Strawberry Blonde + Strawberry Festival = LOVE

Jeff and I took a trip last weekend to celebrate our anniversary. We arrived in Agoura Hills Friday night around nine. The hotel was warn and welcoming, once we got past the gatekeepers.

Not so scary during the day, but decently foreboding at night. "Nevermore!"

We slept in 'til noon Saturday and spent the rest of the day drinking ridiculously over garnished cocktails on the beach in Malibu.

I was really looking forward to Sunday because we were planning to go to the Strawberry Festival in Oxnard. I hadn't been since I was eight, and the only memory I had of it was getting to build my own strawberry shortcake. Picture a bowl full of strawberries and cake topped off with 3-4 inches of whipped cream. This is my version of Heaven.

Jeff was a little skeptical about the festival. I think he only agreed to go because I got so excited at the prospect, and he couldn't bear to disappoint me. We decided to get there early and beat the crowds. As we were pulling into the parking lot, Jeff's ears perked up.

"Babe, I hear a marching band. Their drum line sounds pretty good."

As we walked through the gate, Jeff's eyes got huge. There in front of us was the marching band, and surrounding it on all sides were booths selling every kind of food imaginable. This was Jeff's version of Heaven.
We listened to Oxnard High School's band perform while munching on strawberry popcorn. Then we headed for the vendor booths. The vendor area consisted of rows and rows of tents full of homemade wind chimes, tie-dye clothing, amateur art, chainsaw sculptures, and handmade specialty soaps. I bought a delightfully strange print from a Haitian "Modernistic Artist/ Chef Creole/ Vocalist/ Percussionist Extraordinaire" named Willie Louie Jean Paul. I'm NOT making this up. I don't even like Chihuahuas. I just thought this was awesome!

Jeff thinks I'm insane.

Next we decided to grab lunch. Jeff had a boring old tri-tip sandwich. I opted for a strawberry glazed chicken skewer. MMMMMMM. Lunch in hand, we made our way to the main stage to see who was playing.

The band was called "Mini Driver"(like the actress only smaller?). It consisted of four grown men in rock star costumes singing and playing to Black Eyed Peas and Lady Gaga tracks. Once again, NOT KIDDING. In the presence of such absurdity, there was only one thing I could do... dance...with this guy:

After my dance floor workout, I decided it was time for round three of festival food. Roasted corn on the cob and strawberry wine for me. Curly fries and strawberry beer for Jeff. Yum!

By this time, the crowd was getting thicker, the sun was getting hotter, and the BBQ smoke was stinging my eyes. We both were ready to go, so we bought two flats of the world's greatest strawberries, and I got in line to make myself a bowl of strawberry shortcake that would put my childhood memories to shame.

"So, how did you like the Strawberry festival, Babe?" I asked Jeff as we searched the crowded parking lot for our car.

"Oh my gosh! The food! The crazy people! The amazing strawberries!"

We set one of the baskets of berries between us in the car and munched on them the whole way back to Bakersfield, the perfect ending to a perfect weekend.

Ode to Mom - Better Late Than Never

Meant to post this on Mother's day, but things sort of got away from me.

Ways my mother tortured me as a kid, and the reasons I'm so thankful:

1. She insisted on correcting my grammar.

Me: Mom, can I have some ice cream?

Mom: I don't know, can you?

Me: Where's the ice cream at?

Mom: Rebekah, don't end your sentence with a preposition. It's unbecoming. Now, what did you need?

Me: I've forgot.

She also insisted on using vocabulary generally reserved for for SAT testing in everyday life. My sister and I were never "grounded", we were put on "restriction" or"temporary privilege suspension". Nothing was ever "pretty" or "good". Things were always "resplendent", "exceptional", or "prepossessing".

In my cretinous state of adolescence, I tended to take umbrage at my mother's attempts to instill in me a firm grasp of the English language. I found her magniloquence pretentious.(Thank you Thesaurus.com) I did not understand at that time that she was doing in my daily home life what most schools in this state fail to do in 12 years: instilling in me the ability to communicate with anyone on any level.

As the great Ludwig Wittgenstien said (according to Google), "The limits of my language are the limits of my mind. All I know is what I can communicate and comprehend."

2. My mother made me clean, cook, sew, and garden.

I resented and resisted it for the most part. The cooking and gardening I didn't mind so much, but I couldn't help feeling that I was being groomed to become the perfect 1950s housewife.

At age 17, the day of reckoning came. I moved out of the house and into my first college dorm. My freshman year at college I was surrounded by girls who had never lifted a finger in their lives, so I took advantage of them. I cleaned their rooms, and did their laundry for cash. Thanks, Mom!

