Fellow Knows Best

I do heartily apologize for the lack of the blog from my department. I have not held up my contract. I would like to blame it on me actually have gotten a life and done some things. But alas. Lie I do. It is true that I have been out of town quite a bit, but that does not excuse this behavior. So I am going to do a little experiment. I am going to blog every day for the next week.

I went on a mini-cation a couple weekends ago. It was amazing. Lincoln City, Oregon never even saw Hurricane Stoker coming. It was a complete surprise attack from the ocean accompanied by rogue and sneaker waves. Tagard Outlet mall has consumed every bit of my carefully planned out 401K. It was an exciting weekend filled with clamming which is quite the hot new extreme sport. Might I also add that this particular Stoker branch-especially my entity-doesn't eat clam, nor do we have any idea of how we would go about the consumption of said vile crustacean. Antiqueing also wasted a majority of our weekend. Here I thought antiqueing would be an enlightening experience taking my brain back to a better time. Yea a better time that is assanignly expensive to remember. It was an expensive garage sale of junk.

Now I would like to jump a few weeks that were filled with a few special things but none of grave importance to blog readers anywhere-ooh except for American Idol which was fab as well it should have been-to today.

I decided to hit the garden hard today, and pick some berries of the rasp persuasion. And pick I did. Minus the exception of a few disgust-a-berries, I got a farmers market quality bowl of the Stoker household delicacy. I braved the elements. Sun, Wind, and spiders. Those 8-legged miscrients are a disgrace to my garden. As if delving myself deep into overgrown, berry-bearing pricklers isn't enough sacrifice for the sweet treat, I had to keep an eye out for those potentially fatal sneaklers. Similar looking to a bee keeper, I was fully clothed just to make sure I completely thwarted every vampiric spider from sampling my always light and refreshing red kool-aid. Just because you are a spider doesn't mean you get special treatment, you've got to pay the piper for the red wine cooler just like everyone else no freebies for you. And no, we don't accept lethal venom by the nano-liter. C'mon be more original you little blemishes on the porcelain skin of the world. Brian Fellows said it best "That is one fuzzy bug. If I had a bug like that, I would make a coat out of him"

Since I know everyone loves picture books. I have a picture blog-a pictoblog if you will, to document my birthday.

There once was a girl named Gwenny. Gwenny went to the grocery store one day to get some food for a super sweet birthday bash of a party.

Gwenny was having a grand time perousing the cake mixes when she caught sight of her arch nemesis, Emilia checking how nutritous and delicious potato chips are-oh and they are quite because I say so.

Frantic to get her chips and get out, her T-Rex arms just weren't long enough and couldn't reach the always delish Doritos. Darn those genetic defects.

Along with having T-Rex arms, she also has short duck legs-yet another genetic defect-making it incredibly difficult to out-fight let alone out-run your foes. So she put her best defense mechanisms to work.

The Turtle move. It's a classic. Gets them every time.

*Phew!* That was a close call. The Turtle had worked!! The Evil Emilia hadn't seen Gwenny. She was soo out of the woods now. Or so she thought.

Emilia HAD indeed seen Gwenny and had waited to ambush her outside!! But Gwenny was ready for her and gave her the ole 1-2 combo right to the gipper. Gwenny worked those tiny little t-rex arms into shape, and those duck legs were burnin up the pavement. Good overcame evil once again. Gwenny is now ready to battle Madge and her evil Kabbalah empire.

The B-day Bash

Clinton-aka The Butcher

Garret-aka Canada

Make nice before blood.

A hair of assistance in the Socker Bopper department

And as Mills Lane would say: "Leeeeet's Get it on!"

The Butcher goes down first, but is merely tiring out the competition first. Those cows sure taught him the ways.

Just when wer thought the battle was over and declared Canada the winner, The Butcher hopped up and began to roll circles around unsuspecting Canada.

Emilia...ahem I mean Emily taking a birthday beating from the Birthday Girl.

After doling out a few beat downs, it turned out to be a pretty fabuloso day of the sumo birthday.

Applications Accepted Here

As far as I know, I have no enemies. I have a need for one. I am putting out an APB for one. Currently accepting applications. If you already hate my guts, then perfect! Fill out an application, because you are at the top of my list and have the most credentials for the job. Or if you are on my friend list and wish to make the switch, now if the time kids for I won't consider you a traitor-it'll be for a good cause. Fence sitter? Pick a team. You can't have cake and not digest it too.

