Two weeks ago i went to my grandmas house to celebrate my mom’s birthday I was really excited because my grandma said that she had a very special dessert picked out boy was i surprised when the dessert turned out to be nasty fake raspberry ice cream. First of all the texture of the raspberry ice cream is disgusting my first mouthful was just sickening it tasted like little pieces of glass and dirt. I felt like throwing up. And, it’s the most boring dessert! When someone says i’ll treat you to ice cream i don’t expect to get a lumpy bowl of cold fruit. On top of being disappointed by a fruity dessert i partially don’t like artifically flavored anything what kid would pick raspberry ice cream over good old chocolate or vanilla. So the next time someone tells you they have a very exciting dessert planed don’t get your hopes up.
Jackson Whitesel, budding humor blogger and entrepreneur enjoys swimming, riding his bike, and performing improv. He lives in the California foothills with his mom, two cats, and a goldfish named Bobby.
It’s that time of year again – when strangers indiscriminately share their most intimate bodily organisms. That’s right. I’m talking about flu season. Germs are everywhere. Name a surface, the pesky little microbes have taken up residence.
When I visit the guest bath at friends’ homes this time of year, will I be greeted with a fresh, germ-free stack of single-use paper guest towels decorated with festive shamrocks and leprechauns? Or am I expected to dry my hands on a damp terry cloth rag hanging askew from a hoop on the wall above the toilet? How many before me simply ran the tap over their bacteria-ridden fingers before wiping them on the nasty fabric? Yes, I will judge you. Continue reading
My primary role during holiday food prep is to stay out of the way. Jerry does most of the cooking – OK all the cooking. Once, a few years back I got inspired to whip up a batch of homemade cranberry sauce. But just that one year. It seemed like a lot of work when an equally satisfying version is available on the shelf of any grocery, pharmacy, or dollar store this time of year. Since then, my list of duties includes setting the table, and scouring the cupboards in search of the gravy boats that we use twice a year. We never manage to store them in the same place during the frenzy of post-holiday hazmat cleanup.
That’s why the hubs’ request to make green salad shocked me. Indeed it sounded more like a command.
“And you’ll make the green salad.”
I watched an interview with Sully co-star, Aaron Eckhart. He’s working on a movie based on his mother’s memoir about her hardscrabble life growing up on the Montana plains. It got me thinking about my memoir and whether my daughter would appreciate the grueling torment that embodied growing up in the ’60s in the unforgiving San Francisco suburbs.
- Hygiene horror. The one and only bathroom option in our cracker box domicile consisted of an indoor toilet, small wash basin, and a tub. Sparse at best. That’s right. One lavatory for five people. Oh, the humanity. When dad had to go, he grabbed the sports section of the Oakland Tribune and announced his intentions to the rest of us. His attempt to fend off the requisite pounding of the door and caterwauling of my older brothers and me to “Hurry up!” was, alas, futile. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the 19th century claw-foot tub had – wait for it – no jets. Imagine wallowing in flat, motionless, non-jetting water. Oh sure, we had bubble bath, a pathetic substitute for a frothy whirling whirlpool.
My fascination with all things French began at an early age, upon learning the origin of my ancestors. I named my new puppy, a French poodle, Pierre François Dubois. I picked out swirly French Provincial style drawer pulls for the dresser my dad refinished for me when I claimed the bedroom my older brothers vacated. Pierre chewed every corner he could dig his razor-like bourgeois canines into.
My first opportunity to learn my “native tongue” was in seventh grade, choosing French for my foreign language elective. My teacher, Madame Lynch, was a European transplant. Also a tyrant, she confiscated my “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” paperback the morning she caught me reading it in class. She promised to return it at the end of the school year. On the last day of school, when I approached her to get it back, she claimed she couldn’t find it. Dictator.
Despite her iron-fisted disciplinary methods, she was generous with praise when deserved. One day, each student took a turn reading aloud a passage from our textbook. When I finished reading, she announced that my pronunciation was exceptional. In fact, she said, I could pass as a native speaker. My thirteen-year-old self interpreted that to mean I was a natural, had mastered the basics, and no longer needed to study. My B+ plummeted to a D the next semester. Nonetheless, her words stuck with me, and I never lost my affection for la langue française. Continue reading