybe Fr. McHugh should run NASA.

Online Wound Licking

2009-07-15T22:19:00.004-06:00

So I took a break from my mad RFP writing skillz tonight to do some online wound licking. You see, a long time ago, when the intertubes were new and shiny and I was suffering my first (what I thought was real at the time) heartache, I yahooed "breakup." I found a website that was just what I needed: an online community full of angry, scorned women writing letters celebrating their solidarity to stay angry and in bed with their goblets of wine and bags of Cheetos for a long period of time after their partners decided to bail.

So tonight, I decided to revisit my friends at Breakup Girl to find that community again. I was quite displeased to see the first post on her now blog to be about bride bouquet tossing. I scrolled down to find a few letters for advice seekers (mostly written by folks who would benefit from a visit from Captain Obvious) and a RIP to Farrah Fawcett. Oh, and a post about interesting wedding cake toppers. And a reference to an article about how married people make more money, eat better, and are generally happier in life.

Not really what I was looking for.

Where is the welcome-back-to-independence-ladies, fill-your-wine-glass-here community? Where do the ladies do their online wound licking?

Quotes of the day

2009-07-05T18:58:00.001-06:00

I am housesitting this weekend, which is allowing me the treat of MTV.

MTV is what Paul's father would call "a target rich environment" for quotes of the day.

Brandon from Placenta, California, informed a national audience that he likes to "smoke cigars while I watch my porn. I like to keep it classy." (Later in the show - True Life, I Am Addicted to Porn - Brandon burns his collection of porn DVDs. As I watched them burn, all I could think about was the carcinogens being released into the environment. Sigh,)

Some kid, on a trailer for Is She Really Going Out With Him?, set the benchmark for all you fine playas: "Every pimp needs a flat iron."

I know there are only two quotes, but I was only watching for 20 minutes. I need to go buy baked beans now. So that is it. Go watch MTV on your own.

***Update***

"I would like to start dating, but it is really hard to date boys who are slower than me." International MotoCross Champion girl (I didn't catch her name, sorry), age 20. Ain't that right, sista.

Twenty-four years ago today...

2009-07-04T08:01:00.004-06:00

Michelle Newborn
Originally uploaded by JulianneMarie

You know, Michelle, I always thought I was destined to be the youngest, the baby of the family, the cutest, the one who could do no harm. But on July 4, 1985, you came along. You were supposed to be a boy, you were not. And you took my spot. But, eh, it hasn't been that bad having you around. So I guess you can stick around for another 24.

I wish I was there to raise a glass of Two-Buck Chuck to you, my little sister. You have grown from a drooling baby who ruined my life to a curious child who inspired my imagination to be a beautiful, bright, successful adult who never sways from the person she is and challenges me to think as big as she does. Have a wonderful day.

Love, J

PS: You got gray hair before I did. I won't forget it.

More photos of July 1985, complete with my dad and his what-was-he-thinking mustache and my mother at an age younger than I am now, are located here.

RIP Max.

2009-07-03T12:55:00.001-06:00

Whaddup dawg
Originally uploaded by JulianneMarie

My mother and sisters bought Max when my dad left and I moved out twelve years ago. Max was a loyal little pup, 2 parts neurotic, 1 part cat-like, 100 percent love. My older sister put Max down this morning after he had suffered ailments of an aging lap dog. At any rate, wherever Max ends up after this world, it will be a better place, because the last years were rough.

They say that losing a pet is like losing a human family member. We watched Max suffer for so long, I am happy that he is in the big farm in the sky. But I can't help but look at my Isabella Dogbooty, who sits at my feet, and wonder what it will be like when her time comes. I don't really know much about where she was before she came to me, so sometimes I worry that her time with me will be shorter than I have planned. She isn't very affectionate, she isn't incredibly obedient, but she is my buddy and we share a brain wave, and I like to think that no matter how much more responsive she is to Paul, she still knows who her fave parent is.

Then again, she would probably leave me for an employee of a tennis ball factory in a heartbeat.

Novelist Agnes Sligh Turnbull said, "Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really." How true that is.

Thoughts on a homecoming.

2009-07-03T12:13:00.004-06:00

Coming home from a deployment is a stressful transition for anyone. I thought I was better prepared for this homecoming than the last, but the past six weeks has shown me that sometimes, no matter what you do to prepare, you aren't always ready to face every challenge as it comes.

I deployed for a variety of reasons. I wanted to go to Afghanistan, I ended up in Iraq again. I thought I would take the opportunity of a soft job market to experience the sometimes surreal moments of combat again to reset my thinking, re-prioritize my career goals and come back with clearer direction. I had a rough deployment, but not in the ways I thought it would be difficult. I learned a lot about myself, my relationships with the people whom I love, about managing people and about my political framework. I came home to a more difficult economy than I had hoped and to challenges in my relationships I did not anticipate.

Things have a way of coming to a head, and the last few weeks have been rough, but a blessing in disguise. When I lost my job, I thought that it was time to reset my mind and decide what I really thought was important. I have spent the months since September searching for the person I thought I had lost touch with, the person with whom I had not been connected with since I began spending long hours committed to organizational goals while forgetting my own.

The funny thing? I realized the other day that I never lost myself. Sure, perhaps I lost the internal dialogue of putting my career goals in the context of my life. However, the further I run from what I was doing and where I was, the more lost I find myself.

When protesters in Tehran were broadcasting events via social media outlets, I felt my first tingle of desire to be back in the game. As I reconnect with old friends, I am inspired by strong women in my life who are bucking social trends, climbing the corporate ladder with every ounce of generational adversity working against them, and rejecting the common woman-on-woman crime that is all to familiar in the workplace.

It wasn't wasted time. Sometimes you don't know what you have until it's gone, right?

So I am relaunching my job hunt, I am getting back in the game. Marketing, public relations, corporate communications, business development. I get excited at the prospect of wearing my suits again (but no, I will not subscribe to Hillary's 'sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits' - I look better in a skirt), getting in touch with the butterflies I used to get when a strategy I developed gets put into action and sees results. Perhaps my life pursuits will be approached with a touch of slower tempo this time around, and perhaps I walk into a company with a heightened awareness of what corporate responsibility means to them, but I am ready to get back to where I was.

Unfortunately, the job market isn't as excited as my re-arrival as I am, but hey, I always enjoyed a challenge, right?

My resume is here. I know a lot of people, and I know you people know a lot of people. I have been looking at everything from full time employment to contract and pro bono work. If you see or hear anything, be a buddy. I will return the favor ;)

Word.

Quote of the day

2009-05-14T10:43:00.002-06:00

Sergeant Hancock! If you don't get married to that Paul dude, look me up, I'm in global!

Airman Tucker, in the smoke pit as I was saying my goodbyes before leaving Iraq. His pseudo-proposal was met with momentary silence and then an eruption of laughter from his buddies, providing a perfect segue for me to peace out with not much ceremony. I am not good at goodbyes.

Context

2009-05-11T11:53:00.003-06:00

Bad signs
Originally uploaded by JulianneMarie

Isn't it funny how context can change an image so quickly?

A little over a week ago, I went to Camp Liberty to have my eyes checked in anticipation of a flight physical I will be having in June. Near the clinic, there are two signs next to each other on a road that I thought were ironically placed: The US Army Reserve Retention Office and the Combat Stress Control offices both posted signs to direct traffic. Call me crazy, but if I was in charge of determining where offices were, I wouldn't put a recruiting station next to the spot where people go when they are losing their marbles from seeing things that are unimaginable or beyond what they can cope with.

So it was funny at the time that I took the photo.

This afternoon, a soldier opened fire on five personnel at Camp Liberty. According to the Associated Press, "Pentagon officials said the shooting happened at a stress clinic." I remembered the photo I took of the signs not too long ago when my mother sent me an email to make sure I was okay, and then went on to ask how far Liberty is from where I am and asked if I had pictures of the complicated bases. (I am not deployed to Liberty, I am deployed to Sather, but they are two of six facilities that are all walled together in a compound dubbed "The Victory Base Complex").

So I found the picture, and I post it, but now, the ironic placement is just not that funny anymore.

Did I need one more reason to get home?

2009-05-09T12:11:00.000-06:00

This is Izzy as I left her in Paul's capable hands.

This is an email I get the other day.

from Paul
to Julianne
date Fri, May 8, 2009 at 5:58 PM
subject You need to come home

Cause Izzy is dirty.

Being the dog mom that I am, the alarming change in my dog's appearance prompted an immediate phone call to Paul, who is in the middle of renovating his house with his brothers. Over the sound of power tools and other noises associated with home demolition/reconstruction, he yawned and told me, "well, Izzy is a work site dog now, you know? She does what she wants."

Duh.

Today, I am thankful that my return home has been delayed just long enough for the house to be shop vac'ed over a few times and perhaps a trip to the groomer for Izzy. Because, well, I am hoping that our home won't be referred to as a work site for too much longer. As in, beyond May 20.

Dear America,

2009-05-04T11:04:00.005-06:00

Losing to some fifth grader on a game show hosted by Jeff Foxworthy, who, until recently, was best known for a career built on thousands of jokes that began with the line "you might be a redneck if..." does not determine your intellectual capacity.

I sit here in Baghdad. I just finished The Audacity of Hope, written by then Senator Barack Obama, making strong arguments about shifts for our country's agenda that need to occur for us to create a safer, more just, and more competitive country for generations to come. It was a striking text that hit home in many ways as I continue during this transformational period in my life.

I turn on the television and watch some asshat named Rick sweat the following question: "How many times does the letter "y" appear in the word beautiful."

I am wondering if I am confused or if I missed something, so I stay tuned. After a few moments for dramatic effect (complete with Foxworthy pacing with a stern look on his face and dramatic music in the background complementing the dramatic lighting on the set), a stuttering Rick answers, "I am pretty sure it doesn't have any "y''s" in it."

Just to be sure, he spells beautiful. "B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L. Beautiful. Well, at least that is how I spell it." Finally, he feels good about determining that the word lacks the sometimes vowel. He turns to Foxworthy, the expression on his face is similar to what I would have expected to see on the faces of Kennedy and Khrushchev representatives who meet at a Chinese place in DC in October 1962, to work out the Cuban Missile Crisis while patrons around them enjoyed their peking duck and dim sum. Yeah, with that kind of look in his eye, Rick locks in an answer.

Beautiful does not have a 'y.'

And for that, he wins $25,000.

A segment later, Jennie Garth wins $5,000 for identifying her index finger. And then she appears genuinely stumped by the question "what letter does Illinois end with?"

Forty seven million residents of the wealthiest nation in the world do not have access to affordable health care.

One in five American children live in poverty.

We are facing problems domestically and in foreign policy that make our country weaker, less competitive, sicker and less educated. In 2009 we still face gender and racial wage gaps that not only affect the wage earners themselves, but disproportionally affect youth in the households of minorities and single mothers. Many of those children go to underfunded schools with empty tummies, or do not have access to early childhood education that can give a them a better chance at getting their piece of the (apple) pie.

25 million children will have been orphaned by parents who have died of HIV/AIDS by 2010. By the time you read this post, 12 people will have died of HIV/AIDS in the world.

If Americans cared as much about reality television as they do about, um, reality, the one that they work in, live in, and bring children into, if they cared about their neighbors as much as the cared about whether or not Sugar Ray Leonard can identify the names of the Great Lakes, maybe (just maybe!) I wouldn't be sitting in Iraq in the first place.

Or perhaps American preoccupation with ridiculous reality television is the thing I want to question. Hell, all television. Have you watched the stupid shit on TV lately? Since I got here i have watched a decent amount of it and every time I think they ran out of things to put on TV, they come out with something more horrendous. Horrible dramas with scrips that might sound better in a porn, Glen Beck doing whatever the hell it is he does. For how much people are paid to come up with crap for the tube, if we combined all of those brain cells towards the debate of some of the country's greatest challenges, we might be able to come up with some creative solutions.

Or perhaps the day that we stop defining intelligence as a collection of numerous factoids most of us refer to as common sense, we will be able to engage Americans to reach into their own communities, and not wait for a bureaucracy to solve problems where they are more adept and capable of having an impact.

On a side note, Jennie Garth's daughter told Foxworthy that she gets help from her father for homework. Go figure. Garth lost on the $100,000 question asking her what the modern name of Mozart's country of birth.

And on a micro note, if you would ever wonder why I chose the man I did as my partner, it is because he answered that Mozart was born in Salzburg. He would also be able to play some Mozart on the piano, but he is a bit busy installing new kitchen cabinets and rewiring the house right now. He could also tell you that there is something fundamentally wrong with a society that expects people to work to provide for their families and contribute to their communities, but not provide reasonable child care, education and access to affordable health care to those who stand to lose the most without it. I am not sure, however, that he would have won $75,000 against some kid if asked what city the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio Rivers met. I am sure, however, that I don't care. He is definitely smarter than a fifth grader.

As every day passes here, I am finding it more and more difficult to tune out the chorus from Trent Reznor and David Bowie's 1997 single, "I'm Afraid of Americans."

Late Easter card for you

2009-04-28T23:21:00.003-06:00

Nothing says "Happy Western Christian Holiday" like hard boiled eggs, imported from Kuwait, inscribed with Arabic characters, served to you by Nepalese men in Iraq.

Happy very belated Easter everyone. I was bumming hard about not getting any jelly beans, but the good folks at the Hershey company sent us all Easter Boxes, with Jolly Rancher Jelly Beans (which are amazingly delish by the way), large chocolate bunnies, Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs, and cute little Kisses dressed up in cammo.

And I just realized why I gained a bit of the 14 lbs I lost here back. Because you know I sat in bed the day after easter, reading a book and eating 4,000 calories of delishisness, throwing the wrappers at the television because all it seems to play these days is Faux News.

Why didn't I think of that?

2009-04-18T07:28:00.000-06:00

Today I was doing my usual web surfing to pass the day off, when I came across this ad on The Best of Craigslist.

For all of you who cannot be bothered to click on the link, I will tell you what this dude posted that is brilliant.

I want some orange juice

Date: 2009-01-07, 10:08PM EST

I'll give you $2 + cost if you'll deliver me some orange juice with receipt. I'm too lazy to get it myself. I live right by University Drive in Elon. Thank you.

Location: Elon, NC
Compensation: $2
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!

See, now that is genius. How many times has my ass been so hungover that I wished I lived in a large metropolis where I could have a Training Table chef salad and a palate of XXX Vitamin Water delivered to my house?

People, expect this from me upon my return. Except instead of Craigslist postings, you are all going to get mass emailed, Twittered, Facebooked and texted pleas for grilled brie and spinach sandwiches, playboy sushi rolls, and yes, Odwalla orange juice.

Be excited. I'm coming home within the month.

Love Letters from a Gearhead

2009-04-17T06:55:00.003-06:00

This morning I awoke to the following email from my dear Paul.

from Paul Story
to Julianne Hancock
date Fri, Apr 17, 2009 at 4:14 AM
subject I love you

I mean you. The bike is third, after the truck and before my skis. You are still first.

You know, when I fell in love with Paul last year, he warned me that skiing would always come first (this was before the truck purchase). I guess it comes with the territory of an adrenaline junkie. So now, I wonder how the Big Troubles feel about being unceremoniously demoted to fourth. From first to fourth in less than a year, and fourth to a girl.

With the arrival of Paul's third love, the Yeti 575, a tasteful and efficiently run ménage à trois is now an awkward and distasteful orgy. I have expressed my disappointment with Paul bringing a new love home. Everyone knows what happened to Barb, the first wife, when Bill brought home Margie, the spry new fun barely legal third wife.

Nonetheless, only a gearhead-poet could express his affection so, um, uniquely.

And no, Paul, we are not keeping the bike in the bedroom.

Dear Desert Edge Brewery

2009-04-07T11:22:00.005-06:00

One of the many things I miss about home is walking across the street from Paul's to The Desert Edge for a crab cake salad and pitcher or three of half priced beer in the afternoon. So when I walked into the DFAC the other day and saw crab cakes, I was delighted.

Don't worry, Desert Edge. I am not sure if it was the flash frozen lettuce that wasn't completely thawed yet, the Krab part of the crab cakes, the lack of beer, the lack of good company, or the lack of texture or flavor whatsoever, but KBR DFACs will not put you out of business anytime soon. I will personally see to it.

V/R,

Julianne Hancock, SSGT USAF

You're on, Sego Lily.

2009-04-05T12:12:00.007-06:00

So tonight I was putting myself to bed in Baghdad. I am starting to think about coming home, about what needs to be done before I get home (Paul sent me demolition pictures the other day - a living room with no walls - I had a heart attack), what needs to be done when I get home for our trip, what needs to be done before he leaves for the fire season. Aside from stuff like indoor plumbing and electricity better than Sadr City's, I am not worried about him taking care of the house stuff. On my list before our trip are things like a haircut, a 48 hour nap in a bed larger than my big-kid bed from when I was 5 years old, and a shower in my bare feet.

Ahhh, my bare feet. You see, I haven't seen them much in the past months because they have been hiding in combat boots.

When they aren't in combat boots, they are in running shoes because, well, I run, or they are in Crocs, because I am certainly not catching whatever disease that Army chick in the latrine has from her nasty ass feet.

As it turns out, when you hide your feet in sweaty issued boots and running shoes, you develop your own disease because the other diseases are too scared to come hang out. (I know, lovely, huh.) So I called Paul the other night and reminded him of something he said to me when we first got together: "I don't really care how your feet look, just as long as they look better than mine." I wanted to know if he meant that. Paul spends 18 hours a day on wildfires in the summer in industrialized hooker boots. I spend 14 hours a day in 100 degree heat in, well, industrialized hooker boots. I lost a toenail the other day.

