The World According to Hicks.

2010 - Year of the hard core Cake Bake

The 2010 Cub Scout Father/Son Cake Bake is officially in the books. This is an annual event in which Cub Scouts (grades 1-5) and their fathers (grandfathers/uncles/etc.) bake and decorate a cake. The entrants bake the cake ahead of time and then decorate their cakes at the event based upon a theme that is literally drawn out of a hat. The theme was "Military." There are 3 Golden Spoons awarded - my apologies to the Williams', I didn't snap a picture of your cake. Let's take a look at the other winners, shall we?

Our friends, Tom and Ian, won a Golden Spoon for their entry:

Justin's friend, Patrick, his brothers and their father won with this nifty cake:

Justin and Grampy's cake didn't win anything, but was a solid attempt nonetheless:

But the clear winner of the night, by far, was:

I guess when they heard "Military," they heard "Celebration of Manhood."

This not only won the massive "Golden Dildo" Award, but also conveniently provided an inroad by which fathers can talk to their little scouts about the horrors of STDs. And isn't that what male bonding is all about?

 

The Beer Fort

With this set-up, we can embrace TV and nature.

Nelson has been a real champ in adjusting to his new environment.

Here is the back wall that leads to the Pub. The cabinet under the pool sign houses a well-stocked (and padlocked) fridge.

It's good to be king.

Hitting the Friday Afternoon Wall

Why is it that every single Friday afternoon, about 3:00, my productivity smacks face first into a concrete wall of weekend? All my motivation just flushes out of me with such force that I swear that I can almost hear the "whoosh" of it leaving. I still have stuff that needs to get done (well not today, but still). But suddenly, that stuff can wait until Monday. It HAS to. There's no other option. Weekend has a choke hold on me and won't let go.

I've tried to fight it. But with experience comes wisdom: It's simply easier to relax and succumb to the inevitable. The work week is over, kaput, sayonara.

Oh sure, I'll find a way to make up those two lost hours over the course of next week...until 3:00 Friday rolls around.

It's time for my annual "Pay Attention to the Website" spree. Huzzah!

If you see weirdness here or on the Hickspub.com site, that's me. I'm converting the site to a new program, so there will be a learning curve that I have to bear. Lovely. Not to mention that Typepad over here has totally revamped itself (without my consent - sheesh!) so I need to wade through new foliage over here, too.

In the meantime, may I direct your attention to my new oracle: The Pioneer Woman. http://thepioneerwoman.com/

That's the site that I wish I could create. That there's a strong site, through and through. It makes me want go out and take purty photos. It also gives me hope that someday, with her help, I might just be able to do something in the kitchen other than heat up frozen pizza. Her cookbook ("Pioneer Woman Cooks") has step-by-step directions (with photos! and explanations!) seem idiot-proof enough to make me at least want to give it a try. Hicks has just installed new batteries in all the smoke detectors, so I should be good to go.

A Mother's Homework

Recently, Justin came home from school with a homework assignment for me. The teacher has requested that parents write a letter to their child, expressing their feelings on what makes the child so special. The letter will be included in a notebook given to the child at the end of the school year. Pretty cool, huh? So, in an attempt to collect my thoughts, I typed out a rough draft, which is more of a commentary on what a nice time this is, in our lives as much as Justin’s...

WHAT MAKES JUSTIN SO SPECIAL?

Justin isn’t special. He’s just a normal eight year-old boy living a normal eight year-old life. He runs, reads, whines, laughs and smells like a normal boy. His hair has a mind of its own, which is typical. Sunny freckles dot his nose and cheeks, just like they’re supposed to. His clothes and his shoes shrink at an alarming rate; right on schedule. He never wants to go to bed on time and he hates to get up in the morning, which is standard for a kid his age. Pillows and blankets are never where they’re supposed to be, because they comply with an eight year-old’s building code for forts. The foundation of his diet consists of macaroni and cheese, hot dogs and applesauce; the nurtitionally-questionable staples of all third graders. Does he giggle at bodily functions and is he magnetically attracted to all things gross? Absolutely, as he should. He still goes to bed with his arms wrapped around his favorite stuffed animal, which he’ll sadly outgrow in the next couple of years. He dreams of growing up in his father’s footsteps, which is not only a quaint aspiration, but a very real possibility. He has all the logic and the manipulative skills necessary to be an eight year-old: “Why do I have to earn money for a toy, when I can go shake down Grampy?” He makes mistakes and gets frustrated and cries when he’s sad, just like a boy his age should. He loves to roam the neighborhood, trolling for potential play dates. He still warmly hugs his mother when her arms are inviting him. He faithfully recites the anthem which is ingrained in every eight year-old: “I’m bored.” He has lots of questions about God and Heaven and Hell; and takes the answers to heart. He makes up silly dances and tells corny jokes, fitting for someone his age. His best friend is his partner-in-crime; and if his friend isn’t readily available, the dog is an acceptable substitute. His favorite subjects in school are recess and lunch, and questions the necessity of everything else. He knows the value of a good paper airplane. Fruit snacks are the universal currency of third-graders, as he is well aware. He’s forgotten how hard it was to learn to ride a bike and takes it for granted, naturally. In his eight year-old universe, he can successfully negotiate the intricacies of a complicated video game, but is completely baffled when it comes to putting dirty clothes in the hamper. Similarly, he possesses Rain Man-like abilities when it comes to his Legos...there can be a hundred pieces scattered on the table, but if any are disturbed, he knows. He always tells the truth, because he tried the alternative once...and has never forgotten the consequences. He wears his emotions on his sleeves, because he’s not old enough to put them anywhere else. He knows when he’s a good egg, because his mother tells him so. And when he’s not, he knows that too, because his mother tells him so. He knows that his parents love him, but has no concept of the unconditional depth of that love; which is okay because that’s normal for a boy his age. He’s healthy and happy and safe and that’s all that matters.