Why would one want an enemy? Two words, my potential enemies. Mud Wrestling.

I was watching I love 1981: 3D-always amazing-when it did a little bit about a mud wrestling show. I don't know if it was the Sally Jesse Raphael of mud wrestling, but the idea sounded nice to me! So that got me thinking...I need someone to have a beef with me. So naturally I went to my mental Rolodex, I scrolled through to my enemy list, only to find it nonexistent. Perfect. To Do List: Find/Make an enemy, Find/Make Up/Steal an Awesome/Intimidating moniker, Find/Make a Fancy Fighting Suit.

First up on the agenda, my outfit. Not that I don't want to go Nacho Libre on all contenders, because believe you me I totally do! It's just that I don't think it would be fair to scar your tender precious retinas with all my wobbly bits on display for all to ogle jostling around reminding you that you forgot to saran-wrap the jello jigglers before you left the house-that is unless I charged admission. So for the sake of you my sweet, potentially cheering audience, I have chosen to keep it classy and don a formal gown, frolic in the mud, and administer a mud facial-complete with a mud bath for the rotting gums-to the dirty girl that stole my baby's' daddy while I have her straddled in a full-body-pin. 4 points for a takedown. Back off you desperate Sally Jesse Raphael writers, I thought of it first.

I already have a friend named Jesse, he fixes my car. Does this Donkey fix cars?

Mindi's fabulous get-up

Yes. I rocked a somewhat do-rag. The original grease monkey.

Action Shot!! Proof that I can indeed "work" on my own car.

Recent events have led me to beleive that I have no luck. Zero. Zilch. If it is true that bad things happen to good people, then I am the equivolent of Mother Theresa-which apparently according to this past weeks' indignant remarks that haunt my thoughts, and escape through my gabbing vocal orifice is so far fetched it makes Hitler look like Gandhi. I digress. I do have luck. Just not with things that require gasoline or a motor to evacuate where it currently resides.

Exhibit A. Driving down to conference last October of the 2007 calendar year, I had the great honor to be driving a 1-ton speeding purple bullet down the I-15. Right between Dubois and Hamer, Idaho. Such beautiful scenery. NOT. Especially while it is snowing snowflakes somewhere between the size of a rice cake and your face. It was about 2:30 in the AM-we were hardcore Mormons that night-and everyone else was napping. I was content jamming out and driving. That is until the car stutters, and a flashing orange light appears on the dash. The cruise control that I so delicately may or may not have set 3-4 MPH above the alotted speed constraints, had voluntarily shut itself off. Pansy. I very calmy awaken my slumbering navigator, and request her services to retreive the guide book about the car from the compartment of gloves. I tell her what the indicator looked like, and told her to find out what it meant. If anyone lacks knowledge about Dodge Durangos, I will enhance your knowledge with three facts: 1. It is a tank. So keep on truckin. 2. If ever a orange lightning bolt shows up, you should probably stop at the next available town and have that taken care of. 3. If that little indicator lightning bolt is flashing however, then you had better hope to the snow capped Rockies that you programmed Hooker's (the local Tow man-I kid you not his name is Hooker) emergency Tow number into your tellie.

They just keep on comin my friends.

Exhibit B: Went to Rexburg the weekend before Memorial Day. The ride there was pleasant enough. I trucked a 24 hour day, and come sugar or high energy bever to the age I was still gonna be relatively in a decent mood when I got there. I succeeded. The way home however, was not as glamorous. My cohorts and I pulled into Missoula to get gas at this super ghetto place. Friend number 1 cheerily navigating-which to me means not playing gay songs on the iPod and passing the sugary delicates to the master and commander, i.e.-yours truly. Friends 2 & 3 chattering in the rear something about being locked in their seatbelts and the inescapable sunshine. My vehicular must have a sixth sense of stranger danger, because as soon as we pull in, the check engine light comes on. Fan-fetchin-tastic. I get on the bugle horn, and call the Mother ship, to which she tells me to check the oil. I did as was told-with a homeless posse and their dog as an audience-but to no avail. Oil level and temperature was at appropriate everything. The Mother Ship then patched me through to the Command Center (my mechanically inclined-and reclined watching 'the game'-Padre) to which I send him my distress signal about some possible bad Idaho gasoline, and get the never appreciated, "There's nothing I or you can do. Drive home and we'll take care of it when you get home." Suuuuuuper. I am minorly OCD, and a light out of the norm that I cannot turn on and off is a pretty big deal. I enjoyed a quite stressful 4-ish hour drive back to Moses Lake.