3. She didn't let me have a boyfriend until I was 16.

She should have made me wait til I was 20.

4. She never spoiled me with the latest trends.

I can remember wanting the name brand clothes as a kid (BUM Equipment, Stussy, L.E.I.). That stuff was pretty expensive and my mom didn't believe in wasting money for the sake of my vanity. I also really wanted Nintendo and cable TV. Everyone else had that stuff! I felt so deprived. Mom always encouraged me to look inward to find my self-worth.

"Why would you want to waste your mind on video games or television?, she would ask. "Do you want to go to the library?"

I learned pretty quickly that if I wasn't ever going to have the things I needed to be truly "Cool", I would have to establish myself in other ways.

Please note the extremely uncool flowered turtleneck.

In 5th grade I decided to learn to play the tuba. I wrote poetry. I painted. I read. I embraced my general lack of coolness. Jeff is the same way, and I think that's one of the things I love most about him. He has never been concerned about having the latest and the greatest things. He needs very little to be happy. Even as adults, we take pride in our ability to revel in lameness. We don't have IPods, Wiis, new furniture, or cool cars, but we have a ton of fun together. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I can honestly say that in retrospect, I consider it a blessing to have been raised counterculturally, and I certainly feel better off for it. Mom, you did a great job! I hope that one day I can be half the mother you have been. Happy Mother's Day!

A Little Retro Fun

One of my greatest memories is the time I spent at the rollerskating rink as a child. My uncle owned a limousine service, so he would often ferry my cousins, my sister and me to Skating Plus in style. We felt like celebrities. I spent hours skating around in circles under the glistening disco ball, the pink wheels of my barbie skates squealing in time to the latest hits by TLC, The Real McCoy and Michael Jackson.
The hours passed like minutes, and before long, a familiar announcement came over the loudspeaker.

"Ladies, your limousine has arrived. Please make your way to the exit."

All through my childhood, the rollerskating rink always made for a perfect Sunday afternoon.


These days, my idea of a perfect Sunday afternoon is a little different. Usually it involves at least two hours passed out on the couch with the television on. Last weekend, however, in a moment of nostalgia-inspired spontaneity, I announced to my husband that I was craving a little time on the rink.

"Sure, Babe!", he replied enthusiastically. "Oh, and by the way, I'm awesome at skating!"

He wasn't kidding. Time had not had the same cruel effects on his skating ability that it had had on mine. I attribute this to the fact that Jeff has always been tall and thin, whereas my proportions have changed significantly since age ten. Jeff could hardly suppress his amusement as I wobbled, teetered, and fumbled awkwardly though the obstacle course of six-year-olds. I used to be so good at this! My husband immensely enjoys any activity that allows him the opportunity to show me up. He whizzed gracefully past me, the picture of perfect coordination.

Soon after our arrival, a delightfully effeminate young gentleman announced that it was "like totally time to, like, move to the thenter of the rink and, like, form a thircle!"

"Finally, " I thought, "a chance to get a Diet Coke and sit down!"

But Jeff had other plans. He grabbed me by the hand and drug me into the circle with all the little kids.

"Come on, Babe! Who doesn't love the Hokey Pokey?," he teased.

"ME!"

The music began and with extreme reluctance, I did my best to "shake it all about". Now I know why Jeff loves the Hokey Pokey so much. To him, watching me try to dance in skates is definitely "What its all about".

All in all, our afternoon of retro fun hit the spot.

In summation:

Pairs of brightly colored rental skates: 2
Six-year-olds nearly killed: 4
Times I fell on my butt: 2
Blisters: 0
Licorice Ropes consumed: 1
Excellent Sunday afternoons: 1

One Pint Closer to Freedom

I was eleven years old. I remember the anxiety I felt on the car ride to the Kaiser Permanente office. I remember my mom checking me in at the counter, and the way the receptionist looked at me with pity as my mother uttered the words, "Tetanus Shot". My shoulder throbbed in anticipation.

In addition to my mother it took two nurses and a doctor to hold me down while they inserted the needle. I screamed and thrashed like a cat in a bathtub, but it was to no avail. My time in that doctor's office was short, but it left a lasting impression on me. The memory of that needle has continued to haunt me well into adulthood.

For example:

• I dropped out of school at CSUB because they required me to get vaccinated for Hepatitis B before I could register for my second semester.


• I hear that there are needles involved in the whole pregnancy process. Hence, no children.


• I've always wanted to work with children in Africa, but I was told I'd have to be vaccinated before I could go. So I'm still here.