I have been thinking about this, however, and i have decided that I am not entirely sure I can get a pedicure when I return. First, I don't want to gross out the pedicure people. I have had pretty well pedicured toes for years, and now they are all sorts of out of control. I am sure the pedicure people have seen everything, but baby, they haven't seen anything yet until they look at these puppies. Plus, it is kind of embarrassing (which is why I am blogging it on the world wide intertubes, right?) We are also going on a backpacking trip when I get home. It may defeat the purpose.

I have been putting it all out of my mind, until I read a friend's blog tonight. She posted her entry to Sego Lily Spa's Blogger of the Year contest, answering the question of why she should be the Sego Lily Blogger. I decided to wander over to their website and check it out.

I toyed with the idea of entering the contest. I mean, obviously, I should have this thing bagged. I used to be a bit girlie, I write a lot and I don't have a job. And i think enough of myself that I think everyone should take my advice. Oh, and I have a background in marketing. Hell, for a while, my nickname was "Market the Shit Out Of" because I could sell sand to Iraqis (ha ha).

I started reading the entries. First, I was very surprised by how many bloggers they are out there from the UT. There were a lot of entries publicly posted, but none that were amazing in my humble opinion. There was your stay at home mom claim, (actually, that is the majority of the entries out there, like this one), your typical 'I drive a horse and carriage so pick me' entry, the faux-ad entry, and numerous 'I really really like spas' entry.

I thought about submitting something and then I started to think about the nature of corporate blogging. Blogging is part of the new(-sih) social media age; its appeal, much like Twitter and Facebook and all of the rest of it is that you get a raw portal. Marketing professionals have been scrambling for a few years to discover ways to to garner the audience racing away from the standard "drink this beer and you will look like these skinny coeds playing volleyball in the mountains - in bikinis." We are a cynical group, Americans. At least, we like to think we are. Now, on top of shirking from what is considered 'mainstream,' we also run from corporate attempts to persuade us in the Pepsi-Coke Challenge, or get us to Just Do It in any format. Corporations and organizations that dabble in viral marketing posing as consumers get busted and exposed. It is really in to hate disingenuous right now. Look at Amy Winehouse. She is making a whole career of it.

In this girl's humble opinion, Sego Lily is best choosing someone who won't serve as an arm to their marketing department. Consumers will turn off. Exposure to new products and services, consistent brand awareness to an audience who is interested in fresh new content ("my massage was soooo nice" in June, 'my facial was soooo nice', in July is neither fresh nor new), a platform for the organization to rapidly respond to customer feedback, and a unique way to have a dynamic, interactive conversation with their marketplace should be factors considered and results expected if Sego Lily wants to make this an effective project.

Why should I be the Sego Lily blogger? I am honest, for one. I have said enough in 184 posts over two years to destroy a political career I once thought I wanted. Paul probably loves the fact that much of our relationship is documented on the intertubes. I have a background in marketing and PR, have studied viral marketing, and am interested in the local scene. I am not the Utah anomaly. I believe in two-sided conversations with organizations and their client base. How do you know what products and services to offer if you don't talk to them in a non-threatening environment regularly? Oh, and I do love spas. I know a decent amount about them. I also got really OCD about the whole staph infection scare a few years back and read a lot about spa sanitation. You have to judge the places that pamper you on all sorts of levels, people.

Why will I not be chosen as the Sego Lily blogger? Well, I wrote the above post thinking I could twist it into an entry, about how I deserve 24 free spa treatments, but instead it became a rant about how they should be approaching the project. Plus, I just looked at my arm. This bruise is for real:

If Sego Lily is providing their blogger 24 free trips to their spas, they aren't trying to go bankrupt getting me back in one piece. Although if they want to try, they are more than welcome to contact me and we can get together. It could be like a science experiment. I will document it. On my blog.

I feel bad for the spa who gets me when I get home though Paul, come rub my bunyons! Yeah, I have a feeling that won't fly.

Shitty concrete makes whimsical art

2009-04-05T07:34:00.001-06:00

The other night we were sitting in a bunker for an hour, with some guys from Civil Engineering out of Alabama. Turns out that if you are stuck in a bunker for an hour in the middle of the night, the best people to be stuck in tight quarters with are southern boys. They can tell some stories.

I digress. They were pointing out how shitty the concrete is here. If you sit in a bunker long enough, you can start to pick fist size rocks out of the bunker that is supposed to save your life from rockets and mortars. To prove their point, occasionally, I use a stick to toothpick Carolina barriers apart. (I leave the bunkers alone. I need some sense of false security.)

The other day I was on post with nothing to look at but a sea of T walls for 10 hours. For all you non military folk, T walls, or Texas walls, are 20 foot high concrete walls that surround every rock, vehicle, helio pad, compound, tent and trailer in this country.

Because the concrete was inconsistent, about 6 hours into my shift, I noticed that I could see images in the walls. No, I did not see the Virgin Mary. As sat baking in the sun, I searched for images, feeling like I was six years old again, laying on my back in the yard and staring at the clouds, seeing boats and dragons and angels in the sky.

I am happy to report that either my imagination was going wild, my eyes were going blurry or my brain was going numb, but I started seeing things. I snapped a pic of this bear that I made out on a T wall. He is puckering his lips and wearing a beaver pelt.

Which brings me to another childhood memory. My mother walking around the house singing "I am slowly going crazy..."

Dear Paul*,

2009-04-05T07:31:00.002-06:00

*No Iraqi monuments were harmed in the taking of this photo. I borrowed some asshole's previously tagged rock, as exhibited by the incorrect year on said graffiti.

Shame on me

2009-04-02T23:08:00.002-06:00

I know, I have disappeared from the world wide intertubes. I have been tired, working long days, at the gym, and generally uninspired. However, my countdown clock is ticking, dear readers, so I have a backlog of thoughts and hopefully I will start posting again this afternoon.

In the meantime, do this.

Question about Muslims from Baghdad

2009-03-16T01:37:00.004-06:00

So I am here in the cradle of civilization and on Sundays, you can get on a little tour bus and a nice officer will drive you around and open Saddam's palaces that are on the VBC. (The palaces used to be open, however, apparently because many military service members just couldn't resist the immature and barbaric acts of looting and defacing historic and cultural landmarks, they are closed.)

Of course, as with any good tour, the officer-cum-tour guide provides stories about the buildings, as well as random pieces of information about the area as you drive around.

There are several things that I have heard about what she says on this bus tour that makes me raise my eyebrows. There are many things that people repeat, and like a game of telephone, they become bloated stories that added up, provides anyone with a great justification for military actions here. However, as any intelligent person should do, I remind everyone of the importance of rhetorical criticism: who is telling you this information and why are they telling it?

Some of this information is easily dispelled with use of The Google. For example, I was talking to an airman who told me that these "fucking crazy Arabs" (referring to Muslims) were going to have another one of their "crazy holidays." (There are a lot of people who complain here that the "damn Iraqis" are lazy because they take "so many days" off. Fridays are down days to practice Jumu'ah. Apparently when we landed here they were supposed to change tradition to accommodate our Sunday, even though not all of Americans are Christians. Additionally, we work American bank holidays, but the Iraqis usually take their holidays as down days. The Iraqis didn't get the memo that they need to align their holidays with American ones. Because, you know, we are Americans. I digress).

So I asked her, "and which fucking crazy holiday would this be?" Someone told her that at the end of March, everyone celebrates Mohammed's birthday by running around cutting themselves and having gun fights. Which is totally true, except that Mawlid, a much discussed unofficial Muslim holiday celebrated by Muslims all over the world for the birth of the profit, is celebrated at the beginning of March (March 9 for Sunnis, March 15 for Sh'ias in 2009). Oh, and instead of the cutting and gun fights, it is carnivals and poetry.

When I went back to her with this information, she looked at me and said "yeah, well whatever it is, it is fucking nuts," and walked away.

Whatever.

Back to the bus tour. Since the day I got here, people love the story that "Arabs" (they are probably referring to Muslims again), believe that the Islamic deity, Allah, cannot see through water. So if you are driving through parts of the Victory Base Complex, you see these palaces are surrounded by beautiful man made ponds and channels of water. There is this commonly held theory that since God cannot see through water, Saddam put all evidence of his evil actions in the ground and covered it with these lakes.

When I first heard this, alarm bells rang. First, to my world religions classes memory, Islam firmly believes in the omnipotence of their deity. From the Qur'an (10:61):

In whatever business thou mayest be, and whatever portion thou mayest be reciting from the Qur'an,- and whatever deed ye (mankind) may be doing,- We are witnesses thereof when ye are deeply engrossed therein. Nor is hidden from thy Lord (so much as) the weight of an atom on the earth or in heaven. And not the least and not the greatest of these things but are recorded in a clear record.

. Second, why does there have to be a reason for the manmade lakes that is anything more than what we do in the states? Want to live on the lake in Florida? North Carolina? They will make you one! Hell, even in the land of 10,000 lakes (Minnesota) there are man made lakes. Why couldn't it have been that Saddam saw a PGA tour on NBC and wanted to look out his window and see a man made lake too?

Before I tell people to stop believing everything they hear, I want to know if this is actually true. I have some pretty decent Google skillz, however, it is turning up nothing - not even the rumor, which surprises me, because if 100,000 troops are told this every year for six years, someone would have written it somewhere, right?

So here is what I need from you resourceful, intelligent, connected people at home. Find out if Muslims really believe that God in Islam cannot see below water. Send this post around, call your Muslim friends or scholars. And let me know.

Everyone knows the propaganda machine is alive and well here. However, spreading baseless lies to get ooohs and ahhs out of troops who probably are as confused as I am about the mess that is Iraq is inconsiderate to a nation we are occupying and the 21 percent of the world who call themselves Muslims.

It is said that the first casualty of war is the truth. It has been 2145 days since W declared the war was over. I would like some truth now, please.

Music heals the soul.

2009-03-10T04:59:00.000-06:00

The other morning, my roommate and I were sitting in a truck, flipping through my iPod, waiting for a call. The dudes in the truck next to us were warming up for the day. As the Turks from 77 Construction walked into the search pit, these kind gentlemen serenaded them with a beautiful song from Tenacious D, "Fuck Her Gently."

I guess this is a day that we are grateful for the language barrier. Oh well, Dean's Rule Number 1: Entertainment is where you find it, right Dean? Dean?

All warm and fuzzy.

2009-03-08T18:10:00.001-06:00

Paul: Why don't you send me any photos of you where I can see you smiling at me?
J: I am smiling on the inside, I promise.

I have decided why the stereotypical Middle Eastern image exists. People don't wear balaclavas for style. They wear them because when a slight breeze is kicking up, the silty sand that is covering everything outside ends up inside your mouth and makes your teeth all muddy. And don't think I am joking. True story.

Dear Miss Prudence

2009-03-07T07:38:00.002-07:00

A recent blog post by Paulie reminded me of something that happened a few nights ago. You see, when you are deployed, the bathrooms are called Cadillacs, and they are not bathrooms, they are single wide trailers with itty bitty showers and potable (poh-tuh-buhl for all of the illiterate folks out there) water piped in with toilets that rarely flush. Cadillacs are usually parked ten miles away from wherever I am living, and here, that equates to entirely too far away when I wake up in the middle of the night and have to pee.

Luckily, the military has been kind enough to put a porta john two trailers down from my trailer, so when I wake up with a cramp from having to pee like a racehorse, I can just throw on Crocs (courtesy of Anna) and run for relief, without getting busted for not being within uniform regs (I don't sleep with a slicked back bun and I certainly don't tuck my shirt in).

So back to the other night. I usually stop drinking liquids around 1600 so my bladder is empty and I can enjoy a good night's sleep (until the alarm screams how much it hates me a 0330). At 0200, nature called, lima charlie. I got into a porta john and performed what I fondly refer to as the Iraqi squat (thanks to my mother, I cannot sit on a toilet seat, and sorry to my friends, this is their homes included, for fear of picking up the diseases of the public of which still remain undefined by said mother). I was wiping (sorry, graphic, but this is an important detail) when the door to the porta john swung wide open and some butch (I know, that is so redneck of me, but there is no better description) Army chick is standing there, Fran haircut in tact. I scream, my hand is still in an unmentionable place, and she stands there going "uhhhhhh" and just stares. I slam the door closed and quick screaming.

Apparently I have the scream of a horror movie star, because there were no less than five gentlemen who rushed to my aid. The Army chick must have scuffled off, because when I heard the voices outside wondering what was amiss, I pulled up my pants, collected myself and walked out.

"Are you alright, ma'am?"

"Yes sir, I am fine, I must have forgotten to latch the door, I was half asleep, she just startled me."

"On purpose?"

I paused, considering the situation. Nope, too much paperwork if I joke that it was probably not a mistake. "No, sir." And I walked off. As I turned into my trailer row, one of the gentlemen yelled to me.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes sir?"

"You need to be in uniform if you are out of your room."

I turned and stared hard at him - he was a Captain and I was a half asleep Staff Sergeant who just had the bejeezus scared out of me with my hands down my pants. I turned and walked back to my room.

A few days later, I was talking to a few guys in the Army, and she walked up. I am not sure if she recognized me. I looked at her, she looked at me, and I thought, what do you say to someone who saw your cooter when they didn't mean to and you didn't want them to?

I decided not to find out and excused myself from the conversation, confused and overexposed.

Sather AB Trailer Trash

2009-03-06T07:18:00.004-07:00

I will come home from a month in Guam, four months in Iraq, a week in Al Udeid, and all my mother wants to know is stuff about what it was like. Not who I met, not what I saw or how I feel about it, just about things like the bathrooms, what time I go to bed, and how the chow halls operate.

Knowing this, when I arrived and had set my room up, I took a quick video tour of my trailer. I just now figured out how to compress videos on iMovie, so I have uploaded this for your viewing enjoyment. Be aware, this video is from my second day here, so I had no roommate and not a bunch of shit laying around, but I will allow you to believe that I live that neat all of the time.

Anyway, here is your tour.

The front door to bravo-one-charlie. Do you like the use of ironic decor? I thought you would.

Video tour. (Click on the video to blow it up. I would hate for you to strain your eyes and get the permanent crease I have between my brows. It isn't very pretty.)

Oh, and yes, that is NPR Morning Edition playing in the background. Back in the day, my internet was fast enough that I could stream radio. Notsomuch anymore. And I know, the walls are bright and bare, and the florescent lighting doesn't help. Paulie reminds me that every day that i call him on the web cam. Sorry, I haven't been up for decorating lately.

And now I present to you: the most liberal bookshelf in all of Iraq. The People's History of the United States isn't on the shelf because i am reading it right now.

That is all there is to that. I feel like I am supposed to end this with something like "get the hell out of my house, now I am gonna go drink some Cristal" just like some has been would say on MTV's Cribs, but I've got nothing. I don't even feel like smacking a hoe.

ROD: Gone but not forgotten.

2009-03-04T03:25:00.006-07:00

Today was bittersweet. I said goodbye to two good people. I never really thought they would leave for how much our leadership was screwing up, but the lucky bastards should be drinking a beer somewhere that is not here in six hours.

Ainsworth, you saved Paul and I from the next ten years of fighting. Thanks for telling me to stop being such an asshole, and reminding me that I was nothing more than a tall crazy blond Polish chick. Just think: this time next year, you will be working for me and we will be back, eating lemon cake and driving in circles, except this time in civilian clothes with a flask and three times the money, and instead of the leadership we will be pissed off about, we will be cursing the effing FPs and the damn military. Oh, and you will still be bitching about Obama.

Leahy, son, stay out of trouble. They say it is a small Air Force world, and I never believed it until in 2006, when I ran into a kid at the bar in the beer bra at Al Udeid, who I threw under the bus just for the fun of it at Sheppard AB in 2001. I will be watching out for you. Stay away from the dirty girls who work in the armories, the ones who lure you with the promise of free candy. And tuck $14.99 in your wallet, because when I do see you again, I will be a chief in the Guard, you will be an active duty Staff, and there will be hell to pay if you don't have my effing money. I will stick you out on tents to trailers all day and not give you one code six, you hear me?

On the bright side, their departure means I am over the hump. 68 days (ish). I was waiting at the pax terminal to say goodbye and ran into the guy who will be able to look up my RDD date so I can count my 125 and stand at the pax terminal when my replacement gets here, waving a handkerchief as they do a dazed walk off their plane and into their own personal hell. I think I am going to hold off emailing him until a really really bad day. They had chocolate shakes at the chow hall today, so today is not that day.

Food, glorious food.

2009-02-24T03:24:00.005-07:00

Every meal, I perform my typical mealtime activity, which I have fondly dubbed "grazing." I go to the menu and scan what reheated delights they have for the meal. There will be a short order line with fried goodness, usually whatever was for dinner the night before, breaded and fried and called "x meat delight." There will be a main line, which will include various mystery meats, rice, overcooked veggies of some variety, and usually some more fried meat. They have a pretty decent salad bar (well, for institutionalized food, it is pretty decent), a carving station that will feature a different item daily: a pork roast, roasted turkey, sometimes they will have a few guys mixing chicken caesar salads. Then they have a sandwich bar, a stir fry bar (where you throw a bunch of stuff in a bowl and hand it to the dude who doesn't seem to understand what "just a little bit" means, and proceeds to make soy and teriyaki sauce soup out of everything), and a bar, that will have tacos or pasta or wings. They have drinks galore - sodas, gatorade, Rip It (energy drinks), juice boxes, juices on fountain drinks, coffee, iced coffee, iced tea, and milk in little boxes.