Exhibit C: Later that week, my sisters inform me that something is quite possibly ary with my muffler. I shimmy mysef under, only do severly disappoint-and managed to snag myself on the undercarriage of my car. Yes, indubitably my muffler was broken and had to my great disapproval rusted in two.

Exhibit D: The NEXT DAY, I was driving my mom's car and was late to pick up Deidra, late to pick up my sister, and late to meet a newfound friend. Just all around late. Thus making me late to lay down blankets for a coveted "good seat" at the super fab Memorial weekend lip sync. Snatched Deidra from her house, then was ALMOST (nearly 2 blocks) to where LA Gear was, when I hear-and feel-a vibration. Not good. Pull up outside, to find that I had run over a razor blade and gained a flat tire-which was ridiculously hard to get off. Pardon the language, but honestly who the hell throws a razor blade onto the highway? Lucky me, said blanket sitters were also late :)

Exhibit E: Going down to the always awesome Grand Coulee Dam Lazer Light Show, The radio stopped working, just shut off. Nothing to do with the fact that we had no cell reception. Or the fact that the "back way/shortcut/fast way" we took was total two toothed raper country.

Exhibit F: I went to get my muffler checked out, and the lady told me that I needed rear brakes BAD. I trust women mechanics. I feel like we have a non-lesbian connection because we have more emotions unlike the majority of our male counterparts. So I go home, told the Padre, and began my exile to Grease Monkey Island. Which, thanks to the Orange-scented Pumice scrub for mechanics, isn't all that bad. Got on my grubbies, my sweat rag to fend off potential retina burning and cornia blinding salty beads of sweat, and my fancy coveralls that were embroidered for "Jim Bob", and my ship had set sail.

After changing my break pads, I decided it was time for me to graduate the same way I did when I was 4, from 4 wheels to 2. I want to learn to scoot my way about town on a motorcycle. Not that I want you all to start sending me flannel and wolf shirts-I have too many. I need boots now, so if any of you have any size 8's you're throwing out, think of me before you do. But I think it would be something cool to have in my arsenal of tricks and skills. But alas, apparently my dads two wheeler would need to be idot proofed with training wheels for me to be able to learn because it's apparently "too big for me". Since when did I become fragile and un-expendable? I want to learn how to scoot on 2 not 4 wheels, so what's the point? 4 wheels are so last season not to mention nerdy. Someone sign me up for a geek fair and get me a pocket protector stat.

Cheers Big Ears!!

Lighter Side-note

Oh and I got paid today. So all in all, I had a very lovely week. Not to mention, the Scattergories tourney which was amazing. Dippin Dots to you, and to all pineapple Jarritos.

This is one Apple who fell VERY far from the family stump

This last Monday was Memorial day. Woot woot for all you Veterans out there, as for me I don't always look forward to this day. Right on, we are out of work and school temporarily. But in the Stoker household, we do things right. We have family reunions. Just some highlights from the extravaganza, my extended family might think I'm pregnant-my plate was heaping full...and I may or may not have gone back for seconds...don't judge. Also, a cousin-may have been the wife of a 2nd cousin-asked me what my last name was. I understand that I possibly could have been a Stoker at one point in time and have since snagged myself a honey and changed my last name, but the odds are that if you are at a STOKER family reunion, your last name was once or is still Stoker. So it doesn't really matter what your last name is. You're there. And you're related to everyone.