Justin is just a normal eight year-old boy living a normal eight year-old life. That, in and of itself, is pretty darn speial.

...so as you can see, I failed my assignment miserably. I'll have to go back and rewrite this. In a manner that an eight year-old can understand.

All aboard the Adam Lambert Train. Toot! toot!

So last night, all the Adam-haters out there got what they asked for: a squeaky-clean, hair out of the face, no nail polish version of Adam. As Crazy Aunt Karen noted: his mama has to be thrilled at how good her little boy looked.

And oh yeah, he sang the hell out of his song, "Tracks of My Tears." Nice and neat and tender and AWESOME.

We at Hicks' Pub started the Cincinnat Chapter of the Adam Lambert Fan Club months ago. If you want your membership card, all you have to do is ask. Membership perks include: black wig with long off-center bangs, bottle of black nail polish, eyeliner, a Proactiv starter kit and an invite to the Pub to listen to Adam's songs on iTunes...and if you're really special, we'll buy you a beer while you're here.

UPDATE: Smell ya later, Michael Sarver. Next on the Hicks' Pub Hit List: Scott McIntyre, we're eyein' you...

Pardon me while I rant...

...about Tatiana.

(If you don't know who she is, you need not read further. You're safe. And very, very lucky. We'll see ya next time.)

I like to think of myself as a fairly easy-going, laid-back, get-along-with-everybody type of person. I do, however, have issues with people who are insincere, self-absorbed and high-maintenance.

Enter Tatiana.

Oy. When we first met her in Puerto Rico, she was carrying her own press book. Music, her Glamor Shots-type photos, everything was on display in her little 3 ring binder. Not a good sign. When she talked, in perfect English, it was all incredibly dramatic...like someone reciting lines at a bad dinner theatre performance. She'd say a sentence (dramatically) and flip her hair. Add to it an incredibly grating fake twitter of a laugh, which she emitted every 3 seconds. Drama, hair-flip, twitter. Drama, hair-flip, twitter. Gah! Make it stop!

When she arrested her twittering in order to sing, you know what? She sang. Surprisingly well.

Damn.

The judges passed her through to Hollywood. Oh god, here comes the hysterical crying-twitter, "Oh you don't understand! This is my dream! (sob) I love you all!" She screamed as she was escorted off the audition floor.

The judges dimissed her with a, "Yeah well, we love you, too, dear. NEXT!"

Hollywood. Well, God love the poor other contestants who had to deal with her...they deserve medals. They were square in the path of an F-5 Hurricane Tatiana. During the group round, she wreaked havoc wherever she went. If she didn't get her self-serving way (wha-? Her competition were looking out for themselves? (Sob) They just don't understand!), she threw a full-on grand mal tantrum. Shocking. I know. Oh, and she sings a Whitney Houston song. Well.

Damn.

They separate the kids into three rooms (two rooms go on, one room goes home). And who, pray tell, gets shifted at the last minute from one room to the next? Yup. That's her. On her knees, whimpering-twittering loudly. Aaaand she's through, America.

Well, of course she is.

So, she makes it to the Top 36. Wheee - lucky us. And she sings the same Whitney song. Predictably well.

Damn. At least Simon threw us a bone and called her a drama queen to her face. THANK YOU.

Tragically, America didn't vote for her. Evidently, we collectively didn't understand her and DENIED her her dream. And as Danny Gokey took the stage to sing his song in triumph, the cameras locked on her and her mistery and we got to revel in her sorrow. Awww, I'm sorry, Tatiana.  I understood you. I really loved you. I hope you recognize this plastic adoration for what it truly is. Don't let the stagedoor hit you in the ass on the way out, toots.

We got to relax and enjoy a couple weeks of drama-free singing; hell, we even got to embrace Jorge and his Puerto Rican tears of Spanish joy...and then, just as we had purged our minds of Whatsherface, the world collapsed. She's been selected to be in the Wild Card round. This is a joke, right? Right?

Bitch is back like Jack Nicholson at the door, all right. Why do the reality gods curse us so?

Now, being the aforementioned easy-going person that I am, I'm also an eternal optimist. My servos naturally default to a "glass is half-full" setting. I can do this. I can work with this...yes! I've got it. Instead of focusing on her singing, I must focus on the sheer pleasure I will bask in when she gets her dreams smashed, yet again. There's no doubt that she will crash and burn in the most craptaculary dramatic way. Oh yeah, this is gonna be gooooood.