Don't be fooled. This sounds like a Chuck O Rama feast daily, and I know that there are some folks who love the food here. They have never eaten better. I, however, have a few issues. First, I am battling a wicked amount of depression here, so I am hyper aware of what I am eating. I have a tendency to go to sugar for comfort, which makes me feel like more shit. Second, I will not eat food that has been frozen longer than my sister has been alive. Since I cannot confirm how old exactly some of this stuff is, I see the boxes that go in the back of the chow hall, especially on surf and turf night, which is Friday. Somehow, crab legs and precooked, flash frozen beef that comes in large boxes marked "FOR INSTITUTIONALIZED AND MILITARY CONSUMPTION ONLY" tells me I should stay away. I heard about the LSD experiments in the 60s on the troops. Except I am not that lucky, they won't be testing fun drugs on me.

So, I have mastered the art of grazing. For breakfast, I head to the main line, get two pieces of turkey bacon, go to the pastry bar, get a croissant and cream cheese, grab a banana from the desert bar (for some reason, they keep bananas at the desert bar for banana splits, but never on the fruit line), then get a glass full of ice and make my own iced coffee - their premade stuff is half sugar and cream. I have a shot of orange juice and tada! I have avoided powdered eggs for another day. At lunch and dinner, I go straight to the salad bar, and then stop by the caesar salad bar for chicken (once again, "little bit" doesn't translate very well here, but we try), or to the main line for a piece of salmon-flavored substance, or salmon-looking baked chicken.

If I have a bad day, it is all over. The other day, I walked in the chow hall, went straight to the short order, demanded a plate full of french fries. The Indian guys behind the line looked at each other, confused. They know the blond who runs around the chow hall concocting semi-appetizing meals. After they loaded my plate, I went straight to the desert line, where the Japanese guy who is obviously hiding from some serious shit he got into with the mafia and so is hiding in Iraq working for $400 a month for an Indian company, gave me a double take when I demanded four scoops of vanilla ice cream. I made root beer floats.

But don't think that I am a saint for eating like I do. The desert bar here is heaven. In fact, every deployment I have been on has an amazing desert bar. I am not sure what makes it the best - the 800 calorie/piece cheese cake, the perfectly melted Ben and Jerry's served to you so that your knuckles don't get sticky when scraping to the bottom, the cakes, cookies, cobblers...I don't know why the military can't do food like they do desert. They have Dumsticks from Kuwait in a freezer case and sometimes, if you get to dinner early enough, you will find toffee ice cream bars that don't have any freezer burns.

Yours truly never gets to dinner or lunch on time, especially on my days off. I wander in around 12:30 for lunch on my days off, get my lunch to go. I hate the Army staring me down like a piece of meat, I hate seeing people I work with and having to make small talk with them. But the downside to not getting to the meals early is that the desert is picked over.

Unless the Japanese guy at the desert bar likes you. He has been stashing them for me. It is the best thing that has happened here to me.

I ate my lunch in my room, eating my ice cream bar, watching The Countdown with Keith Olbermann (they sneak it in right before the Bill Oreilly and the Faux News 8 hour afternoon/evening block). It is like I am home. Except I am not.

Obama is the Anti-Christ and other news from Iraq

2009-02-11T07:18:00.003-07:00

I haven't blogged much lately because I walk around most days with my jaw on the floor, shocked at what I see and hear. I am going to find words later to tell you about the Indian TCN who almost bled out on me the other day and how I was wrong to get American medical treatment for him, or how the Nepalese are pouring 96 percent sulfuric acid on portable toilets here with no safety equipment. Today I would like to talk to you about something someone told me.

First and foremost, I have gotten a nickname here: The Hippie. I eat bananas and pass out vitamins for everyone's desert sniffles, I yell at people to stop idling their vehicles and I drink out of a Nalgene bottle. I believe in third country national's civil liberties and their dignity. To people from Texas, that makes me a hippie. I figure, hey, with my last name, they could do a lot worse on the nickname, so Hippie it is.

So the other day some people were talking about how the TCNs are fed worm infested rice at their camp twice a day, and someone wondered outloud "I wonder why they come here." This conversation followed one about how "people who don't shop at Walmart hate America," so I decided to step in.

My explanation of outsourced production abandoning second world countries and destroying localized economies as manufacturing has moved to cheaper third (and fourth) world countries to keep up with America's consumption and MNC's price demands has collapsed many of these individuals' economies. In other words, we fucked them over at home, and now we have them here and we are fucking them over too.

Wisely, a female decided not to tell me what she was thinking, but she shared it with her roommate, who shared it with me while we were at the Iraqi Air Force today.

This girl believes that Barack Obama is the Anti-Christ.

Let me back up here and let you all know that in order to believe there is an Anti-Christ, you have to believe that there is a Christ and he is here to save you and only you. I am noticing more and more these days that organized religion clouds faith and dehumanizes people. I hear the words "anti-Christ," and think of people speaking in tongues, saving my soul one carpet bombing of an Middle Eastern country at a time.

So I get home and I google this and sure enough, there is some stupid email running around saying that "The Book of Revelations" (it is Revelation, people) declares it as such. Snopes.com demystifies this retardedness here, with the most important fact: Revelation was written before Islam was founded, so how is it gonna say "some dude who speaks real good and is about 40 years old, Muslim descent, blah blah blah is gonna ruin the world."

Then again, the people who solemnly nod in agreement about the plight of out planet also came up with the most brilliant penal reformation plan ever: open the overcrowded prisons and gas everyone inside. Well, get the guards out first and then gas them. Then you can fill them back up. I asked them if gas in prisons reminded them of any epic world dictator (Hitler). I asked them if they were aware of the injustice in our justice system, racial profiling, wrongful convictions, prisons full of weed smokers and not child molesters. They ignore The Hippie because reason gets in the way of the intense discussion of what kind of gas they would use. I left the discussion before the decision was made.

I am officially afraid of Americans.

*****PARENTAL DISCRETION ADVISED FOR THE REMAINDER OF THIS POST***
***YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, THIS COULD OFFEND YOU***
***YES, YOU***
**Fine, read it. See if I care if you are offended.***

In other news, the word on the street is that pineapple juice makes the boys' spunk taste sweet. There has been a run on pineapple juice since the rumor started going around. I had some guy wave a juice box at me the other day for the tenth time. I finally worked up the nerve or was in a bad enough mood to say what I have been thinking for weeks: "Don't you think if I wanted some damn pineapple juice, I would suck the shit out of the box and not out of your &$#*?!"

Help! Sad mac :(

2009-01-31T01:27:00.004-07:00

Dear everyone and anyone who reads my blog:

I am in Iraq with a Mac problem. Considering most people here refuse to even acknowledge our 44th President, my hopes for finding someone who knows anything about Macs is slim to none.

Perhaps you have an answer for me. Perhaps you know someone who might. Perhaps you have better Google abilities than I do (my internet connection is not great). Whatever it is, help a soldier.

Here is my problem:

If i plug the USB connecter into my Mac, my iPod will indicate it is charging, but the Mac doesn't recognize the iPod. No errors, no cute little iPod on my desktop, nothing indicates it is plugged in on iTunes. I know the USB port works because I plugged my camera connector into the same port and it uploaded some photos (see below). I rebooted twice, I closed and opened programs, I turned the iPod on and off. Everything seems to be working okay, the iPod still plays my MGMT and The Shins so I can run my 3 miles a day, but soon I will get tired of running to MGMT and The Shins, and if I cannot get new music on my iPod, I can be convinced that it is a sign that I shouldn't run anymore and then I cannot eat cake. Or I will continue to eat cake but will grow so large that I will not fit into my clothes anymore and that just wouldn't be good for anyone.

If you can solve my problem, I will be eternally grateful and will singlehandedly win the war. Well, as best as I can. Which probably isn't that great. Well, okay, I won't win the war for you. But I will be eternally grateful.

Love,

Julianne

Here is a photo of me on an m-wrap. Click on it to see the photo larger.

My kind of opera

2009-01-30T23:29:00.003-07:00

I didn't have to work today, so I got a camp chair, parked it in my "back yard" (the 10 foot space between the back of my trailer and the cement barrier), turned on Pucchini's Madame Butterfly on my iPod and opened a book.

I saw Madame Butterfly last year. If you are watching an opera, the whole thing makes sense, but when you are lost in a book and listening to with only one ear, you get thrown off when Pinkerton clearly iterates "whiskey" in a speaking voice between singing lines in Dovunque al Mondo.

I had to set my book down to remember the scene: a jackass Naval officer (Pinkerton) marrying a poor Japanese woman before his ship ports. Butterfly loves Pinkerton desperately, Pinkerton has an insatiable appetite for women of "flowers of every shore and love of beautiful women." Pinkerton has no plans to complete his arranged "999 year lease with a monthly option to renew" with Butterfly. Between beautiful Italian baritone and tenor melodies are instrumental injections of The Star Spangled Banner. An associate of his is advising Pinkerton not to screw Butterfly over, but Pinkerton, being a true military man, will hear nothing of it and opts for whiskey and a toast to America instead.

How appropriate.

I have seen Paul Bunyan. He is in Iraq and there are 30 of him.

2009-01-30T10:41:00.007-07:00

As many of you have heard, Blackwater Worldwide has been denied their operating license to do private security for diplomats in Iraq because of an incident where 17 civilians ended up dead in 2007. I am going to set aside my opinions about Blackwater, Iraq, mercenaries, war and anything else associated for this post.

Because Blackwater employees are no longer employed in Iraq, a bunch of their guys have been hanging out in my tiny corner of the Baghdad.

Normally, the transients who hang out at our base waiting for their flight out of Baghdad International are your typical overweight KBR employees, DOD contractors in disheveled DCUs, and a lot of Army personnel looking lost. Until yesterday, when Blackwater rolled into town.

Before you read this and think "dude, Julianne, you are hanging out with entirely too many dudes," I want you to know that almost every night that I have dinner with the guys I work with, I have to suffer through a game of "Would You Do Her?" where they rate every girl that walks by and then call bullshit on the other guys when they say no. They never tire of rating the same 25 females. They know better that to rate yours truly. At least to my face.

Tonight, a few of the females and I were enjoying our institutionalized food when in walks 30 human trees. I call them trees because i literally have never seen human beings this large before. I am not kidding you. Most Blackwater guys are prior Special Forces, so I knew they were all muscly, but these guys are unnaturally huge, especially compared to the 50 year old Air Force desk jockey next to him getting his fried chicken.They are like an entirely new species - closely related to the homo sapien, 10 fingers, 10 toes, opposable thumb, but when I say 7 feet tall and arms as thick as my waist, I am not joking.

The Blackwater guys walk through the chow hall, collecting massive amounts of food to inhale. They sit in groups and give smug looks to all of the male military personnel who are rolling their eyes, pissed that the Blackwater guys are there (as if there is even a competition). The women just sit there. I mean, it is really the only think you can do.

The sight of them is like the 80s diet coke break commercial, only better because they stuff 9mms in their pockets with their change. I mean, who needs a 9mm when you can kill someone with your left hand and finish your ice cream with your right?

I know a firefighter who often impersonates females calling 911 for attention. In a squeaky high pitched voice, he will say "Oh, firefighter, save me!" While Attridge and Harry were fighting over which one was theirs, I suggested they feign distress and call for a Blackwater thug to rescue her in the same tone. I am sure the Blackwater trees were accustomed to the table of females collapsing into giggles at the sheer sight of their necks, so they didn't turn around while this discussion ensued.

After the Blackwater guys finish eating their dinner (it is rumored that they had an entire Army brigade slaughtered for din din), they return back to the gym, where they lift weights pretty much all day. I go into the gym once a day and run my three miles and avoid eye contact, so I cannot confirm this, but apparently when they have finished lifting all of the weights in the gym, they start lifting Air Force personnel for an added workout.

Since I cannot walk up to one of these, um, gentlemen, and ask them if I can take their picture (Attridge pointed out to me tonight that they aren't zoo animals), I had to google image a photo of one. I wish there was a normal sized person standing next to this guy so you could see that he is abnormal. But for now, this will have to do.

The GOB Club

2009-01-28T11:16:00.000-07:00

You know what is great about the Good Old Boys Club?

Nothing.

I left the States with my pencil sharpened, thinking that if this deployment was like my last at all, I would have some great perspective to write about. Who knows, maybe someone would pay to read it someday. Maybe not. At any rate, after I settled in, I sat down to write, and out came nothing. This place is Groundhog Day, but only worse. It is Groundhog Hour.

Until recently, when I think I have rediscovered sexism. While I am preparing my thoughts on some observations I have made and a few things that have happened to me over the past few days, I would like to prepare my readers with some vocabulary.

Suffrage: from the Latin suffragium, meaning "voting tablet," suffrage is defined as the right to vote. The word has nothing to do with suffering. You will know this by looking at the respective spellings of the words. It is not 'sufferage,' it is 'suffrage.'
Misogyny: Say it with me, folks: mi-soj-uh-ney. It means a hatred or distrust of women. Funny, one of the bigger misogynists I have known used to tell me about how he saw a broadcaster mispronounce the word - miso-genny or something. Lucky for the fairer gender, misogyny is not only found in individuals. It can be institutionalized. Like in a corporation. Or in a government. Or in a military. Usually when I encounter misogynists, it is ironic. Like civil liberty attorneys who can't stand a woman with an opinion and prefer their female companions to be cake baking laundry slaves, or corporations who underpay female directors (compared to their male counterparts) to write public statements about diversity, or military units who find their squadron history rooting from the Tuskegee Airmen who ushered in the desegregation era in the Uniformed Services and yet still can't stand a female in charge of anything more than a mop.
HBIC:

Thats all I have for now, folks.

Yours truly,

Julianne Hancock
HBIC of this blog and nothing else. Thankfully. Because everyone knows a woman can't do a damn thing, and this one can't even bake a pie well.

The $6 burger. Iraq style.

2009-01-20T02:20:00.000-07:00

I was having a bad day today. This was how I fixed it. And yes, that is a strawberry shake. In Iraq. No wonder the military is having a record breaking recruiting year. Let the economy go to shits and lure them with strawberry shakes and garlic burgers. Nice plan, George. It worked.

Qatar in Photos

2009-01-15T12:52:00.005-07:00

I am not a fan of Al Udeid Air Base. Nothing against the folks of Qatar, however the base has always served a means to an end for me and that is it. It is a transitional base, where you get off of your commercial aircraft and wait for a military plane to take you to whatever part in the AOR you are headed.

There are a number of reasons I don't like Al Udeid. Many like it because you are allowed alcohol in rations. I drank a $2 Stella Artois there this time around, only after being delighted to hear that my stay in Qatar was going to last less than 24 hours. However, if I am happy to go on a deployment because of the drinks, it is not going to be a Muslim host nation. I would deploy to, oh, I don't know, Germany at the end of September. Call me crazy, but 2 beers is not exactly my idea of a crazy time. Further to my gripe, the itty bitty peninsular country does not have any indigenous vegetation. What they do have an abundance of are rocks.

Apparently, some smart Air Force personnel have found a good use for said rocks:

The base of Al Udeid is, as I have mentioned, very white. I get lost when everything looks exactly the same as what you were just looking at. I wander around this base lost and miserable. Al Udeid is like a big old Groundhog Day. They aren't fooling me with their Friday night surf and turf or Tuesday night karaoke.

One view of Al Udeid AB:

Another view. See any difference? Me neither!

I enjoyed a latte during my brief stay at Al Udeid at their little coffee shop. I needed it after being woken up by the A1C bitches in the 60 man tent I was bedded up in started fighting at 2 AM. I guess one upside to Al Udeid is that they sell the cheapest chocolate croissants on the planet. I didn't have one. I am on a diet. But they sure look delish.

At any rate, there was Qatar. I am always happier in Iraq, strangely enough. I must be a glutton for punishment.

You know who you are, part II

2009-01-13T00:54:00.003-07:00

So earlier I posted a little item commenting that a certain someone hasn't posted any blog updates in a while. And now I am noticing that a few folks are worrying that it was them I was referring to (is that correct grammar? who cares now, right? I am in the military again, that shit goes out the window). I can report that the person to whom I was referring (whoa, a whom, apparently my grammar will stay proper for a minute longer) and I have had a conversation, and he has promised to update his blog "when he damn well feels like it." Thanks, Paul. To the rest of you, thank you for updating your blogs. Qatar is a boring place without you.

So I have made it to Qatar. I cannot stand this base. I am sure it is a pleasant place, the weather is perfect, and the view is, well, white (white sand, white rocks, white buildings), however, every time I have been through here, I am either waiting to go to war or waiting to go home. It is like sitting at the Greyhound station next to the strange dude talking to himself and itching his track marks - sometimes you just want to get on with your travels but you are stuck in transit. I have taken a few photos but don't have my cord to upload the pictures of chocolate croissants I found in the coffee shop this morning, but other than the wireless internet in the beer bra, there isn't much new here since my last round in 2006.

This is my first deployment as a Staff Sergeant, which is providing me hours of entertainment. This place is chuck full of kids right out of basic training, so they are malleable and usually eager to please the super duper high ranking E5s such as myself. I have decided to begin my world takeover here. Please note that this paragraph is a total joke. Kids these days have such attitude.

