This is Hilary Jorgensen reporting live. Moscow, Idaho.

I was walking down the street one evening in downtown Moscow when I passed this homely looking man sitting outside a coffee shop. I smiled, said hi and kept walking when a second later I hear, "Ya wanna hear a compliment?" I'm always up for ego-boosts so I turned around and said, "Um . . . sure."

"You should be on CNN," he said, and I was like, "Uh, thanks?" "Yeah. There's this girl on there right now," he says. "Her name's . . . uh . . . uh . . . well, I can't remember her name. Anyway, it's just not working out."

I tried, just now, to find a picture of an ugly CNN news anchor to post, but it appears they're all pretty, so I guess it really WAS a compliment.

I thought the convo was over (I try to use that word as much as possible cuz I totally know Andy thinks using that word makes one sound like they're totally like, in high school) but he asked what I did for a living. I said dental hygiene and he said he didn't have any teeth and I said, "I know."

"Wanna know how I lost 'em?" So I said, "Drugs?" and he said, "Yep. And now I'm trying to get people not to do them." He then pulled out this picture that he had taken with his camera of this blue piece of paper with his own rotten, extracted teeth glued on to the paper spelling the word METH. Some of those teeth were 20 years old. Who keeps extracted teeth for 20 years? I gotta say, it was quite disturbing, yet very persuasive. He tried to sell it to me thinking he could make some money off it but then Andy called and I told him I had to go meet my husband so I left.

Moral of the story: Don't do drugs because if you do drugs, then maybe someday, somewhere, someone will post about you on their blog making you sound ridiculous (except for the CNN news anchor part--that was totally not ridiculous).

And I'm posting this picture not because it has anything to do with the story, but because a blog post isn't a blog post unless it has a picture. This is Andy and me at a Mariner's game shortly after a 20-ish year-old kid successfully dashed across the entire field, outrunning all the security guys (one totally wiping out at 2nd base) and would have gotten away had a spectator not clotheslined him as he was running up the stairs about 20 feet from where we're standing in this photo. That was by far the most exciting part of the game (in fact, it was the only time we stood up to cheer) since the score was 1-0 and the Mariner's scored that one run in the first inning.

Move over, Barefoot Contessa!

I have a sophisticated palate. Sure, I'll eat an occasional Subway sandwich or store bought piece of cake, but my taste buds know what they like, and let me tell you, they are not easily impressed. In fact, I think unimpressability is body-wide for me, not just restricted to my taste buds. I once confessed my feelings for Andy by admitting that I was not easily impressed, but that he constantly surpassed my expectations. He ain't no average Joe, ya know; and neither is the food that goes in my mouth (if you know what I mean).


Andy, too, knows I love to critique which is why he got me a subscription to bon appetit magazine for my birthday. I wonder if he regrets buying this for me, because due to its pretentious nature, it's been some added fuel (calories, if you will) to my attempts at being a food snob.

Whenever I talk about restaurants or food to my co-workers here in Moscow (the town with 4.7 restaurants) I gracefully climb upon my high horse and talk down to them
as if they should wish to be me. However, a few days ago while in my own kitchen I found myself falling fast from that same horse as I charred nearly everything I touched--bacon, kaiser rolls, an artichoke, and a large pot and lid. Literally, the base of the pot warped from melting on the stove. Who does that? And tell me, how does the side of a Bosch mixer 4 inches away from said pot also melt?

What you may not understand, is that not every great chef is born with wearing an apron. Take Julia Child for example. I'm sure she melted a little metal in her early day, yet she could definitely hold her own in the kitchen. So I could have molten some arrow tips from a Costco pot. Big deal--it doesn't mean I don't have potential. All I'm saying is don't be surprised if you someday see me on Food Network bumping out Emeril for the primetime spot.


As for now, bring it, Julia.

Stevie Weavie

I have a brother-in-law named Steve Payne. He's a dentist. He's chill. He swivels his hips like Elvis while singing Johnny Cash's Walk the Line. And he wears whatever Lyric buys for him. From the day they got married, Steve has never bought one item of clothing for himself. If you ever meet him and think, "Oh, Steve looks really cute in that outfit" you can be guaranteed that Lyric purchased it for him. He probably didn't even know he needed a new shirt until he saw it hanging in his closet with the tags still on. That's how their relationship is. And it works. Yeah, he's cool. And everybody knows it--including Andy.

The other day I wanted to pick out Andy's outfit for church, which we often do for each other. Without much consideration I carelessly tossed each tie out of the way as if to say, "This needs to go. This one needs to go. This one's U-G-L-Y" and so on until there were only a couple options left on the hanger. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I actually said those words out loud. Anyways. Poor Andy started getting a little defensive about his cherished ties, and with a little resentment and slightly more hostility he blurted out, "You just want me to be like Steve." (I would put an exclamation mark there, but it wasn't quite that dramatic; however, the period doesn't do it justice) It took a second for his statement to register in my brain, but less than a second for me to start busting up.

And Andy says I'm competitive.

Do me a favor. Next time you see Andy, tell him he looks cute in his outfit.