As you can see, my fear of needles is sort of crippling my ability to move on with life. I realized this a while ago, but hadn't done anything about it...UNTIL TODAY. Today I decided to take a big girl pill and face my ultimate fear.

I work at a high school, and the Houchin Blood Bank bus makes regular visits here so that staff and older students can donate blood. I'm not sure why I felt the need to donate blood. Sometimes when a big decision is spontaneous, it makes it easier for me. No time to get worked up.

I filled out the questionnaire.

No, I have not had sex for money or drugs.

No, I have not had sex with any gay men.

No, I have not shared needles or used drugs for recreation.

No, I am not donating blood to receive a free AIDS test.

Next, they took my blood pressure(90/52), checked my pulse(70bpm), took my temperature(97.4), and weighed me(you wish).

I knew it was coming, and the anxiety was almost overwhelming...the finger prick to check my iron levels. I can distinctly remember passing out in Biology class in high school during the blood type lab. I pricked my finger, saw my blood, and the world went black. So when the nurse pricked my finger today, I feared the worst. It didn't hurt too much, but once the red liquid came oozing out of my finger tip, I knew I was done for. My head began to spin, and my vision clouded up. When I woke up, I was laying on the floor with my legs up. I was covered in ice packs.

"You don't have to do this.", the nurse assured me.

"I've come this far!", I protested, "Just let me spend a little time in my happy place. I can do this!"

Ten minutes later, I felt much better, albeit colder. I convinced the head nurse to let me proceed and headed nervously(free t-shirt, pizza coupon, and bag of peanuts in hand) to the donation bus.

I prayed the whole way.

"Jesus, please don't let me pass out. Jesus, please don't let the needle hurt!" Jesus was probably up in Heaven laughing at what a wuss I was being.

I boarded the bus, and met with the phlebotomist. (Yes, that is what the needle-pokey people are called.) She was very sweet and did her best not to slap me while I winced and moaned and tensed, and forgot to breathe. Throughout the whole process, she kept my arm covered with a sheet, so I didn't see a drop of my own blood.

Ten agonizing minutes later, I was done. I was one pint lighter and sporting a super-cool purple bandage on my right arm. As I sat there, sipping my tiny can of apple juice, I felt proud. I had faced my greatest fear and won. I have no immediate plans for college, pregnancy, or trips overseas, but I do have another appointment to donate in eight weeks. Slowly and surely, I'm working my way through.

Donkeys and Elephants: A Love Story

In light of recent propaganda surrounding the newly-passed health care bill, I give you the story of a forbidden love between a Democrat and a Republican. Two households, both alike in dignity...

I was raised in a conservative Christian home by conservative Republican parents who did their best to instill in me a strong sense of family values and personal responsibility. Hats off to you, Mom, and Dad. You did a great job.

Six years ago, I brought home a boy named Jeff. He was handsome, Godly, musically gifted, a lover of children and animals and me, everything I could ask for. My parents prepared the standard Fowler family spaghetti dinner. My dad told the story about how he made a hole in one the first time he played golf in 8th grade and walked away from the game because it was "too easy". Everything was going smoothly...UNTIL

Dad: So, Jeff. We might as well get down to it. Are you a Republican or a Democrat?

Jeff (innocently): Democrat

Me: Dad! I didn't know. Really! Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!

Mom: Really Jeff? Are your parents Democrats as well?

Jeff (sensing impending doom): um... y..yes

Me: Honestly guys, I had no idea. We really haven't been dating that long. His family is so nice. I mean they're Christians! I just assumed...

That night, I knew what needed to happen. My relationship with Jeff, wonderful though it was, would have to end. He was a tree-hugging baby killer.

Ironically, that night Jeff was making the same decision I was. How could he continue in a relationship with a gay-hating war-starter?

After a VERY long conversation and way too many Sonic Cheddar Poppers, we came to the conclusion that neither of us really lived up to the others negative assumptions. We decided to temporarily call off the break-up. Then we made out.

Six years later we are a happily married, politically moderate, couple, and our families get along just fine (as long as no one mentions Obama or gay/lesbian representation in movies).

"Fifi" and Other Unfortunate Monikers

Went thumbing through and old journal of mine today. I wrote in it periodically from ages 12-17. That's an interesting (and by interesting, I mean hormonally charged) time in the life of a girl.

Yes, I named my journal "FiFi", but in my defense, it was after a WWII B-29 Bomber. I know, thats not really a defense.

When I was twelve, I wrote five full pages about the various prey my cat left on the back porch (mostly gofers). At thirteen, I wrote about how evil my parents were and how readily I was awaiting the sweet release of my eventual death (pretty sure that was right after I "became a woman"). When I was fourteen, I wrote about my friends and copied recipes from the anarchist cookbook (Yes, I have the recipe for napalm. No, I will not give it to you). When I was sixteen, I wrote about boys, well, one boy. Apparently he was the end-all, be-all, only thing I would ever need for eternity...poor guy.