I am scheduled on a flight into Bagdad tonight, so if all goes well, I should be settled in towards the end of the week. What does that mean for you? Plenty of things, such as:

An address to send me lots of goodies.
More posts, more photos, more things to read and waste your time reviewing when you should be doing something of value at work.
Pleas from me to send Paul bread and peanut butter. I think he forgot how to grocery shop.

See what you have to look forward to?

Smoochie boochie,

Julianne

Blog Fodder

2009-01-12T10:48:00.001-07:00

After blogging for almost two years, I have discovered that the part of the process that requires skill is the art of breaking apart observations to micro moments and experiences. The components that make up the big picture tells the story of the whole, they make you laugh, they make you think, they make you realize and understand.

Since I learned that my step father died while he and my mother were coming home from California on January 1, I have been handed gems and morsels of blog fodder that are sad, interesting, and just plain funny. However, as irreverent as I am known to be, I still have respect for the deceased and my mother's mourning, so many of these moments I have put away on my hard drive, where they shall remain for now.

For example, I won't blog about Paul's first meeting with my family: my mother crying in his arms moments after she arrived in Salt Lake. The conversation when your boyfriend meets your mother normally goes something like this:
"Hello, Paul, I am Julianne's mom, Mary. I am so glad to meet you, we have heard so many wonderful things."
"Thank you for having me, Mary. All good things, I am sure." (living room laugh track)

Instead, the conversation went a little like this:
[Sobbing] "Oh my God he was watching Snow Dogs and laughing and then he went to sleep and then he gasped but I thought it was his sleep apnea, what am I going to do?"
[Insert awkward silence here]

You just can't write about that kind of stuff. For the week following Steven's death, my deployment was delayed so I could assist a mother who I hadn't spoken with for eight months (and sporadically before that) plan a funeral for a man who I attribute to much of my mother's and my disagreement. The second after I learned of Steven's death, all differences were put aside, and I stood by my mother, helping her "make arrangements," as they say.

I hired the mortuary, made arrangements with her church, and guided my mother to decide on a cremation and mausoleum. She chose the type of flowers and I found a quality florist who would charge us a portion of the mortuary's fees. I coordinated travel arrangements for family out of town, directed who was to be where and when, acted as my mother's agent for visitors who called and stopped by. I put together meals and even scripted talking points. My sister, true to form, didn't do much in the way of cleaning the house or helping my mother's family drive around town, but she was great about talking to everyone with an ear about the morbid details, so she was guided with talking points. My mother, who said she didn't want to talk about Steven's death or receive visitors, was scripted as well, on how to avoid discussions on life insurance policies or replicate Steven's last gasping breath. We even needed talking points to help my mother stave off Steven's 20 and 30 something daughters, who apparently didn't get the memo about Steven's financial woes and assumed that the appearances my mother maintained were a result of Steven's hard work, not my father's. They brought an empty suitcase from California. My mother filled it with his childhood photos and some cookbooks and appropriately told them that this was not a good time to be combing his closets, seeking anything in value from the man who died with nothing but a smile and the love of his life.

Regardless, I cannot blog about it. In the past week, I grew increasingly frustrated with my family who didn't seem to understand what is appropriate and inappropriate. It wouldn't be appropriate to blog about how I stepped out of a meeting with the funeral director, feeling like my mother's wishes to maintain a reverent , tasteful ceremony were under control, only to step back in a moment later to a discussion about dolphin lockets containing Steven's remains. It wouldn't be appropriate to ask the question to my readers of what exactly a "stuffy funeral" is; apparently, I have been shafted of the unstuffy funerals that I guess hare happening all over the place, with pinatas and kegs. I also cannot blog about feeding the masses, watching my mother go through the initial grieving process, seeing my grandfather face his own mortality, asking my sister to at least clean up after herself, instructing people that jeans are not appropriate funeral attire, and coming home exhausted every night to a saintly boyfriend who didn't know how to handle my spiteful, angry and grieving family and not feel robbed of his last days with his girlfriend before a deployment. I managed chaos and had some ridiculous conversations with Steven's side of the family while stepping over my mother's blind, deaf dog who has kidney and heart conditions. How many times I asked myself if anyone would notice if I had the damn dog cremated with Steven cannot be counted, but I assure you, it was enough times to send my soul to hell, I am sure.

Every night, for six days, after completing the day's funeral related tasks, whether it be funeral dress shopping or cutting the flowers out of the casket sprays so my mother could keep the flowers but in a more appealing form, or calling 12 pianists and 17 cantors to ensure the music was just right, or talking with the coernor in Nevada to find out the exact cause of death for a 56 year old man who smoked two packs a day and was at least 100 pounds overweight, Paul and I would drive home, usually in complete silence. He would sometimes play the piano while guzzling enough Laphriog to drown the day and then we would commence where we left off with our goodbye. And then the next day would begin.

But all of these things I cannot blog about. Because it would not be appropriate.

I cannot blog about seeing my mother, a woman with whom I had plenty of disagreements in the last years, sob uncontrollably and speak to a body as it laid in the casket, or collapse over an urn that was still warm from the cremation that had occurred the night before and feeling incredibly sad for her. I cannot blog about the unspoken words between Paul and I, as everyone talked about a person who had died too young, too soon, unexpectedly, as we prepared for my trip back to Iraq. I cannot blog about my frustration, about how the delay might mean I won't return home until after the beginning of Paul's fire season, making it sensible to double my tour.

On January 9, we put Steven's remains in a niche at the Mount Calvary mausoleum. As my family loaded into coaches, I turned to my mother and said goodbye. I had to finish packing for my flight the next day, and I figured that in her grief, saying goodbye to her daughter would be little noticed. As I held her while she sobbed in front of the mausoleum, I heard her sister whisper about how heart breaking the situation was.

And yet, I cannot blog about any of it. Because it just isn't appropriate.

You know who you are.

2008-12-31T12:59:00.000-07:00

I check your blog every day, dutifully. You post updates and anecdotes every few weeks, and yet I return almost daily, just in case my RSS reader missed something or my browser cached an old page.

Changing the background color of your blog does not constitute an update, nor does it take the place of a new post.

I hope we are clear.

Love,

J

My Tongue.

2008-12-31T11:36:00.001-07:00

I am kind of sick of telling people about my condition and getting that look that says, "Of course you can't eat spicy foods because you lack the top coating of your tongue. I totally believe you have some weird condition and it isn't that you are a big wimp." So this blog post is dedicated to my tongue.

I have a geographic tongue.

Yes, that is a real photo of my tongue. I betcha when Paul bought me my new toy he didn't think that I would spend my nights trying to photograph my tongue. And yes, it is a difficult feat. Try it.

Anyway, as you can see, my tongue is a bit funky. Don't worry, it is nothing to be scared of. It simply means that I do not have an even distribution of papillae on my tongue. Yes, it is painful, which is why when I order sushi, when I ask "is this roll spicy?" and someone answers "nope, it isn't that bad," I don't touch it. I don't avoid spicy foods because I am a wimp, or because I don't like spicy, it is because it plain hurts.

For example, cinnamon gum. You chew it and it is all delish to you. I chew it and I feel like soaking my tongue in a bucket of ice water for 6 hours, except that I can't, because the burning itchiness in my mouth cannot be touched because it is coated in waxy rubber hell. So when you offer me cinnamon gum, I simply say "I don't like it, but thank you," and you give me that "god, you are one of those people who goes to a seafood restaurant and orders chicken, aren't you" looks. And, depending on my mood, I either accept your silent-yet-incorrect judgement, or I offer an explanation. If I explain, you look at me like I am effing nuts, and then you demand I stick my tongue out at you so you may inspect. If I comply, others start gawking and you make "ew, gross" noises. It is just plain embarrassing for all parties involved.

Believe me, I didn't really believe that the explanation was true. My mother informed me of my diagnosis when I was young, before The Google was born. Apparently, when the doctor informed my parents of my Mexican food-free fate, my father teared up, so naturally, I decided my mother was full of it, because everyone knows my father doesn't cry. He is a beast man with zero feelings. Also, i am not one for believing my mother for much of anything. She is trademark for her wild imagination. But sure enough, it is real.

There is no known treatment. Some chew gum when the pain is bad, some take Vitamin B. I just avoid spicy foods and walnuts and cinnamon gum. Additionally, I chew half pieces of all other flavors of gum because the flavor is usually too much and it leaves the back of my tongue burning.

So please, don't give me the looks when I decline your gum. And when I ask you if the red curry is mild, don't lie to me. It isn't a relative discussion.

On behalf of the 3 percent of humans suffering from this rare condition, I also appreciate not being a party favor anymore.

And no, bartender at Poplar Street Pub, the condition does not make my makeout sessions more intense. It is my milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard, not the tongue or its hyper sensitivity.

Merry Christmas Julianne! Love, The Air Force

2008-12-30T22:22:00.005-07:00

I am kinda-sorta within a week of my departure to Iraq (yes, I still don't have a for sure date). Around this time, things start to get interesting. The military starts taking blood and poking you with all sorts of needles. Some of these needles hurt. Some make you outright sick. This is the story of the ones that make you sick.

Smallpox is blamed for well over 600 million deaths in the last 200 years, but has since been eradicated in the natural form - meaning you won't just pick up a case of The Smallpox like you get The Flu or The Cold. Which is good, because smallpox is deadly to a third of the folks who contract it, and for the folks who don't die, it is a long, painful recovery with ugly long term effects. Don't believe me? Just ask Beethoven, Mozart, Abe Lincoln or George Washington. They are survivors. Well, survivors of smallpox.

Even though the world is naturally eradicated of smallpox, doses do exist in the world, mostly held by governments, including the US of A. The United States has threatened nuclear ramifications if smallpox is used as a means of warfare on their troops (although, interestingly enough, the first documented case of smallpox warfare was in the United States, when white men delivered it via blankets to Native Americans, but who is counting?)

So, as I was briefed today, the Department of Defense is requiring all members of the Uniformed Services deploying to a location where there could be a threat of smallpox warfare receive a smallpox vaccination. This is not a pleasant MMR shot, where they prick your arm and send you on your way.

The smallpox vaccine is actually (I am not kidding you) African Green Monkey kidney cells, which begs the question, how did they figure out that the kidney cells in African Green Monkeys vaccinates humans against smallpox? Anyway, they prick your arm 15 times with a needle containing all of these kidney cells, and then you wait. After a number of unpleasant flulike symptoms, itching, and irritation for three weeks, a scar falls off and boom, no smallpox for you in the next five years. If you touch the site while it is healing, you can contaminate wherever you touch next. During the briefing, we got to see pictures of people's faces. The Captain admitted that the number one place the military sees cross contamination is actually on the penis. The penis. Not the vagina. The penis. Because girls don't go gooping in their pox wounds and then start looking for pleasure. We are just too smart for that. We would wash our hands first.

So after this briefing, we fill out some paperwork. I get special paperwork. Are you pregnant? Breastfeeding? Do you have excema? Have you ever? I mark yes (to the excema question, silly), and hand my paperwork in.

The Captain looked at my paperwork suspiciously. Everyone is trying to get out of this vaccination. I have been successful once before, and I will be damned if I spend my last week at home while my boyf took time off of work to listen to me whine and worry in bed with a flu that isn't really the flu.

In 2004, after some really unfun ugliness, my body gave into stress and I broke out into this odd rash. It was like blistery hives. I went to a doctor, a dermatologist, and to a natural healing doctor. I was in pain and the rash was all over my neck and cheeks. Nothing worked except for massive doses of steroids. I never thought I would be happy for that incident, until I discovered that skin disorders are a cause for concern in the military, and they don't like giving you smallpox vaccinations. Apparently, the combination can result in this:

The doctor's response to my story?

"You had me at six weeks of steroids." He stamped my paperwork with a "lifetime exemption," marked that I was to never receive the shot unless I was in imminent danger (what a relative term that is), and told me never to come back again.

How kind of the Air Force.

I ate a gyro from Apollo Burger to celebrate on my way home.

PS: He did make me get an anthrax shot. My arm hurts, but at least it isn't going to fall off. And no, don't send me envelopes of white unidentified powder. It is a series of five shots before it works.

Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?

2008-12-26T11:16:00.001-07:00

Maybe if we let six year olds vote, we wouldn't be in the mess we are in right now.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Yuletide, or whatever you do or don't believe, celebrate or ignore.

2008-12-25T08:08:00.005-07:00

One of the many many joys of calling a public servant yours is the funky work schedule. Paul is working Christmas Day this year, so we had to cram in as much holiday cheer into a 15-hour day as possible. For all interested, here is a rundown of the day:

0230 (yes, that is 2:30 AM): Julianne leaves Paul's house mid-pre-meal-preparation. I had set a table for 14, cleaned the house, finished wrapping gifts, stuffed stockings, made a butternut squash soup and was going to start dishes and reducing a duck stock to make a demi-glace when water started rising from both sinks. Jake brought drunk people home. I gave up and decided to go back to my home to get some sleep and shave my legs. Well, shave my legs after I work up from said sleep.

0730: Paul arrives home from work and calls and to wake Julianne as per her request. Julianne gets up, shaves legs, goes to grocery store to find raspberry vinegar, does not find raspberry vinegar but goes for the vinaigrette, figuring things will work themselves out on their own. Picks up chocolate croissants and lattes, with the vision of laying around, opening gifts and enjoying a quiet morning with Paul before guests arrive.

0840: Julianne walks into Paul's house. Paul greets her in the dining room, still in uniform, trying hard to maintain composure. He is holding a garden hose with a pressure nozzle attached. With a very forced smile, he says "I just need 10 minutes and then I will be in a good mood. Stay out of here." Julianne ignores his instruction, walks into the kitchen and is taken back by the smell of really really really dirty water. Heart sinks. Follows Paul downstairs and is almost knocked out by the smell or rotting water. Buckets full of dirty water with food particles (and I am talking gallons of water) are strategically placed for Paul's troubleshooting, which comprises of shooting water down pipe sections to find the clog. He has it isolated to a 5 foot section when he gives up, takes out a saw, and starts cutting pipes. Julianne wonders: won't I need those pipes to be not sawed wo I can cook for the masses today? but wisely doesn't ask.

1015: Paul finds the snake in Jeremy's basement and is snaking through the pipes in Jeff's room. Every time he says "there it is," Julianne shoots water down the pipe, and chunks of god-knows-how-old food and dirty water comes splashing into a 10 gallon tub. Paul is gagging. Julianne is panicking about the smell.

1022: Paul, thinking there is something else in the pipes, snakes it one more time. An explosion of mango guts confirms his suspicions.

1040: Paul runs to Ace Hardware, and reassembles the plumbing, thereby reassembling Christmas. After two months of pestering, he declares (finally) that he "really needs to open a fucking gift right now."

1130: Kitchen, basement, Jeff's room, Paul, Izzy and Joker are all clean and gift opening has commenced. Julianne receives her favorite Christian Dior lipgloss in her stocking. Paul now knows that Julianne spends $30 on lipgloss. This cannot be a good thing. But man, it is nice lipgloss.

1131: Paul gets a flannel shirt from Opa. Forget opening anything else. Christmas can end of a high note.

1132: Julianne receives the jewelry box she has been asking for for over five years. Funny, for a guy who never listens...

1132.5: Paul is finally convinced to open his "big gift" from Julianne. He shakes it and then peels a tiny bit of paper back to confirm his suspicions. I know, I suck. he knew what he was getting this whole time. Too bad I couldn't get the size right.

1135: Along the lines that I suck: Paul opens a portable Craftsman toolbox, and I blurt out "you got the roller cart for Valentines Day too, but you need to go get it because i don't have a truck." Nice work, J.

Finally the presents are opened. (Like my tree? My boyfriend cut it down for me :)

1210: Julianne and Paul load misfit ski boots and a broken Jet Boil into the truck and head out. While others are doing their last minute gift shopping, we are already doing our exchanges and returns.

1300: Julianne and Paul have waited more than five minutes at the Merchandise Pickup area at Sears. A manager brings Paul a coupon as a measure of goodwill. Her number and name are on the back. Julianne takes the coupon and tries to match the number with the Sears store phone number. Lisa gave Paul her home phone number. Julianne threatens to kill said manager while she is out of earshot. The nerve of some people. It's Christmas, can you wait to try to steal my lumberjack until after Jeebus' birthday?

1310: With new toolboxes loaded in truck bed, Paul does doughnuts in Sears parking lot, then proceeds to drive eastbound on 600 South, yelling at vehicles in other lanes about how jealous they are of his toolboxes and awesome truck. Julianne reminds Paul about his awesome girlfriend. Paul responds, "yeah, the truck holds her too."

1330-1430: Very serious toolbox assembly and scotch drinking ensues. (This photo was taken courtesy of my much needed Christmas gift: a blue PowerShot. With an LCD viewer that actually works all of the time, not just when you shake it.)

Paul and his new four story tool box, drinking Bowmore. (Fourth story was removed so the toolbox could wear Paul's new hat.)

Izzy, unimpressed by Paul's new toy.

1500: People start arriving.

1530: More people.

1600: Most people.

1620: Julianne realizes that she promised dinner at 1700 for these people. Put down the wine glass, Julianne, head to the kitchen.

1715: Marco, head cold and all, armed with brandy and egg nog, saves the Christmas Duck.

1800: Right on time, an hour later than promised, everyone eats. Paul made creamed spinach, his amazing mashed potatoes, and a roast, accompanied by duck with raspberries, green beans, and butternut squash soup. Desserts included Jakes's German chocolate pie, Jeff's pumpkin pie, and Saphu's pumpkin cake. Oh, and somebody's regifted cordial cherry chocolates. Yum.