Sorry there's not more pictures of Hilary she wouldn't let me photograph her. I wanted big HTML pics but they got cut off. Slick to see the whole pic.

Love Andy

Lessons from Costa Rica

The scarlet macaw mates for life. They stick together, even through their differences. What the scarlet macaw is to the rain forest (the most beautiful birds ever) Hilary and I are to the glamorous town we live in. And just like me and hil, we ain't afraid to climb up in a tree and wrestle and squawk at each other.

Bloggy-Woggy

I

I have a weak linguistic immune system. For example, on my mission there was this cool elder who stuttered a little bit. The cadence of his speech fascinated me and struck me as oddly beautiful. Then a few weeks later a shy woman told me, “Oh, you stutter like me too?” I had always been an awkward kid, but was never told that I had a stuttering problem.

II

Do you recognize any of these as actual words?

Nap-a-rewski

Oh-Boo-yah

Then there’s the Rhymey-wymey agglutination:

Lunchy-wunchy

Cutesy-wutesy

Money-woney

Guacky-Wocky-Mole (our favorite food)

Hungy-gunk, Snack-a-roni, delish!, t-die-4! freakincute,warmsies, din-din, etc.


I don’t either, but still I say them almost every day. These all come from the American English dialect of Hilarese, what linguistic pathologists might call a “contagious language.” Is what the funny thing is, is that Hilary seems to have some control of her language, only talky-walking to me on that silly willy way, but once I pick it up I can’t put it down. And it’s a tar baby—the more I analyze and criticize this methoderewski of talking, the more it sticks.

III

One of these days I’m gonna go to a pizza place and say, “What do you recommend? Is it t-die-4? Okie-dokie. Can I get a large with pepperonicitos and some delish cheesy wheezy?” Or, if I ever pass law school, I’ll be in open court against Perry Mason on a capital case and say, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury-rino, is what you must know is that the defendant must be found guilty of the crimey-poo beyond a reasonable doubtsy-woutsy.” That’s a malpractice suitsy-wuitsy waiting to happen.

I've always said I wanna be just like Hilary. If talkin like a weirdo is the price I have to pay to pick up on her other qualities, I'm willing to pay that pricerino.

Leg Wrestling

There's no good pictures on google images of leg wrestling, but this^ is pretty awesome.

Ok, Before Hilary gets on here and starts boasting her brains out, I wanted to get the story straight on the leg wrestling match.

If you don't know Hilary, you don't truly understand the meaning of the word competitive.

- Last night she yelled at sweet Emily Hinchey for having a poinsetta pot that was "way cuter" than our poinsetta's pot. (Hot Shopping Tips on our blog: Cute pots at CRoss Dress For Less). Don't worry, Hilary, our nativity set is like 8 times larger, and our little snow man creatures DOMINATE their minnie and mickey mouse wedding Christmas ornaments.
- "Is there anything you can do better than me?"
- "I bet you I can chug this water faster than you" I admit she is a champion water chugger--in fact that was one of the things that sealed the deal. LDS pun intended.

So, after ensuring safe landing areas, 8 minutes of trash talking, and one unsportsmanlike fart in the face (Hilary's fart, my face) just before we began--which totally threw me off my game and probably gave me an asthma attack and should have been a 15-yard penalty, aside from the fact that ham hock and beans is probably an ILWF (International Leg Wrestling Federation) DOPING VIOLATION, then a ten-minute odor abatement period--we started the wrassle.

So she won Round 1 out of three by not flipping me over but by twisting me to the side.
Round 2: my legasaurus totally flipped her over her head. I'm surprised she isn't wearing a neck brace today. I'll admit, she's a tough girl. But I won't admit that her legs are stronger than mine.
Round 3: she won in the same inconclusive way as in the first--in a manner suggestive that she was manually supporting herself on the side against the wall or the counter.

She won't rematch, not for eternity. I say I'm entitled.

I want Holyfield! You seen what these guns can do in Desert Storm, I'll show you what they can do in the ring! Caesar's Palace, Atlantic City!

Please blog your support for the rematch.

P.S. Do not point out the irony that I allege she is the competitive one. I am not doing this so I can win. I am merely a humble seeker of keeping leg wrestling pure in justice and fair play.

Da Bears.

I coach the Moscow High School JV basketball team. We got beat tonight by 65 points by a team with only seven players. I thought teams only lost by that much in heartwarming Disney inspirational movies. The difference between my team and the Disney team, however, is that my team most assuredly will not win the championship at the end of the season like they do in the movies.

Thankfully there's a new rule in Idaho basketball this year--the Mercy Rule. If a team is down by 30-points in the fourth quarter, the game is played with a running clock. That rule has taken effect twice in two games now. And considering we were down by 30 points in the second quarter, I begged the ref to start the running clock right after halftime tonight but he didn't oblige.

The Varsity played after us and got beat by 30, which, by the way, by Moscow Girls' Basketball standards, is not a blowout.

Go Bears!