The most entertaining entry was a list of potential child names. And so I present, without further ado:

15-Year-Old Becky's Future Child Monikers

For a girl:

Harmony Bloom

Rosemary Harp

Teardrop Shine

Meadow Lark

Winter Bright


For a boy:

Ransom Byrd

Hansel Skye

Christian Glass

Collin North

Bracken Carter

YIKES! Is it just me, or do all these sound like great names for emo bands?

Pimpin Myself Out for Readership

I was reading online today about how to get more people to read your blog and comment on it. As of today, I only have 7 followers (And I love you, Mom, Laurel, Robin, Meghan, Jaress, Aunt Nora, and Burt).

One of the suggestions was to post nude or nearly nude pictures of yourself on your blog. In all my pale chubbiness, I can't imagine that this would work, but I figure its worth a shot, so here goes nothing!

Quick! Now leave me a comment, and go tell your friends!

Ratio Intolerance

It's a problem I've had since I was a child. Whenever I got a bag of M&Ms or Skittles, I immediately dumped them all out and separated them into piles by color. Then I would even out the piles by eating the extras. After I had perfectly even piles, I would eat one from each pile (in rainbow order), always careful to maintain an even ratio, until all the candy was gone. I've done this for as long as I can remember, and it never seemed strange to me until I met Rick.

Rick requested that I bring a meat, cheese, and cracker tray to our small group one week. I did, and in true Becky form, there was a perfect ratio of 1 meat:1 cheese: 1 cracker. That's just good sense, right? But then Rick did the unthinkable. He made a sandwich! (cracker/meat/cheese/cracker) I didn't want to make a big deal about it, so I quickly scarfed down a piece of meat and a piece of cheese. "There", I thought, "All fixed". Then he did it again, and he wasn't the only one! I sat there all evening keeping a mental tally and trying to eat up the difference. Needless to say, by the end of the night, I was sick, and my small group was more than a little concerned.
What is wrong with me?

Attack of the Killer Tail

I brought Bug home as a three-week-old kitten
with every intention of finding her a good home
somewhere else. When our other other cat, Ellie, started carrying her around the house in her mouth and bathing her, we knew she was destined to stay. She was so adorable. We had no idea she would grow up to be the mentally unstable cat that she has since become.



This wasn't just a one-time thing that we happened to get on camera. Bug does this ALL DAY.

Jeff identifies with her a little. After
all, his mom did have to take the tail off of his Halloween costume when he was a kid. Why? Because it was super scary! Duh! Thank God nobody ever told him that lizard tails grow back.

The Little Drummer Boy

See, this is proof that Jeff was taking dangerous fashion risks long before he met me. Sorry, Honey!

What's So Great About Tuesday?

Absolutely nothing. Then only thing that Tuesday has going for it it is that its not Monday. I hate Mondays!

When I was in fourth grade, I was coerced into competing in the impromptu category of the oral language festival. I had no idea what that was, but somebody must have told me I would get candy for doing it. That was the only reason I did anything in those days. In fact, it still is. "Chocolate? I'm in!!!!"

My ten-year-old self didn't discover what she was in for until assigned a topic question - "What is your favorite day of the week, and why?" Then I was told I had five minutes to think about it before giving a ten minute speech in front of three judges. Well five minutes isn't much time for a borderline A.D.D., sugar-starved fourth grader to organize her thoughts. I'm pretty sure I spent the first four minutes and fifty seconds contemplating the merits of Milky Way Bars. Somewhere in those last ten seconds I made a snap decision to spend my ten minutes of fame convincing an audience of three that Tuesdays were the shiznit.

My speech went something like this:

Judge: Rebekah, you may begin.

Me: Lots of people like Saturday because there's no school. Some people love Sunday because of church. Mondays are great if you like school. Fridays are fun because you can stay up late. Thursdays are almost Fridays, so they're okay. Wednesday is like a half-way point, so some people like them too, but not me. I love Tuesday. Tuesday is the day nobody appreciates. It's like Bakersfield. Everybody drives through here to get somewhere else. Just like nobody ever makes Bakersfield their destination, nobody ever looks forward to a Tuesday. I feel sorry for poor Tuesday. It must be the saddest day of the week.

Then there were 9 1/2 minutes of silence while I just stood there smiling and waiting for the timer to run out.

I still have my Participant ribbon, but for the life of me, I can't remember if I ever got my candy.