1900: Paul plays the piano for everyone. Julianne is kicked out of the kitchen. Things get a little blurry from here.

2000: Paul tells the joke about the guys at the feelings party joke in his Brooklyn accent. Chess pieces come out. Billy beats Paul, Jake beats Billy.

2100-ish: Paul calls his father and demands he opens the gift we sent him. Richard complies, and finds a 16-year Lagavulin with some of its contents missing. Paul explains to Richard that it looked so delicious, we knew he wanted to share, so we had a nip before mailing it to Vermont. He didn't mind.

2110-ish: Paul drunk dials his mother, then gets a piggy back ride from Billy. I am not sure on the exact order of operations here, but both happened in the same timeframe-ish.

2115-ish: Julianne declares 2008 the best Christmas ever. Seeing as how most of her Christmas birds were always served with a side of contempt and a dollop of Catholic-you-are-horrible-children-who-have-ruined-my-life-guilt, the competition isn't much, but even if holidays past were Hallmark cards, you still can't beat the warm fuzzies from this year.

2130: The last guests leave, Paul heads to the bed, Julianne and Jake stay up to gossip and cover leftover food.

0600 25 December: Paul wakes up and discovers we ran out of coffee beans. Julianne wakes up and finds Paul wandering around his room in his uniform pants, a jacket and no shirt.

0748: After Googling abounds, Julianne finds a Starbucks that is serving lattes until 2:00 PM. Paul refuses an offer for a coffee delivery at the station. Julianne never was known for her obedience.

0820: Izzy wakes up and scours the house for remnants of duck, roast, cheese, green beans, pumpkin cake or anything else that will satiate her holiday hunger. Julianne finds Izzy's pile of wine corks, collected in her scavenger hunt. Julianne decides that 16 wine corks on the floor alone explains Paul's holiday hangover, and then wonders what time it is appropriate to start drinking.

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.

Quote of the Day

2008-12-22T16:23:00.002-07:00

I'm a man. I cut my wrapping paper and my nails in the same way: with a Leatherman.

As stated by Paul, in response to my comment that his wrapping skills aren't 'pathetic' as he says, they are unique and exhibit his character.

The best thing about being an adult and agnostic: Christmas Edition

2008-12-21T15:10:00.001-07:00

I like being an adult. I forget sometimes, and I follow senseless rules that are set by society or the ruling class...or my mother. Like eating over the sink. Or not wearing clothes I wore outside when I am laying on my bed. Or opening the card before the gift - even if nobody is looking.

I like being agnostic, too. Its better than being a Cafeteria Catholic. Not only can I pick and choose which Christian holidays I participate in, it also gives me the option that I do not have to play by the Christian rules of said holidays.

For example, my Christmas this year started on Saturday, when I simply couldn't wait anymore and I demanded that Paul open some of his gifts. He finally gave up the fight and now is the owner the F Word Magnetic Poetry Kit, because there aren't nearly enough obscenities in this house, Roy Blunt Jr's newest book, Alphabet Juice, because my prolific poet loves words and laughing much like the ultimate wordsmith, and The Savvy Convert's Guide to Choosing a Religion, because you never know when a membership to Shiloh Baptist Church could be a necessary qualification for employment. (Yes, I ruled out any and all churches that find their doctrine's roots in hot dogs, sex or drugs.)

Today we got a package from Paul's mom with Christmas gifts. Apparently after Paul got to have his fun with his holiday gift preview, he turned all Scrooge on me. He even confiscated the card she included in the package, sealing the envelope and telling me that I have to wait two more days.

Allow me to take this opportunity to remind everyone that most likely, Jesus of Nazareth was born in March in the Roman Calendar. Celebrating Winter Solstice? Try December 21. Hanukkah began at sundown on the same day. Boxing Day? December 26.

December 25 is an arbitrary, economically convenient date that everyone has settled on with no argument.

I want my gifts. NOW.

Too bad Paul the Grinch is more stubborn than I am persistent.

My sentiments exactly.

2008-12-10T23:56:00.002-07:00

Christmas Survey

2008-12-10T00:23:00.004-07:00

For the most part, I don't read surveys. If I want to know something about my friends, I usually just ask them. In fact not too long ago, I completed a survey myself and nobody seemed to care a whole bunch. But, I found this on my friend Julie's blog, and I am looking for just about anything to do except write a paper or any of the other 900 things on my to do list, so I bring to you The Survey, Christmas Edition

As always, I reserve the right to not answer questions that bore me or that I do not feel like answering, so you can just deal with that.

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags?
I wrap gifts. Why? Because I am the queen of hating surprises. Even though I don't want to know, I will search the house looking for unwrapped gifts, and I have been known to unwrap them before Christmas (yes, I wrap them back up). I have been also known to give gifts early or suggest opening one a day for 10 days before the holiday. You know, just to spread the holiday joy or something. I even asked the boyf to open his birthday gifts early. I drop major hints about what I got people. I know, I suck. So sue me.

2.Real tree or Artificial?
2008 is a breakthrough year for Julianne. It is the first year in my life (all 27 years!) that I didn't put up the mother's artificial tree. There is a real tree standing in (soon to be) our living room, brought to you by your fave lumberjack.

3.When do you put up the tree?
Whenever it happens.

4.When do you take the tree down?
Ha. I didn't put one up last year because I bought a house and was moving around Xmas. The year before was a not great holiday. It may have stayed up for months after. Hey, i was busy and it was fake. Are you judging me?

5.Do you like eggnog?
Yes. With Captain. Or in my latte. With Captain.

6.Favorite gift received as a child?
Here is the first question I will choose not to answer.

7.Hardest person to buy for?
I don't buy that many gifts for people these days, so if you are getting one, I love and know you enough to either identify something you will like or tell you what you will like. And you love me enough to accept it graciously and just be happy I even thought of you.

8.Easiest person to buy for?
Me.

9.Do you have a nativity scene?
Nope, although I wouldn't mind being a part of one of those living ones. I will be the baby Jeebus.

10.Mail or email Christmas cards?
Only one person is getting a holiday card this year from Julianne, unless it is accompanied by a gift. Don't hold your breath. See #7 above, and remember, I don't have a job.

11.Worst Christmas gift you ever received?
2005 was just a shitty year all around, okay?

12.Favorite Christmas Movie?
The Smartest Guys in the Room. What, not wintery enough?

13.When do you start shopping for Christmas?
This year, I saw my beau almost lick something when he saw it, and it wasn't edible. So when he wasn't around, I bought it. I will not say when this was because then he will know what I got him, and I am forcing myself to get to December 24 without blowing it for him. Everyone else? When the retailers announce even deeper sales because the Great Recession of 2008-2011 was officially announced during the retail shopping season, spurring sales that closed the gap between the price they want you to buy their crap and what it is really worth.

14.Have you ever recycled a Christmas present?
No. The best gifts come in glass bottles from the liquor store, and Salt Lake County doesn't recycle glass.

15.Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?
That reminds me, I need to cut out and bake cookies tomorrow before my sister comes so she can help decorate the damn things.

16.Lights on the tree?
Lights are a sore-ish topic this year. Paulie and I have different processes for lighting trees. I like to wrap each branch, he likes to swirl the lights towards the inside of the tree. We compromised. I yelled at him to finish making dinner and wrapped the bottom branches, and then I felt bad because he made me a steak, so I bought him a bottle of scotch and asked him to finish it. Which he did. And I will let him continue to do for as long as he is willing.

17.Favorite Christmas song?
Dan Bern: God Says No.

18.Travel at Christmas or stay home?
Wherever you go, there you are. It is about who you are with that matters, grasshopper. Unless you are in Iraq for Christmas. I did that in 2005 and it was no fun. The President who sent us to war without proper intelligence, gear or training showed up to feed us crappy powdered potatoes, as did Donald Rumsfeld. I stocked up on the Red Bulls they gave us at the DFAC that was marked for no political photo ops (hey I am no tool) and munched on an MRE. Yuck, yuck, yuck. I would eat mashed potatoes Barack Obama served me any day of the week, by the way. I would also like to share a turkey diner with Sarah Palin. Just for the irony of it all. Mmmmm. Bipartisanship. Sarah, was this turkey pardoned?

19.Can you name all of Santa's reindeer's?
No. Can you name the member countries of the North Atlantic Free Trade Agreement? How about the Supreme Court Justices? No? How about four of them. No? Okay, one? No, Justice Roberts does not go by the name Dopey. (PS: Incorrect placement of apostrophes are second only to misuse of semicolon in grammar infractions that drive me up the wall.)

20.Angel on tree top or star?
Star. Gift from Chris' daughter, so I cannot replace it, although the tree theme will be changing next year, and with the ornaments, the star will be sent away to ornament heaven.

21.Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning?
As soon as I am allowed! Paul works on Christmas Day this year, so yay to me, a day earlier ;)

22.Most annoying thing about this time of the year?
What, you want to give me a free pass to rant? Commercialism. Shoving your brand of religion down my throat in that icky, hypocritical manner. People who take up Jesus for Advent in the same way that people pick up flossing two weeks before their six month dentist checkup. Feigned love for family or your relationship just because it is "that time of year." If I don't like someone, I don't like em year round. Keepin it real. (On the other hand, if I love you, I love the shit out of you. I am not all piss and vinegar.)

23.Favorite ornament theme or color?
Ask me this next year. We are just getting started at this, folks. I am just pleased as peach that there is a tree up.

24.Favorite for Christmas dinner?
The one where everyone comes over and gets their holiday cheer in a glass on so they don't notice that I dried out the main course. Or the one that I make with the assistance of ones who are more talented-slash-less-stressed than I so the main course doesn't dry out again.

25.What do you want for Christmas this year?
I wish my responses to this were time stamped because readers, you would have seen Julianne be stumped by this question. I don't have a job, I am leaving for Iraq soon and I rented out my house and am temporarily moving in with three not very clean boys in some tight quarters until I leave. But I can't think of anything I want. Besides some cheesy shit like World Peace or Love or Clean Drinking Water. Actually, you know what i want? I want all of my elected officials to pass the ISI's civic literacy test.

26.Who is most likely to respond to this?
Julie I want props for this, dammit! It is like any other blog I post: random people make mention of the things I write while we are having beers a month after the fact; Anna, who is probably my most diligent reader (thanks, Anna!) will post a comment, and the rest of everyone will roll their eyes and wonder how the hell I survive without having a heart attack every day.

Just fine, thankyouverymuch.

Happy Holidays, peoples.

Misery Loves Company

2008-12-05T07:22:00.004-07:00

It is 7:22 AM I am hitting the refresh button periodically on my Google News Reader, waiting for the new jobless numbers to come out. It has been a hard week - for everyone it seems.

Not all bad things happened this week. I have five young gentlemen signing a lease today, which lifts the weight off my shoulders about paying the hefty mortgage for my pretty little house for the next six months. I was on a surprisingly short 35 minute hold with the Unemployment Claims Center, and the pleasant claims worker solved my glitch and wished me "the best of luck, sincerely" and I didn't burst into tears. I drove to Kaysville to dine with friends and didn't break out into a rash. By most accords, this week was a good week.

And yet, here I sit after a much sleepless night, wondering if the worst could be true. Analysts are predicting a 2 point jump in unemployment claims - a significant increase over a quarter. I am finding myself silently hoping for it because in some ways, some of me from before Sept 2 remains.

There isn't viable employment out there, and what is available I am not sure I can get myself to doing anymore. I have been reassured that what I am doing is acceptable in the meantime. Hanging out with myself, thinking a lot, writing a lot, getting to know me: it is apparently an exercise most participate in during their early 20s. So I am getting to it a bit late, but everyone says its ok. I was relatively successful at a young age, but I wasn't happy, so the exercise is important.

I get that asking myself who I am and what I am is a critical exercise. Not going through this now would have lead to my eventual self destruction down the road. Hey, I could even blame some of the bad choices I have made in my past on not knowing who I was. But being the rational person I am, I need to see results. Forecasts, projected results, something. And yet the Julianne Economic Center produces nothing. I am shedding my old life - selling and renting out the components that comprised a life that was acceptable to my parents, that allowed me membership to the Independent 20-Something Woman's Club, that validated my hard work - and I am not seeing anything concrete in return for it (treading financial water doesn't count).

I am a proud person. I have seen a decent amount of adversity for a white girl from the Midwest, and so what I have accomplished is important to me. The morning that I turned the key into my home was the proudest day of my life because I did it myself. I walked into the kitchen and let myself have a good cry, remembering where I was a year, three years, five years before that; I was alone, applauding my own accomplishment. Now that a system of 'hard work for the man is the right way' rejected me overnight, you would think it would be easy to reject the system right back. It's not.

Last night, I saw some elements of The Old Me. It isn't appealing to me anymore, I can tell you that much. But I looked into the short term future, at the things that I have to do to get through this economic downturn (I guess we are allowed to call it a recession now), and I am scared to jump in.

When everything imploded a few months ago, I anticipated I would emerge exactly the opposite of who I was before. This morning, as I wait for the jobless numbers to come out, I am realizing that I probably am not entirely different. Today I am looking for validation, to see that it is ok, others are going through the same thing, that more jobs are being shed than being offered. I am being efficient in my period of unemployment - waiting out the economy while finding myself. What a twofer.

Maybe I should find a way to fit the Old Me into the New Me. Maybe I can still be proud of what I accomplished, and in the future, I can continue to succeed, just through avenues where I am maximizing my full potential. Maybe I should stop denying myself the chance to mourn my stainless steel kitchen, my super clean house, my life that I was in control of. Who knows.

The numbers came out. Worst losses since 1974. I'm going to take my dog for a run.

Happy Holidays, Senator Buttars!

2008-12-02T12:39:00.004-07:00

Today I read this juicy morsel in the Deseret News.

Awesome news! Everything that needed to be done in Utah from a legislative perspective is done, so Senator Chris Buttars, one of the worst people in Utah, has decided to waste the body's time with an unenforceable resolution asking retailers to wish the few people who will be shopping this year "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays."

I am so glad that Buttars is protecting my Jeebus fearing Christian ways. Er, wait.

I am sending one card this season, and yup, you guessed it, it is a Happy Holidays card addressed to Sen. Buttars and his family. Wanna sign it? Email me and let me know! julianne.hancock@gmail.com. Or, better yet, send your own Happy Holidays card to the Buttars!

Mail them to:

Chris and Helen Buttars
9241 Lisa Ave
West Jordan, UT 84088-8535

Happy Holidays!

UPDATE: Ecards are great too! Sen Buttars' email address is dbuttars@utahsenate.org.

Dear Big Three Auto Companies' CEOs,

2008-12-02T10:01:00.004-07:00

Seriously, am I supposed to get all excited when I hear that if you get my hard earned tax dollars to bail out your company, you will take a $1 salary?

Let me just point a few things out.

Ford Motor Co. Chief Executive Alan Mulally made $21.67 million in 2007. Sick yet? How about this interesting factoid: Mr. Mulally worked for Ford for four months in 2006, and for his four months of work, he got $28 million. For the same period Mr Mulally worked, Ford posted a $12.7 billion loss. Mr. Mulally made almost $50 million in almost 16 months! Do you know how much money that is? No! I don't either! I am on unemployment, which, mind you, is taxed so we can send Mr. Mulally $25 billion because while he was taking all of that money, his company was going down the tubes.
Apparently the Big Three need better PR people, because they are only now getting the memo that flying three separate private jets to DC from the same damn airport when you are asking for money is a bad idea. So for this trip asking mommy and daddy for a loan, the asshats are driving (still separately, mind you) energy efficient or compact cars to DC this week. Hey, I just did the work of your overpaid admins, asshats. You can fly coach like the rest of us out of Detroit on Thursday night, get to BWI at midnight, and leave BWI on Friday after your meeting at 4:30. Sorry, we can't afford the direct flight on the return, but the airfare is $300. Sit next to eachother so you don't get put next to the screaming baby. Its the worst, trust me. And when you get back, fire your PR folks. The transportation arrangements are so grossly transparent, they make me want to go bathe in oil.
All three of the companies are declaring fuel efficiency as the wave of their future. Hugging trees with make them profitable again. Um, first, if you have a shitty product in the first place, regardless of what kind of gas mileage it gets, people still won't buy it, especially when your competitor makes hands-down much better products. Secondly, I was a bratty kid once. Mom, can I borrow $5? I need to put money in the rice bowl at church this week. Even my mom was smart enough to know I was actually asking for $5 to buy cigarettes. Also, weren't you one of the factions who assisted in killing the electric car in the first place? Something about not making money on repair costs? Yeah, you were, negative marketers. So why the sudden interest in energy efficiency?
I am to tired to dig in your proxy reports for the last few years to figure out how much you clowns were paid to drive your companies into the ground, but I am sure it was a decent amount. How about you pool your assets, sell some of your houses, and bail your own damn companies out?

Sorry folks, I am a bit hypersensitive these days to government bailouts for companies that enjoyed private profits when things were good, but when the policies of deregulation that gave them their private jets and $30,000 shower curtains are collapsing the American economy, putting people out of work, and hurting corporate profits, they want to socialize losses.

Additionally, why isn't there a discussion about the free markets at hand? Paul and I (the two smartest folks I know) drive a Toyota and a Honda. Both of which were manufactured in the US of A, but were designed by the Japanese, who have figured out how to design vehicles we want to drive. And if the economy sucks, it sucks! What are they telling people as they are foreclosing on their homes? "Should have planned better?"