Tuesday. Went to a Seattle Mariners game. I just may be a closet Boston fan. I love that Manny Ramirez! It was a pretty exciting game, the starting short stop AND the coach for Boston both got ejected. Ellery made a new friend who I think flew there with his kid from Boston for the game. Thanks to Clinton, I now know what a "rally cap" is, and what it means to the supersticious super-fans. Whoever decided that it would be a brilliant idea to smother and soak everything in garlic and sell it to ravenous patrons in a highly dense crowd at a ballpark, should be drowned in liquified garlic. Remind me also next time to take my own bottle of water. Unless I just found my way back from being stranded in a desert or we are going through a serious drought, I refuse to pay $4.25-$4.75 for a 16.9 oz. bottle of Aquafina. I don't really give a rats scaly rear part how "fina" their "Aqua" is, I'm still not shelling out the lettuce. Next stop, save the fishes with all the water I'm not consuming.

Also at the game, there was a Boston superfan I would say, who kept yelling for Ichiro! I would understand if we were up close to the infield, perhaps maybe right behind the batter's box, but we were in right field, considering Ichiro is a center fielder and most likely doesn't care about you, he can't hear a word you are saying friend so stop trying. And there was a kind drunk behind us, who bought another beer for a totally plastered stranger because the ballpark wouldn't sell him anymore booze. Really? I know alcohol alters your state of mind and inhibits judgement and what not, but I had no idea it made you an idiot!!! He even came back and talked to his lady friend-who thinks mormons give everyone cancer, and thinks that someone shat (pooped) on her friend because apparently he smelled like fecal matter-about the somewhat of a good deed he had just done. Well done my friend, you just sent a flaming drunk on his merry way cup-o-frosty-cold-delight in one hand and car keys-with my luck-to a semi-truck that is soon to run me off the road. Many thanks pal, I applaud your good deed and open my wallet for the extra taxes I'm soon going to have to pay to fix the road barrier your hammered friend ruined. What a tool.

Cheers Big Ears!!

True Life and MTV's Made exclusive: LARP-ing. Hot? or Not?

A few weeks ago, the entire Stoker Clan was home. And like any other family get together, something stupid happens. An "accidental" punch in the face, a rolled 4-wheeler, a snowmobile best-trick showdown, a socker bopper fight, obnoxiously doing things to a sibling purely because you know they hate it. All may or may not be done in good spirits, but more or less is fine holiday fun. LA-Gear (LauriAnn's stage moniker after the killer shoe brand) and I decided to go out for a joy ride to christen the new quad Dad had purchased so he and Mom could go 4-wheeling with friends. Now before I begin my saga, riddle me this-when did my parents decide that 4-wheeling was their favorite new outdoorsy activity, and when did they get friends to do it with?

Decked out in a lesbianne jacket (a lumberjack's plaid jacket worn by a girl, typically worn in our family to help fix things outside), a fighter pilot hat, and a red and black checkered hunters' vest, we embarked on a journey of a lifetime. We patrolled the creeks edge careful not to get sucked in, raced the fenced in poochies, raced Mindi and Brandt, traded spots, and began again. It was around this time that we decided to go out on a limb and try something new. Something that is hot on the scene right now. We decided to give LARP-ing a go. LA has seen competitions at Manito Park up in Spokane by her house, so we both knew what it was. I admit it. I am a nerd of sorts. Not quite nerd convention material, but LA and I could hold our own in a Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings trivia showdown. So in honor of Lord of the Rings trilogy-which we love and watch the extended version all the time-we donned the characters we associated with the most. I, was the Dwarf-ironic I know, LA was the Elf, and we drove around running over tufts of bushes and many an accidental bramble, but what is an action/sci-fi movie without a bleeding cut right? On our jaunt through Middle Earth and the Ridimark, we encountered something horrible. Orc-like. I, captaining our vessel, and LA navigating, saw a skunk. Right then and there I dropped character and froze. I hesitated. I didn't want to scare the thing, bc I wasn't super excited about smelling like a skunk for a long time. Thankfully, LA came to our rescue, gunned it, and took us back home, where I confessed that had we gotten sprayed by that mangy varmit I would have skipped church. I took into consideration all of your tender senses and vulnerable noses, you're welcome.

Although I just made a complete fool of myself by sharing this insight to my nerdy mind, and probably lost the respect I worked SO hard to get, I wanted to put to rest the whisperings and rumors about the true life of LARP-ing and expose it for what it is: an expressive way for grown men to interact in each others imaginatory scenarios that lack access to dolls. I can knock it. I've tried it.