PG-13

Have you ever known somebody that you thought you knew fairly well, but then they showed up to a Halloween party toting a carved pumpkin that made you question whether or not you really did know them in the first place? This carved pumpkin busted everybody up and would have made my dad (and now Andy too) say, "That's not nice."

That comment may well be said of Andy's first Halloween costume. In case it's not guessable, he's a Piece of Crap (he even had Tootsie Rolls to offer--which inspired his other costume). Notice that for our second Halloween party (the church one), all Andy changed were his accessories.
A couple weeks ago, Andy and I had a getaway to Coeur d'Alene. Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. On the drive home, Andy asked me three random questions.

1. When the Hoover Dam is holding back as much water as it possibly can, how many more drops of water will it take before the entire thing breaks?
2. If you fill up a water balloon to its recommended max, how many more drops of water do you think it will hold before it bursts?
3. You know how you can fill a glass of water so full that the water is above the rim of the glass? How much more water can that glass really hold?

He asked these questions in quick succession and I had no idea where he was going with this. Immediately he started whining that he had to use the bathroom sooooo bad. I think maybe his eyes were even watering. He pulled over and ran into the woods to release some tainted water. He got back to the car and said, "Man, I'm lucky I didn't get hurt in there. I saw a huge albino python spitting all over the place" (how's that for phallic symbol, Katie?).

That's not nice.

Flaming liberal

I got a political season forwarded email from my brother today and it got me a-thinking. The email made a great argumentative analogy using the folk wisdom (which I am all about) of the Aesop fable the Ant and the Grasshopper. The liberal "spread the wealth" philosophy was criticized as punishing the industrious and and rewarding the lazy grasshopper in our society.

I remembered Hilary and I (My views do not represent hers) had recently watched this cartoon from my youth back in the late 1900s:



Watch it--It's good. Note the ending, which departs from the age-old Aesop's fable's usual ending where the lazy grasshopper is kicked out into the winter (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ant_and_the_Grasshopper). I think the Disney happy ending represents well one of the main rationales behind the bleeding heart liberal plan to help poor people: maybe if we give them a hand up now, they can contribute to society a little later on. Consider for example a student grant (or subsidized loan, like the ones I have used). Hopefully the students using them will be able to pay back by contributing to society (and to the tax base that can subsidize others who want to get an education or stay out of the almost inescapable hole of poverty). This, of course, is an easy example to base my argument on. Other welfare programs, though more fraught with abuse and loopholes, use this as a supporting rationale.

You all know me and how I love to debate. By no means do I want to create a spirit of contention. Nor do I mean to make an overt liberal argument--just a rumination. Thank goodness for the grasshopper that he could fiddle. There are lots of people who can't give back in any way and can't play any sort of figurative fiddle for society, that's for sure. Are we still motivated to help them if they're helpless? Then there are lots of people (but not all) who won't end up giving back because they're lazy. How do we distinguish between them? It's not easy to draw that line. The government tries to, believe it or not. And much of this trying, ironically, is thanks to Bill Clinton's welfare reform. There are definitely other ways to interpret the grasshopper cartoon--the tobacco product placement model--the insects are people too, and should not be eaten view--and the "I can find secret phallic symbols in any Disney cartoon" approach.

Andy Jorgensen

If only there were blue leaves too.

I know it's no Louisville,
Lex, but ya still gotta love 'em.
Ain't thousands of tress here
More like ten of 'em.

Leaf colors were stolen
From all over the rainbow.
'Cept for turquoise and pink--
We saw none of those.

Or navy or midnight
Or aquamarine.
Simply red, orange, and yellow
Is all that we seen.

But don't get me wrong.
I ain't a'whinin'.
It ain't the tree's fault;
It's for no lack a' tryin'.

They desperately tried
All them colors to catch.
Blue just took off
Before it was snatched.

Pink was too fast.
Must'a had somewhere to go.
But all them other colors
Were just too darned slow.

But lucky for us.
'Cause, all we'd be seein'
Over and over
Is green after gre-en.

Relish it now
Even if there's no blue.
'Cause red, orange, and yellow
Will soon have better things to do.

Polsih my boots, peon.

"East meets West" was the name of the benefit dinner and auction we volunteered at last night. People were encouraged to dress up in Asian or cowboy western attire. Although I was tempted to paint my face white and go as a geisha girl, I reverted to my I-don't-so-much-really-like-dressing-up ways and just slipped on my Harley Davidson boots. Andy conveniently has a small plethora of western wear, including his $5 bargain boots. Nothing says "Hey, everybody. Look at me" like a 6'7" white boy in camel colored cowboy boots, a belt buckle and a flannel shirt.

We were gonna get a picture with this guy sporting a kimono, but we thought he might Jackie Chan us, hence the solo couple.And all I can say right now, being 3 months pregnant (not quite, actually), is thank goodness for stretch denim. Trust me, I realize my thighs and booty are ginormous. I really should learn how to pose so I accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.

Andy suggested we create a cowboy boots club. He accepted the nomination to be president (mostly because his boots could totally kick my boots' butt), and announced that his first order of business as president was to make me polish his boots. The club was dissolved right then and there.