Let em collapse. I will grow carrots in my backyard and learn to sew my own clothes.

Love, Julianne

Dear Parents on Aisle 4 at Smiths,

2008-12-01T23:12:00.003-07:00

Your three year old and I don't agree on much, and I don't speak kid talk, however, we agree on one thing: neither of us wants him to be at Smiths Food and Drug at 11:05 pm on a Monday night.

Its not even like you were running in to grab a gallon of milk. You were doing the weekly shopping. Both of you. Your kid wasn't screaming because he wanted something like you thought. You were reasoning with the kid about being good, about letting go of the Pop Tarts, about whatever. Dude, I don't know much about kids, but after three years, you should know that those screams were nothing but tired screams. The kid needs sleep.

I go to the grocery store at 11 pm to get my hummus because I don't want to hate on you or your kid. Your kid is probably a great kid too. He just needs some sleep. Work on that before I call DCFS.

Thanks,

Julianne

Enterprise really will pick you up

2008-12-01T01:59:00.003-07:00

I rarely open the emails that come to my inbox from Monster.com daily at 2:00 AM. With my departure looming (37 days and counting!), getting a job just doesn't seem to be a good idea for anyone in the equation right now.

Tonight, in the tradition of doing anything except for writing a paper on my leadership aptitude, I decided to open the email.

I swear, since the advent of Monster.com, Enterprise Rent-A-Car has been hiring Entry-Level Sales Management Trainees. Tonight they had three out of three job leads in my inbox. I decided to investigate to see what is up with the only company in Utah that is hiring.

Enterprise is not full of shit when they talk about where they are going. They are a $9 billion, family owned company that has never had an unprofitable year. They are not full of shit when they talk about culture and employee empowerment: their entire executive staff team started in the Enterprise Management Training Program. They are not full of shit when they talk about their community involvement and environmental awareness: they participate in a carbon offset program (with competitors nonetheless).

How do I know they aren't full of shit?

Enterprise had three out of three job leads in my inbox tonight.

Jake? A billion people read my blog. By tomorrow, Enterprise will be all full. I bet they would be glad to have a stubborn, drunk, German speaking chemical engineer managing their people at the local airport location. You'd better get on that.

I smell because I love you.

2008-12-01T01:11:00.003-07:00

I spent my day today stealing internet at Paul's house while he was at work. I worked on a school project, I did some research for his website, I might have done a little chatting online. Before I knew it, it was 9:00 pm and I was over egoism and the new economy. Jake and I decided to head to the bar to cry in our beers for a while.

Two steins later, I ran to the little girls room and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I haven't showered since yesterday, I was wearing my post-Thanksgiving-slash-laundry-day fat jeans and a hoodie and my BDU cap from Basic Training (yeah, nobody told me it was okay, I just did it). Flip flops. No makeup. I panicked and checked to see if I had even bothered to brush my teeth this morning (I had).

Two years ago, I would not have left my home without at least 45 minutes of prep work. Now I am at a downtown bar making sure I brushed my teeth? Have I really let myself go this much just because I am happily (oh so happily) off the market?

I got back to the bar where Jake was waiting and checked my phone. Paul had just sent his edits to an incredibly boring 14 page paper I wrote, providing thorough and perceptive comments and a few compliments.

Call it baseless relationship flaunting, but hell, it took me 27 years to find it, so yes, that is what it is.

Although I will shower before I go to bed tonight.

*This photo was not taken at the bar tonight. It was taken when I was looking much cuter. Like three days ago.

I am a Mac.

2008-11-30T22:32:00.003-07:00

Like a Tarantino film, I will tell you the net net of this blog post so you can go about your day if you don't want to read the rest of the post. I advise you to read the rest of the post, however, because the story of me, Harry the douchebag*, and my Mac is quite humorous. Nonetheless, as promised, here is the net net:

I am a Mac.

I am not one for consumerism these days, what with being all unemployed and everything, however, my computer was on its deathbed, I am in a business program that requires technology that Steve Jobs has made oh-so-easy, and, well, who doesn't like to take advantage of not paying taxes?

So here is the story of how my Mac and I came to be.

Michelle and Sam offered to take us to the Oregon Coast as opposed to the Gap on Black Friday. However, Paul and I both had our eyeballs on MacBooks, so at zero-dark-thirty on Black Friday morning, I checked online to see how low Apple would go.

The MacBook Pros were not on sale, much to Paul's chagrin, however, the promise of no sales tax (yay to Oregon), and the $100 off of a MacBook for me was enough to get him into a mall so he could think about it.

The MacBook of Julianne's Choice is normally $1299. The kind folks at Apple have set up an employee purchase plan for the poor military folks, which dropped the price a bit. Before we left the house, I checked to see if I could cash in on the military price plan and the Black Friday discount. Either someone at Apple didn't do their job, or the Gods of Frugality were looking kindly on me, because sure enough, I could get both discounts online. $1120. No tax.

We walked into a stiflingly stuffed Apple store at Pioneer Place in downtown Portland. Michelle and Sam patiently headed to an empty computer to steal internet and amuse themselves while Paul looked over the Pros. A boy named Harry approached us.

Harry had accessorized his Apple t-shirt with a bandana, the same type of bandana I put on Izzy when she is going to be on television. The triangle was hanging in the front. He was wearing skinny jeans. However, I approached him with an open mind, as I am on vacation, in a mall, on Black Friday. He wasn't having a very pleasant day, I was sure of it.

I started with Paul's computer.

"I see the MacBooks are on sale. Why not the MacBook Pros?" I inquired. It was friendly, I promise.

"Actually, that was the right question to ask," Harry replied. He made the claim that because I had asked for a discount, he could give me one. Paul wanted the price on the 17 inch laptop. Harry "checked with his manager" and returned with a number scribbled on a card, much like if you are negotiating the price of a Nissan. At first, I thought he was being super nice. Then I remembered that Apple was matching big box retailer prices that day. Conveniently, the price he gave was the same as Amazon's. Some secret handshake.

I looked at Paul. He conceded, probably realizing that standing in an Apple store at a mall on a Black Friday was worth the $2500 if he never had to do it again. Plus, there is that 7 percent sales tax thing.

Then I asked for my MacBook. "I noticed online I can get my military discount as well as the Black Friday discounts," I ventured.

Harry quickly cut me off. "Well, no, we have heard that this is the case, but it is a problem of algorithms," he informed me. "If you continue it all the way through the checkout, it will only let you use one discount."

A wave of heat swept over me. At the time I thought it was because I was in a 800 square foot store with 2,382 other people and I was wearing eight layers in preparation for a walk on the windy and cold Cannon Beach, but in retrospect, it is because I really really dislike people assuming they are brighter than me. Even if they are.

"So you don't mind then if I just order this online on your computer," I asked (although I wasn't really asking). I opened a browser on the computer we were standing in front of.

"Absolutely not, but it won't work," he insisted. He was really loving his algorithm theory. "They are really busy at the web store today, they haven't fixed it, but the algorithms..."

"Mmmm-hmmmm," I cut him off. "Michelle, what is your address?" I yelled over my shoulder as I happily placed my online order. If my sister took the delivery and brought me the computer when she comes to visit in a few weeks, I could still avoid the 7 percent sales tax.

"1834 Southeast..."** she yelled over her shoulder before turning around to find out what was happening. "Are they out of computers already?"

"No," I responded, taking out my credit card. Harry was looking annoyed and went to find a manager to authorize Apple to match Apple's price.

Needless to say, I got my computer for $1120. Lessons learned?

Don't wear the same bandana as my dog unless you are as cute as she is.
Don't use the word algorithm unless you are talking about an actual algorithm. Shopping carts strike me to be a matter of simple conditional logic: if the site says something costs x amount,then I will pay x amount for it.
Do not ever assume you aren't dealing with someone who won't spend 20 hours fighting with a corporation over $10. If you have any questions to that, ask T Mobile, Comcast or Washington Mutual. I don't have a job, I don't have much money. What I do have is time.

*Names have been changed because I am not really sure if I can get sued for calling the dude out on the intertubes.
**Michelle and Sam's address is obviously not 1834 Southeast anything. People who read this shit can be scary. I would hate to have to send Michelle a gun to protect herself from you people. Ha, kidding. Except for you, dude. You are creepy. And you know who you are.***
***I really am just kidding.

Quote of the day

2008-11-18T20:01:00.003-07:00

You are going to Iraq, and you are getting Paul coal for Christmas? Not sure, but there's irony in there somewhere.

8:03 PM, in a GoogleTalk chat session between yours truly and the ever observant Marco, who was multitasking between roasting a chicken and pointing out flaws in my plans to ~~take over the world~~ forge a new personal economy.

Paulie-anna*

2008-11-18T14:29:00.002-07:00

The other night, Paul and I were engaging in a highly unusual activity (for us). We were watching television. Christmas commercials for various retailers are beginning to monopolize prime time, making it really difficult for me to remember why I was more interested in scrubbing the bathroom floor with my tongue than watch another segment of whatever random sitcom happened to be on.

Macy's is having a sale this week, and in their montage of Made-in-China crap they are paying you to take out of their store, they showed a toy fire truck.

Paul squealed in delight, declaring that was what he wanted for Christmas.

I told him that after the cheap shot he had fired at me moments ago for a movie review I gave that he disagreed with, he would be lucky if I gave him a lump of coal.

Paul's eyes brightened.

"Really?" He said. "I would actually like that. Coal is great to put in the fireplace. It burns warm for a really long time."

Ah, the joys of loving a firefigher-slash-lumberjack-slash-tree hugger. I think I need to go sprinkle some prozac in my Wheaties to keep up.

*It is noted for public record that my Paul does not like the limelight. He refused appearances related to Izzy's recent 15 minutes of fame, he blushes when I tell him how devastatingly good looking he is, and look to the right! I don't even link his blog, where my rare appearances are disguised by initials. He just doesn't like attention. However, the title to this post was ever so tempting, so it shall remain, until he starts threatening to hang my sister wives from trees again.

I'd like to think it is eclectic.

2008-11-16T08:25:00.004-07:00

Heather and I had been planning a ladies night for, well 18 months, so with her boyfriend in Costa Rica, and mine being so cool that he is content spending the night on the couch with my blow up sister wives and his PS3, and Nicole's boyfriend, well, living in Africa, we decided to head out last night.

However, my Paul sometimes has the wisdom of a man twice his age. Unfortunately with that comes the memory of a man twice his age. He was super stoked to plan a night at an Anderson Cooper lecture...the same night of our girls night out.

And then NKOTB (try texting that three times fast) started giving away their tickets in mass quantities for their show last night. (Ha, go figure).

Perfect solution: we got to see Anderson Cooper, Heather and Nicole got to see Jordan Knight (yes, he sang that half decent solo of his, and yes, I just admitted I still like that song).

And then I went line dancing with Heather and Nicole.

Commentary on the evening:

Ahem. Anderson Cooper is not Oprah. He is not Barbara Walters. People, can you think of any better questions than "who is your favorite person you have ever interviewed?" You can't? Then sit your self congratulatory ass down and let someone ask a man who has seen the corners of the globe in crisis a better question. He doesn't care about your community access program, and neither do I. And you? Stop asking him to make political predictions. Do you have any clue how far away eight years are? Its a political lifetime! Stop exposing your ignorance in a room of 2,000 people! And you know who you are.
To the dude at the end of the night in the cowboy hat (ha, did you see like 30 of them turn around?). Me saying I don't need a man does not make me angry or bitter or old. I am not "always the bridesmaid," and I am not 34, either. I am in an amazing relationship and was trying to rate the dancers behind the coral with my girlfriends before you so rudely interrupted. (The girl with the stripper moves was getting some high ratings.) Your lines were boring, and your "I don't know how to do this, I just got out of an 18 year marriage" attempt at recovery was worse. Sorry. You thought you were picking up three drunk girls. You got two drunk girls and an over-opinionated feminist with enough alcohol in her. Better luck next time.
Anderson Cooper said it is okay to lie to your mom, as long as it is a white lie. He lied to his mother about his war correspondence projects. Paul lied to his mom about going back on fires. Anna, Paul and I are not working on a book profiling people's paths to refuge camps in all corners of the globe. I promise.
Best part of the evening? Watching Nicole feed Cashew and Jaegar dog food, one pellet at a time, at two in the morning, over a conversation about what is worse for a dude breaking into my house: meeting me with a 9mm, or meeting me with PMS.

Note to self: I like Melissa, who is bartending at The Westerner, but I think we are gonna have to avoid that place the next time around.

The story

2008-11-12T08:50:00.004-07:00

So I wrote this.

One day you go to bed and you are a blogger whose boyfriend is your only reader, and only because you threaten him if he doesn't, and then you wake up, and your dog is in the paper and and on the news. My dog has fan mail now.

I was joking with a member of the media last night that my beautiful, whining, obsessive-compulsive, sometimes hyper, scared of her own shadow, momma's girl mutt has caused such a wave of attention, but I still cannot sell my car. (Hint, it is still for sale, so if you don't get the dog, you can get the car that has Izzy's shed hair in the back seat!

I have received offers from families as far away as Illinois and New York. Military veterans, people whose dogs recently passed, or people who felt touched. Some can't take Izzy, but wanted to send an e-high-five for my volunteer deployment, or to wish Paul and me well.

I love that people get it. People don't get credit default swaps, they may not be able to name the President of Afghanistan (hint, it is Hamid Karzai). Hell, I am not naming names, but some folks didn't know that Africa is a continent and not a state. But everyone gets this:

So, if it takes Izzy to get people to start thinking about the sacrifices citizens may have to start making to glue this country back together, then she is a happy volunteer.

Just as long as the media people bring milk bones and throw tennis balls while the cameras are in her face.

To everyone who has written, sorry I haven't responded, but I will get to each of your emails and phone calls. I am impressed and moved, so thank you for making a cynic second guess her assumption about Americans.

In the meantime, keep an eye out for Queen Isabella Dogbooty on Fox 13 tonight.

And PS: There was a question on the Salt Lake Tribune's website as to whether or not I am a "Joe The Plumber Republican Plant." Because obviously, I am single and unemployed and apparently attractive so I should just fall into the arms of Prince Charming to be saved. Dammit. Exposed. I will be waiting (with bated breath) for the GOP to send me my pay check.

I wish I had this problem.

2008-11-10T18:22:00.004-07:00

Sarah Palin is now sorting through her wardrobe, trying to determine which clothes in her wardrobe are hers and which were part of her $150,000 shopping spree for her failed six week traipse through the Lower 48.

You see, Sarah and I have a lot in common.

I too recently sorted through my wardrobe. With my upcoming trip to the Middle East, I am going to have to find a way to stuff the contents of my 1700 square foot home into a 20x10 storage space, so I figured it was time to clean out the closets.

I came up with four (yes, four) garbage bags of pants, jeans, skirts, sweaters, sweatshirts, t-shirts and handbags that I need to get to The Road Home.

Unfortunately, it would appear that recipients of charity in Salt Lake City will have to enjoy my JCrew sweaters, instead of the lucky recipients in Alaska, who will get couture suits.

I wonder if she will donate any glasses? I lack health insurance. Maybe I should travel to the Juno Salvation Army for a handout courtesy of the GOP.

Yes, I did.

2008-11-06T16:14:00.003-07:00

I know how ridiculous emailing a landslide elected President (not to mention my Commander in Chief) asking him to keep an eye on my dog is, but hell, if there is nothing else I have learned since Barack Obama announced his candidacy, it is that anything is possible.

So today, I wrote a letter to the new first family and posted it at the Daily Kos. I also sumbitted it to change.gov, the new administration's website.

We'll see what happens. In the meantime, enjoy.

November 6, 2008

Dear President-elect Obama, Mrs. Obama, Malia and Sasha,

I am sure you have heard it from all corners of the globe at this point, but I am incredibly proud to call America my home again. Thank you for inspiring our country and accepting undoubtedly one of the most difficult jobs in American history. Thank you for devoting your life to the service of this country. Many of us wept when you accepted this victory for all of us, even those who didn’t vote for you. What I am looking forward to most is a renewed inspiration for young people to serve their communities and their country. I do both, with great pride, and I am excited to see people around me be energized with the belief that if we get involved and believe in something, anything can happen.

I am an American who joined the Armed Forces two months following the 9/11 tragedy because I love what America stood for. Not pre-emptive strike, economic disaster, forget your civil liberties, oil hungry America, but rather, with malice towards none, with charity for all, bring me your huddled masses, no taxation without representation America. As I have watched our country deteriorate under a new brand of conservatism in the past eight years, along with our spirit, self-reliance and determination, I couldn’t help but think that at some point, people would wake up and realize how mislead they have been.

But it didn’t happen.

I served in Balad, Iraq in 2005. It was my first lesson in how people act when they have no hope, and I am not talking about the Iraqis. I served side-by-side with soldiers and airmen who were seeing the same things I saw – things that were being denied or not reported by our own government – and yet still stood by the lines of propaganda we were trained to tell our families. They vehemently denied the independent reports of what was, at the time, over half a million dead Iraqi civilians, while watching the bodies pile up before their own eyes. Many nights I fell asleep in the desert worried not only for my country and for the societies we disrupted and destroyed in the name of profit, but for my own safety as well.

When I came home, and talked about my experience, I was rejected by many, including my neo-conservative parents, for being a "bad American." Perhaps people were too afraid, but for me, the cost of continuing to drink the Kool-Aid was too great. The images of orphaned Iraqi children, injured civilians who were only trying to hope for a better day are forever burned in my mind.