So here we are on Wild Card night, and it's her turn - nearly the last one because, you know, it's more dramatic that way. And in her pre-stage interview, she unleashes her SPANISH ACCENT! OMG, this is even better than I had dared to dream. She, in her junior-high, drama-queen, me-me-me mind has convinced herself that she can whip out her Puerto Rican membership card and play it. It worked for Jorge, why not her?  Oh yeah, ¡me gusta! Next, she'll be telling me that her mother just died and that's she's really been blind all along, but hiding it well. Then Ryan introduces her, whilst on his knees...nice joke at her expense. Hell yeah, I'll take it. As I'm finishing my cigarette from that display, what does she choose to sing? No, really, it can't be...the same Whitney song for the THIRD time. Holy Mother of Reality...it's too much! She's actually set herself up to get her drama queen ass royally served by the judges. Simon can barely contain himself as he asked her why she sang the same song - again. She whines about getting rights to songs and he promptly calls bullshit on her. She then gets called out on her fake accent by the other judges. Suh-weet. Finally, she gets on her knees to beg (because it's dramatic, natch) which then triggers another fabulous display of Seacrest awkwardness. We've hit the mother-lode, folks. I take a celebratory drink.

And so we get to see her booted (American Idol needs to issue an apology to Megan, who had to stand with Tatiana for the results) AGAIN. And what does an indulgent, self-aborbed, high-maintenance drama queen do when she's given the Idol Boot of Shame once and for all? You guessed it. She dropped to her knees in front of the judges and whimper-twittered (or in Tatiana's case, The Standard No. 8 Position). And, as the veritable cherry on top of the "Adventures of Tatiana," we are treated to a one-time only Paula-Slam, “It’s not just going to be singing for you, you’re going to be an actress, too.”You know it's bad when Paula scores on you – while you're wearing your Paula Abdul "Reach for the Stars" bracelet. NICE!

Adios, Tatiana. Don't let the stagedoor hit you in the ass on the way out, toots.

Other sites you HAVE to visit.

If you know me, you're probably already aware of these pockets on the web that I frequent. If these don't look familiar, well then, check them out and get back to me to thank me.

http://www.bsideblog.com/

http://www.midseasonreplacements.com/

The above feeds my need for television/pop culture in a wonderfully irreverent way.

http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com

You may see this and think, "Huh, BJ hates to bake/cook/do anything in the kitchen except grab a beer from the fridge. Why's that there?" Read it, then you'll understand.

And then there is the mega-monster of them all: Facebook (or as my pal Amy calls it, "Facecrack"). Once you go in, you'll never come out. Well, that's a bit dramatic...but delightfully true. 

I joined a couple years ago to keep tabs on my nephew (yes David, I'm watching YOU...mwahahahaha!) and then a few people found me and now, well, I have to check it every 10 minutes to see what everybody is doing; because now, for some mysterious psychological, pathological reason, I HAVE TO KNOW. 

That's correct, Facecrack has transformed me from an inert socially-awkward introvert into an active full-on friend-stalker. Thanks, Facecrack. 

So, check out these sites, and feel free to hep me to your faves. I really don't have that much time to kill, but I'll make the time. Dinner is usually optional at our house, so the time I could be slaving at the microwave can be better spent finding new ways to entertain myself while I "work."

UPDATE: The Mensa division of Facebook took it upon themselves to fix something that wasn't broke and, well, they've broken it. The Facebook programmers are slowly working to make amends and put stuff back where they belong. So, if you haven't joined Facebook yet, take your time in signing up...perhaps until late April/early May. By that time, hopefully, everything will be sorted out. Just a little Public Service Announcement from your pal at Hicks' Pub.

"24" meets Mad-Libs

Okay, so I've been hanging with Jack Bauer since the very first day he decided to be a total bada** in 24-hour increments. We're on Day 7 now (a week to you and me) and I've finally had an epiphany when it comes to the script-writing of the show. They use Mad-Libs. They've been using the same, tired, dog-eared book of Mad-Libs for at least 5 days now. Check it out:

It's scary because it's true. I'm still working on getting the words "perimeter" and "socket" worked in there somewhere, because those are verbal staples of "24."

Don't get me wrong, I'll stay with Jack until he hangs up his Aviator Glasses of Badness and his Messenger Bag of Pain (thanks Joe and Ben), not only because I feel pretty committed, but also because the dialogue does make a pretty quality drinking game. Copy that.

We really should blog more often.

Yeah, it's 2009. And according to my watch, it's almost February...time to bust out another paragraph. Some people post their thoughts daily. Weekly. Even monthly. Well, me being the mouth-breather that I am, it takes me about a season to organize a single cohesive thought. 

This was the winter storm that passed through a couple days ago. We don't know where the driveway is, either.

This morning, the tree is still saggy (even more so, actually), and partially blocking the driveway. The other side of the tree is almost touching our porch.

See?

The pool? Gone. A mere memory of warmer times and fruitier cocktails.

So, in summary, winter sucks.