I returned to my civilian life, most recently working in marketing and communications in the commercial lending industry until September of this year. I’ll save the details of how greed poisoned bad management; it is a story that has been told dozens of times in the past few months. At the end of the day, I lost my job. While I am relieved to be out of the rat race and have started the process of rediscovering myself (much like America is doing right now), I have a mortgage to pay.

There aren’t many jobs out there. There are fewer jobs in marketing. There are even less jobs paying what the requirements are worth. With a heavy heart, my beau and I weighed our options, and I decided to volunteer for an eight month tour in Baghdad, Iraq. In January, I will be assigned to Sather AB as an armed TCN escort. Our hope is that when I return in September, the economy will have improved, and I will be able to find employment again.

However, I am not writing to plead with you to remember the little people when your new administration looks at the economy. We elected you because we are confident that you really are working for us, and because you know that even Malia and Sasha will need a strong economy to pursue their dreams in the future.

I am also not writing to plead with you to end the war in Iraq. A few weeks ago, I heard you tell a crowd that when you deploy American troops, you will remember that you are sending brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, parents into danger. I will be honored to serve under a Commander in Chief who has respect for his troops as individuals. I respect you as much as you respect me, which is something I have not felt since I offered my service to this country seven years ago.

The reason for my letter is my dog, Izzy.

In April, I rescued a terrier mix from a shelter. Someone was very mean to her before she came to live with me. She is incredibly smart, and a happy pup now, although she suffers from separation anxiety when she is not with my boyfriend, Paul, or me. As we have disciplined her and given her somewhere stable to live, she has gotten much better. I am not sure if you have ever had a dog, but when you do get one, you will recognize this little furry animal is a part of your family. Izzy is my family.

Paul has offered to keep Izzy for me while I am away, however, like me, Paul is a public servant. He is a fire fighter, and in the summers, he travels around western states protecting communities threatened by wild fires. He is also a homeowner, and much of his livelihood depends on the pay he receives for four months of dangerous work during the summer. This year, he fell extremely ill with meningitis while fighting fires in California, and the scare was enough for us to consider him not returning in 2009. However, with the loss in income from his season cut short this year, and because I will be deployed, he has decided to return for another season.

Which leaves us in a predicament.

The thought of my family – Paul, my sweet puppy, and me – being dismantled for almost a year so Paul and I can figure out how to live the American dream tears me to pieces. Unfortunately, it is the way it has to be right now.

I have friends who work in animal rescue groups who have told me your family will be looking for a dog, and I heard Mr. Obama tell Malia and Sasha that they earned their puppy on election night. Izzy will be looking for a family. Any interest?

I will look forward to hearing from you.

Best regards,

Staff Sergeant Julianne Hancock
Utah Air National Guard
julianne.hancock@gmail.com

A medley of flavors

2008-10-28T11:03:00.004-06:00

My former CEO gave me a bottle of Oakville Cross cab as a gift for my dedication and hard work shortly before he canned me. The bottle retails for about $60 in wine stores, and you will find it on restaurant wine lists fetching around $150.

Paul and I were saving the bottle for something special. Last night was the night.

We wisely paired the 2005 cabernet with a Wolfgang Puck frozen pizza ($5.99), accompanied by Green Giant cut green beans ($.99 at a case lot sale in 2003). What an amazing marriage in your mouth. The Oakville Cross cab has an internal energy of its own and gives life to the frozen and processed food surrounds. Succulent, compact flavors of cassis, cedar and herbs, classically styled, gain intensity with air while the fruit remains lively and youthfully fresh. Beautifully composed.

This wine earns a strong 93. Thank you, Dave, for this experience, hard to forget on so many levels and in so many dimensions it is impossible to count.

Two Questions

2008-10-25T17:23:00.002-06:00

Today I read this article on CNN.com.

Two questions:

When did it occur to anyone that naming their daughter Sensuous was a good idea? This is our daughter, Sensuous. She is visiting after a semester at Oxford, and is on her way back to Harvard, where she will be completing her studies in post modern literature. I don't think so.
When did MySpace become a legitimate source for professional journalists to do their research?

And my parents thought I was the hussy.

2008-10-25T07:57:00.000-06:00

My little sister and I were having one of our random phone conversations the other day when she confessed an indiscretion. She recently cheated on a boyfriend at a pool party because she was frustrated that he wouldn't give it up.

I was flabbergasted. She blew it off. "It isn't what you are thinking," she said, reading my mind as I was visualizing dozens of young, brazen, barely clothed bodies enjoying margaritas in the sun, my sister and some guito's bodies arching on loungers in the background. "It wasn't some tri-delt sorority party. Everyone was pretty much clothed."

Okay, fine, she was in the seventh grade. (When you are 21, everything is recent. It is like a midget falling over: they don't have far to go.) And the boyfriend not giving it up? He wasn't ready to go from warming up in the dugout to approaching home plate - he wouldn't even kiss her.

"Not even a peck on the cheek?"

"Not even a peck on the cheek."

"What a [expletive]."

"Dude I know!"

I still think she is the hussy.

By the way, happy first anniversary, Michelle and Sam.

Pollyanna

2008-10-21T14:07:00.003-06:00

So I was mom-proofing the blog yesterday for Paul's mom and got a chance to read over my last year of blogging.

Dude, little bitch much?

I know I am not a fountain of giddy positiveness, but seriously.

So now I will take a moment to post awesome things in my life at this moment.

I don't work anymore. Some would think this is not a good thing, but I am loving it just fine for now. I have 27 years of catching up to do with myself.
Paul turned 29 yesterday. Which makes him younger than John McCain but always older than me. But not creepy older.
Port cheese on Moroccan olive bread is amazing.
The pear trees I planted in my parking strip turn red in the fall. You don't find a lot of trees in Utah that turn Upper Peninsula red so I am stoked about that. Purple and white flowers in the spring, red in the fall? It is like I planned it.
Unless the GOP massively hijacks the election or they uncover an illegitimate family or gay lover (I won't be surprised!), Barack Obama is ahead and should coast into the White House

Yours with rose colored glasses,

Julianne

Does this work for my foreign language requirement?

2008-10-19T14:38:00.002-06:00

I logged into my Flickr account today so I can send my little sister photos. Flickr, if you aren't familiar, is very friendly. Everytime you log in, it says hello to you in a different language and identifies the language. I am a fan of random learning, so I give them my $24.99 annually.

Today I logged in and was greeted with:

O HAI Julianne! Now you know how to greet people in Lolspeak!

Flickr gives you holas in a plethora of languages, so it took me a second to register that Lolspeak is a language not spoken in a foreign place by a culture of people, unless you count the computer lab at Farmington Junior High a foreign place.

I turned to my trusted friends at Urban Dictionary to discover that lolspeak is indeed slang for the lazy techno population.

There are 6912 living languages in the world known to date. Flickr, lolspeak is not one of them, and I am dumber for having experienced this exercise.

It is a bunch of haberdash if you ask me, which is much more ridiculous than cockamanie.

Betty Crocker

2008-10-19T12:49:00.002-06:00

I used to bake a lot. I was the Christmas Cookie Queen. Every time I made a decent meal it was accompanied by Elvis Priestley's Pound Cake or a ginger cookie. Over the years, my baking has slowed as my metabolism has (a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips!) and soon I only baked for special occasions or special people.

Like Cait.

So today, I baked a cake by myself for Paul's birthday. I rediscovered one of the joys to baking: licking the bowl.

My sweets-loving mother taught me this time honored Laseski tradition years ago, and I savored the moments in the 80s when my mother would bake and I would wrap my tongue around the uncomfortable wire whips from mom's KichenAid mixer to get every bit of chocolate.

Until Michelle came in 1985. Michelle and I have had plenty of conversations about how she ruined my life. Being a middle child sucks and everyone knows it. One of the perks of being the youngest, most loved daughter is that mom would let her lick the bowl. All of the time. Probably still to this day.

Today I licked the bowl all by myself.

It was delish.

Forget the bathrobe

2008-10-19T08:33:00.000-06:00

I am in a cleaning mood today, which includes the contents from my camera's memory card. I was moving photos to my hard drive off of the card and came across this.

I snapped the photo from my room at Hotel Palomar in Dallas, Texas a few months ago.

I have stayed in a number of decent boutique hotels in the past years while working for my former employer. I admit, I slip on the robes they provide in your room sometimes. Hey, I would never spend $250 on them, but why not borrow the luxury when you can? However, you will never find me borrowing leopard print lingerie from a hotel. Ever.

But they get an A for effort. In a world where everyone is starting to look the same while trying to be different, sometimes it takes leopard print to be memorable.

Guilty pleasures

2008-09-29T03:36:00.006-06:00

I have a guilty pleasure that is truly horrible.

In the solitude of a Sunday morning on Herbert Avenue, while the gangsters and the roosters are still asleep, I pour over the Sunday New York Times. I usually start with the Style section, glance over business (obligation, I know), and the Week in Review. I pluck the weekly mag out for later, and then read the National section.

This is not the guilty pleasure.

Some people read the obits. Me? For the last two weeks, I have caught myself going straight for the Weddings/Ceremonies pages in the Style Section.

Now, now. I can hear people blaming this odd behavior social pressures, or perhaps the fact that I am in a great relationship and am dreaming of some fairy tale ending.

Nope.

I like - no, I love - to scour the wedding announcements to see who outdid whom from the week prior in the worst sort of way. I am also fascinated to see what the couple (or the couple's parents) threw into the announcement in hopes that the Times editorial staff finds their announcement amusing/important enough to print.

Oftentimes, the couple is well educated or went to big name schools. For the most part, I have respect. Alana McMahon graduated magna cum laude from Harvard and received a Master of Philosophy degree in classics from Oxford. She also has an MBA from MIT.

However, Ms. McMahon's wedding announcement offers a rare treat: the relationship narrative, where the announcement strays from the standard "we got married by Rabbi so-and-so, bride is keeping her name, bride does X for a living, bridegroom does Y, bride's dad is a big wig doctor/lawyer, bridegrooms parents are similarly wealthy."

Ms. McMahon's now hubby spotted his buttercup when he was trying out for the Harvard fencing team. She graduated and moved onto Oxford. "They carried on a long-distant relationship primarily though e-mail and phone calls. Their banter included teasing each other about who was a better fencer."

Hubba hubba.

Lauren DiPaolo married a boy named Spanky Johnson last week. There is nothing juicy about these people or their parents; I think the editorial staff chose their announcement because Lauren is hot-ish and she married a boy named Spanky.

Finally, someone listened! Dr. Michal Hertz and hubby Benjamin Shargel will use the surname Hertz-Shargel.

Is it required to mention if your past attempt(s) at wedded bliss ended in divorce? Irving Benson's previous two marriages ended in divorce, as did Todd Wynn's. Maybe it was court ordered.

Melissa King and Kenneth Coquin met online. Mr. Coquin used their announcement to describe how the "you+me=smile" line in her profile made it love at first click. He went on a large volume of shit online dates before he took Melissa to coffee...at the same place he had taken every other girl in Manhattan. She prayed he would propose to her by March. Lucky her.

Mr. Coquin's parents are thrilled that their son is finally getting married. "W never thought this day would ever happen," Mrs. Coquin said as she taped the last box of her son's belongings and put them in his conversion van. "We are going to put a bar in his room here now that he is finally gone. Maybe a dart board. I'm not sure."

Okay I added that last part.

I know, I am going to hell.

Quote of the day

2008-09-24T16:22:00.001-06:00

"You don't suspend your campaign. This doesn't smell right. This isn't the way a tested hero behaves. I think someone's putting something in his metamucil.

He can't run the campaign because the economy is cratering? Fine, put in your second string quarterback, Sara Palin. Where is she?

What are you going to do if you're elected and things get tough? Suspend being president? We've got a guy like that now!"

David Letterman, as reported by Matt Drudge

Izzy retakes her throne

2008-09-24T11:58:00.002-06:00

Paul left this morning for a fire in Oregon. It is his first time out since he got sick and the last fire of the season. I wasn't happy about it, but I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, so I sucked up my bottom lip (what is this salty substance coming out of my eyes?), kissed him goodbye, got out cupcakes from the wedding we attended this weekend, and went back to bed.

Izzy in tow.

Izzy is a bright pup. She knows. When the really gross smelling gear comes out, Paul is leaving for a while, and I let her sleep in the bed again.

This is how our morning went.

7:35 AM

9:10 AM

10:45 AM

The Renaissance Man

2008-09-21T11:42:00.000-06:00

Every relationship has to go through the litany of 'firsts' to stand the test of time. First kiss, first time meeting the parents, first fight, first time faking he actually enjoys my cooking.

Last weekend, Paul and I attended our first wedding together. Which isn't that big of a deal, until I find out that my date is the pastor. Of the wedding. You know, the vicar? The priest? The minister?

What the hell do you wear when you are the pastor's date?! I had visions of full length floral with a square lace doily collar. I settled on a number from Anthropologie.

I don't need to tell you that he did an amazing job. Yes, theatrics included.

Consider yourself warned: McGruff says you're next.

2008-09-13T17:57:00.005-06:00

This morning, I was watering my trees while waiting for my carpool. Saturday mornings in the hood are quiet for the most part.

While Izzy was sniffing around and I was wondering why my Mexican primrose hasn't taken off like Connonly said it would, I heard roosters crowing.

In the hood.

Everyone knows that I am tough on anything that gets in the way of my life, liberty and pursuit of happiness.

Roosters, if I ever decide that I need to sleep in (hey, it could happen) and you crow in the way of that, pack your bags for a one way trip to KFC. And I am not talking the Colonel being all friendly KFC. I am talking hard-core, PETA watch-list KFC. With no mashed potatoes. I don't care how delicious they are.

*No roosters were harmed in the making of this blog post. Yet.

Know thine enemy

2008-09-13T17:25:00.003-06:00

I know, I have taken some time off from blogging. I don't have loads of followers (yet!) so I am sure all 17 of you were just fine without my random rants. Your quick update: I am on a quest to find myself while not working (to the uber-joy of my parents), Paulie on two feet again (yay!) and is back to work (although wildland season is over for him, for which I am secretly grateful), Izzy is finally being disciplined and is actually responding, and life is fantabulous.

I hate for my comeback to be a political rant, but I started this as an email to some politico friends, and realized it was worthy for my comeback post. So have at it, readers...

I did it. I got as comfortable as possible, poured myself a glass of milk to help with the gag reflex, got out the Valium and sat down to watch Charles Gibson interview Sarah Palin.

No matter how soft he was, you just can't fix stupid. Three days with the McCain advisers and the woman still doesn't know the difference between entitlement and agency spending?

You should do the same. Click here to see it! I know it hurts, but McCain is ahead today. If he gets elected, pray for good weather on inauguration day, lest we lose McCain Harrison-style. Sarah Palin then becomes my commander in chief. Being that the woman believes the Iraq war is a "task from God," I might as well sell my house and move to the Middle East to prepare to "rebuild" Iraq, Iran, Syria, et al into a glass parking lot. My mother will be so proud.

I marched in Governor's Day today, where the Governor of Utah got to review his military might. I about vomited on the parade field when he gave a shout out to Miss Utah, some broad in the Guard who apparently has "changed the way this country views females in the military." I don't want anyone viewing my service equivalent to some baton twirling chick, and in the spirit of the way the world views hard ass chicks, I certainly don't want the first female to hold executive office in this country to be a woman who forgets to pronounce the "g" in law-abiding.

PS: Since when is the GOP the party of change? And change from what? If your Chevy sucks, you don't go buy a new Chevy. Or an 80 year old Chevy for that matter. On that note, why the hell did you buy a Chevy in the first place? You knew it was going to raise your taxes, set up permanent bases in Iraq to support the Bush Doctrine (note to Sarah: that means preemptive strikes), drown a city of black people, and strip you of your civil liberties. Yes, a Chevy will do that.

PPS: "I left the city I was elected to head millions in debt because the people wanted me to" is not leadership. That is like saying "I let the kids light the garage on fire because they wanted to," or even "I let my 17 year old daughter engage in hypocritical pre-marital underage (gasp! illegal to consent) sex because she wanted to." You are in charge, dammit. Bad decisions based on public opinion polls? Sounds like maverick change to me!

PPPS: You killed (well, Congress did, but who is counting?) The Bridge To Nowhere. We had already mailed you a check. When can we get our refund? And on the note of earmarks, whether or not you ask for genetic research on seals publicly or through lobbyists, if it looks like a quack and walks like a quack, it is a damn earmark.

PPPPS: You admit the right to choose is a personal choice. So how does my personal choice translate into "Sarah Palin Controls my Vagina?"

PPPPPS: 70 percent of Americans support a ban on firearms. You keep saying you want to go to Washington to do what the people want. Isn't supporting a policy of the NRA, a special interest group with a massive lobbying presence, kinda ironic? A little bit? (No, Sarah, ironic isn't an allotrope of iron the element, it is a literary device in which there is an incongruity or discordance between what one says or does, and what one means or what is generally understood.)

PPPPPPS: On leadership, you are right, you can't blink. Although I'll wager a hefty sum that McCain and his cronies are wishing they would have blinked just for a second before presenting America with Govna Palin, the human manifestation of McCain's dementia.

And with all of that, they are still keeping a close race.

Jeffe told me today that he saw some woman in Pennsylvania say that she will vote for anyone who isn't Obama, because he is a Muslim, and we need to elect people to kill all of those Muslims off. Sigh.

Quote of the day

2008-08-29T17:28:00.002-06:00

Sadness has the consistency of polenta.

Overheard on the corner of 600 South and 700 East from a dude describing the difference between mourning the hypothetical loss of his significant other, versus mourning at the loss. Apparently mourning at the loss describes someone hurling parts of sadness towards the deceased sporadically, and apparently, said sadness has the consistency of boiled cornmeal. For the sake of his significant other, I hope she never dies, because her funeral would be pretty messy, albeit delicious.

Free Beef

2008-08-10T01:32:00.004-06:00

Tonight, after my second day of playing Florence Nightingale (thank Jeebus for those nurses or I would totally suck at this caregiving thing), Paulie's crew took me to their camp so I could get a taste of how they live.

Paul's boss tried to warn me that I was going to get oogled, most likely because they can smell my clean hair a mile away, but I reminded him that I survived a military experiment in the Middle East, where a female has a higher chance of being raped by her comrade than injured by the enemy. I can handle a firefigher who hasn't seen his wife in two weeks.

In summary? Fire camps are much like military camps, only with no hookers, less porn, are much cleaner, and oh, you don't have to clear a weapon to get your beef dinner.

In fact, I am starting to see lots of benefits of being a firefighter over a member of the US Armed Forces these days. I won't mention that firefighters get more in hazard pay than members of the military who are kicking down doors in street combat zones. While Paulie sleeps, I have been wandering the town. All of the shops proudly display "Thank You Firefighters" signs in their windows, kids have drawn thank you pictures and that hang in the windows of their homes. Paul's plight has risen him to local celebrity status, earning me free glasses of wine at the local restaurants, offers to stay in people's homes and dine with their families, and if nothing else, warm smiles and plates of fudge delivered to the bed and breakfast I am staying at.

Paul's crewmate and I were discussing this tonight. He wears his uniform or arrives anywhere in a red truck, and people ask him to kiss their babies or offer free beers. I take bullets and mortar fire for a war that I didn't orchestrate, just followed the orders of my Commander in Chief that the citizens I swore to protect had elected to lead our nation, and I feel unsafe to stop and fill my car with gas in uniform these days.

Don't get me wrong, I adore the firefighters I have in my life since I met Paul, but does anyone see anything wrong with this picture?

On a sidenote, one thing the military camps have over firefighters is TCNs serving us ice cream. Some nights I wasn't even in the mood for ice cream and I would get it anyway. Someone getting their knuckles all sticky so I can enjoy that last scoop from the container of mint chocolate chip? It may have been worth the $2/hour I made at war.

Nevada in five hours

2008-08-08T23:25:00.001-06:00

I don't think many people will disagree: 90 percent of the land in Nevada can eff off, especially when I have somewhere to be and 517 miles of nothingness lay between me and that somewhere. In this case, that somewhere was Quincy, California. Paulie was off being a hero, when he got sick. I weighed my options, got in my car and left.

I blew through Nevada averaging 105 miles an hour. Thoughts along the way:

Independence Valley, Nevada is a prison facility. Does anyone find that ironic?
There are more towns along the I80 corridor through Nevada that bear names which could be mistaken for a condominium community in Davis County, Utah. These towns, most of which offer zero services, do not resemble their names whatsoever. Examples include Rose Creek, which has no roses and no creek, Bliss, which is barren and quite unhappy, and Vivian (okay not a name for a condo community, but perhaps for the treasurer of said condo community).
The Forest Service spends hundreds of millions of dollars on fires in California annually, but they apparently don't give a shit about a fire next to the freeway outside of Cosgrave, Nevada. I saw trucks driving past it, all heading towards Cali.
There is a sign about 50 miles east of Winnemucca, Nevada that reads "Butch Cassidy got rich in Winnemucca...you will too." Note to Winnemucca CVB: I don't think so.
About 100 miles from the western border of Nevada, the landscape starts behaving as if it got the memo: you are close to not being Nevada anymore!

Quincy, California, is a beautiful, friendly, relaxing town. I told someone today that if Paulie wasn't feeling so poorly, I would think I was on a vacation.

The hardcore streets of the SLC.

2008-07-12T21:46:00.003-06:00

Thanks to a lot of work, my neighborhood is finally seeing an increased police presence while we continue our push for the city to close down our buddies on Roberta Street. It's cool because I have a feeling a lot of my gangsta neighbors are posers, so any cop rolling by scares them. It is also cool because with my recent affection for men in uniform, (well, just one man and only in a wildland fire uniform) the nice redheaded patrolman working my street with the easy smile gives me some false sense of security that I thoroughly enjoy.

Earlier today, we lost another hardcore neighbor to the way of a home security system. The sales guy came to my home with the "I hear you are a helpless single woman who should take comfort in our low introductory rate." Apparently he didn't get the memo about ferocious Izzy and her war hero mom (that's me people). He looked at me strangely when I told him I survived sniper fire in Iraq; a little 45 action from a bunch of pansies in the SLC is not worth $50 a month.

Tonight I get a knock knock on my door from my friends at the gang task force advising me that they are predicting a retaliatory shooting sometime this weekend in response to the drive by we enjoyed a month ago.

I'm still not getting an alarm, dammit. That would be selling out.

Aging

2008-07-05T09:46:00.007-06:00

Last night, I accepted an invite from Capt. Weirdbeard and the Weirdleader to a double kegger. While I watched the flame douser's little brother do keg stands, I realized it has really come. I am old.

I often joke that I am old, even though I know that 26 is just the beginning. 26 was a great year. I bought my first home, have an awesome job, am mother to the greatest dog ever, and have some amazing friends. I ate well, drank well, traveled well this year. I learned some incredible lessons - lessons of the mind and of the heart. There were tears, there were a helluva lot of laughs (my guess is the ratio was 1:50). Yup, 26 was definitely a good year.

How do I know I am getting old?

My little sister sprouted her first gray hairs this year. I am blond so they are hidden, but I know they are there in spirit.
I went to a party and had a conversation about disciplining dogs.
I went to a party and was one of the only people there born in the 80s.
I woke up the other morning and my first thought was "Jesus Christ this sciatica."
Instead of a new mountain bike like I wanted this month, I bought trees.
I have yelled "get off my lawn" no less than three times this month. And it is only the fifth.

Last night, I wondered, is getting old all that bad? Life gets more challenging as time passes, but I am getting to that point where I can now apply the wisdom I gained from stupid decisions of the past to make better decisions today (plumbers solder does not go on residential HVAC systems: $3,000). I have spent the last five years scared to death of aging, even though day to day, I am cool with the old people's aspects of my life, and for the most part, prefer them.

So what in the hell am I so afraid of?

Just wait a minute

2008-06-19T23:44:00.002-06:00

I have something to say (I know, big surprise, right?)

I don't care if you have known me since I was learning long division. There is a slight chance I have changed just a bit since then.

And you, the one who is complaining I never call? The phone effing rings both ways!

Whew. Glad to get that out.

In other news, I bought A People's History of the United States today after noticing that half of my book collection is missing after the move. After I left the book store, I went home and put in a film. Granted, it was an amazing film, but still, it is midnight and I should have totally read something tonight. But oh well.

Oh, and by the way? 12 Angry Men was worth seeing, even if it did take me six times to see it to the end.

Night.

When God hands you lemons

2008-06-13T06:37:00.001-06:00

Find a new God!

This is the funniest thing. Ever.

WAIT! I am not getting sick!

2008-06-07T21:22:00.002-06:00

I am waiting for What's Up, Tiger Lily to finish burning (holy hell see this film if you haven't yet. Seriously). I skip over to Erin's blog and am watching her give me a Old Timey concert on the violin via YouTube when it all comes together.

This recent smiling at kids?

Peaceful feeling after long walks?

Tolerance of my dirty garage?

Leaving work on Friday at 4:00 with piles of stuff to do to take Izzy to the park with Jeremy and Vegas?

Erin and I had a little chit chat a few weeks ago at one of her now notorious porch parties. I took what she said to heart and made a minor adjustment to my life. (Well a major adjustment in my book, but nonetheless).

Yeah, I am not as productive as I was before. And I will probably put 10 lbs back on. (No, I was not doing meth). But for godssakes, I am happy these days.

And no, I am not attributing anything yet to the flamedouser. Yet.

So thanks Erin. You may have added 10 years to my life.

The hood, redux.

2008-06-07T21:00:00.004-06:00

So I posted that last blog in a rage, grabbed Izzy on a leash and headed out my door for a long run and a really long walk. The streets around Liberty Park are full of houses that each tell a story: huge two story colonials that once housed polygamist families, 1920s bungalows with poppies undoubtedly as old as their foundations, 1940s frame homes with ivy covering wrought iron fences, narrow new construction energy efficient homes carefully built around 200 year old trees with alder facades, struggling to blend in. Every tree lined street tells a new story, xeriscaped boulevards blending prize-winning rose bushes with white columbines and purple catnip.

The sweet air is calming. I am not a person calmed by flower fragrance, breezes, watching children play on tires hanging from pear trees, or Brett Dennan. Maybe I am coming down with something.

I rounded the corner to Roberta Street, and the Astro van blasting Mexi hits is closed down for the night. I crack a Rolling Rock and sit on my porch. Without fail, Izzy finds a tennis ball and plays in the yard.

I am confused.

The rose bushes that I left in the yard when I pulled the gardens out in a bout of ambition a few weeks ago are blooming.

I guess in times like these, you just go with it.

I am still going to take my temperature. Just in case.

The hood.

2008-06-07T19:33:00.003-06:00

Sometimes I am torn about my involvement with Liberty Wells Community Council and our push to shut down the apartments next door. The folks who live there are just people, their crime and gang affiliation is usually motivated by poverty and desperation, perhaps there are things we can do to engage them in the community more so they feel like they are a part of something and should try to protect it with us.

Then there are days like today. I am beat, was up late last night with the flamedouser, got up at 0500 for drill, stopped by Jeremy's to check out Izzy's photos, got home, cleaned the garage. The windows are open because the AC is broken again. I am sitting here trying to get some work done so I can chill with a bottle of wine and watch a movie, and realize that the Mexi music has been on full volume out of a 1989 Astro Van for 3 hours.

I walk over there and ask Indigo if they can pipe it down. He said he doesn't feel like it.

I tolerate their kids in my yard, the immigrants knocking at my door at all hours of the night, the drugs, the gang graffiti, the scary stray bullets, the drug traffic, the random cracked out people walking in my driveway, the media parked in my front yard. Yes, people, even I have a breaking point. It is the shitty music.

I couldn't be more excited to see a demolition ball level those buildings. They don't want to play good neighbor? They don't have to be a neighbor at all.

This just in

2008-06-06T12:24:00.003-06:00

Dun dun dun...

As a follow up to this story, our senior Obamamania Over-analyst, Jeff, said this:

"I bet they smoked plenty of dope.

We'll break in as developments arise.

Breaking News

2008-06-06T12:22:00.003-06:00

Dun dun dun...

This just in: Clinton and Obama met in Dianne Feinstein's living room the other night with nobody to babysit their chat.

The important things to note about this breaking development is that they "sat in comfortable chairs" and that "nothing was served but water."

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

blog

2008-06-01T01:02:00.001-06:00

Memorial Day Weekend: a story by Izzy

2008-05-31T13:32:00.001-06:00

I am a dog, and my writing skills are lacking to say the least, so I think I will let the pictures tell you the story of my crazy mother, her recent obsession with Earthworks art, the Spiral Jetty, and my new aunt and uncle.

First things first, Sam and Michelle slept in my bed, so I had to spend the whole weekend on the couch. The first night wasn't too bad, but by the end of the weekend, my back was killing me.

On Saturday morning, we got up really early. Mom piled us into the car and we go to a parking garage, where I sat in the car and sulked for an hour. They came back with a book and coffee. Apparently the Salt Lake Library hates dogs. Yet another reason I don't read.

We rode in the car for two hours. I had to share my back seat with Sam. He's cool, but thank god for open windows.

We got lost a few times. I swear, that blond mother of mine. We pull up to a jetty looking structure and I was told I was free to roam. Yay!

There are abandoned structures around the jetty that Sam is telling us is from old attempts at drilling oil in the area.

Mom and Sam and Michelle are walking around the strutures talking about boring petro stuff, when mom, in all of her blondness, looks down at the ground and says, "gee, what is that?"

I go in to further investigate. Turns out, it is petro tar junk!

Mom and Sam did what they could to clean me up, but the goop dried and I decided to forget about my misery.

So we get back on the jetty, and guess what, no spiral! Mom was pissed. Something about the jackass who we passed when walking out there who commented on the nice day but didn't bother to say "this is not the jetty you want" or "don't let your dog walk in the tar!" Nonetheless, I was good to go and we drove that whole way, so we pressed on.

On our way off the imposter jetty, I almost died here:

It's an Izzy-sized Great Salt Lake quick salt sand thingy. No bueno.

So now I have tar, salt crystals, rock and water (just like Robert Smithson said I would) all up in my paws. Turns out the real Spiral Jetty is a hike down the road, so we leave the Honda and set out on foot.

It is hot now and my paws are melting on the basalt rock. Mom is relieved to see a "goddamn jetty that effing spirals," whatever that means.

Aunt Michelle, there are no snakes on this couch.

THONG!

Mom thinks she has photo skillz.

Vogue.

I choose not to be associated with these people.

Mom tells me not to bite people? Sheesh.

When they aren't being mechanical engineers and alternative energy sales people, Uncle Sam and Aunt Michelle like to model for Abercrombie. Here, they are together but apart. Shirt, female, 89.99. Hair, male, left, 499.99.

It was really hot. I needed shade.

And that is it! We drove home, where I couldn't sleep in the car because my nose was full of salt snot and I was getting high from the fumes from my paws. Mom tried to soak me in Dawn because Michelle told her that they get oil out of animals in oil spills with it, but it didn't work. It was getting itchy, so mom took me to the groomer late on Saturday night and they shaved my paws. Mom was so upset she couldn't take any pictures. I had to wear tube socks for two days, and then an ecollar for a week.

Lessons learned? Jesus I don't know, I am just a dog. Mom did let me hang out on the couches while I was sick, so I guess it wasn't all that bad.

When life hands you lemons...

2008-05-19T20:12:00.002-06:00

Fourth shooting in the apartment complex next door was tonight. 28 year old woman, holding her baby.

I joined the community council, I was elected to their board. I am pushing to have the city review the property as a nuisance, we are considering suing. I talk to the gang members, I even went over there tonight to talk to the witness who stuck around for the cops with Marissa. Jose helps with my lawn, Indigo talks to me about his nephews. I told my mother I don't feel unsafe because the neighborhood is great, it is just one apartment complex, targeted drug and gang crime, and I wanted to work to make the residents part of the community so they had a reason to take pride and protect it, their home, where their kids live.

I told my mom I would start worrying when the violence was random, when I had to worry about a stray bullet hitting Izzy (I know she's a dog, but dude, do you see this gal having kids anytime soon?). So I called Tony tonight and told him that my four months in Liberty Park are nearing an to an end.

And then I baked a pie.

Being a woman...

2008-05-16T10:38:00.002-06:00

...has it's perks. I don't stink, I can throw a fruit themed promotion and develop an aggressive sales plan all in one day, and I can (usually) think clearly in times of peak imbibing.

Deb sent me a link to a wage gap calculator. Yes, the wage gap still exists, white males.

Here is my assessment:

Reality Check
Gap Calculator Results

You currently make 89% of what the average White Non-Hispanic Male makes with your same job title in the county you provided.

After adjusting for age, education, and industry, you currently make 90% of what your corresponding White Non-Hispanic Male coworker makes.

Over the next 39 years, you will earn $259,940.41 less than your corresponding White Non-Hispanic Male coworker.

Over your entire working life, discrimination will cost you $299,931.25

Your job in the location provided is 68% male and 32% female.

Awesome.

No shit, TV really is back.

2008-05-14T22:59:00.002-06:00

Now that I have Izzy, I start to think of my life in the context of a caretaker, and all of a sudden, procreating doesn't seem like such a stretch.

And then this happens.

My new Comcast DVR doesn't feature a 30 second skip button, so I have to guestimate when fast forwarding through crappy commercials.

Sometimes I am lazy and turn my brain off for 3.5 minutes. Sometimes I watch em.

I saw this tonight. On TV. The walk of shame. Legitimized.

1-800-TUBETIE. First thing tomorrow morning.

Ah, TV is back

2008-05-14T21:56:00.003-06:00

Tell Me You Love Me is on its way back to HBO. I can cancel my subscription to the Jenna Jameson channel.

Top tired for more. So is Izzy. She doesn't like it when we work late. Night night.

Things that make you go hmmm.

2008-05-13T23:27:00.002-06:00

Dave convinced me not to post this blog, so I won't.

Except for this part...
I can do math. Seriously? You cheated on me with her and you cheated on her while you were cheating on me? So #1 was the mistress, doe they even have a name for #2? And you let it all get so out of hand, tangled such a complicated web of deception, all for her? Dude, she isn't even cute.

Have you met my friend Karma? She's a bitch.

Undecided

2008-05-12T22:14:00.002-06:00

I cannot decide what the strangest thing about this video is: that someone has an anteater as a pet (ugh, sorry, creepy and not cute, yuck), that anteaters like cheese whiz, that someone thought to try to get an anteater to walk on its hind legs (furthering the creepiness), that someone named the thing Stewie of all things, or that Keith Olbermann featured it on The Countdown tonight.

Whatever it is, it is the only fitting way to end a Monday like today.