D.A.D.D. (Daughters Against Deaf Driving). By Jemina

Ah, the family road trip. Nothing sparks more feelings of nostalgia than packing up the car for an exciting new adventure and location. Like most married couples who are contraceptively challenged, our deaf parents (Phil and Syl) considered air travel a frivolous expenditure for our large family and opted to drive anywhere and everywhere they deemed vacation-worthy. We were told that spending five out of seven vacation days in our 1989 red and white striped Ford Club Wagon was part of the adventure instead of a penny-pinching tactic, and camping in the great outdoors was much more enjoyable than sleeping in a stodgy old hotel room. Phil and Syl stretched their dollars even further by ensuring that our trips coincided with the closest Baptist tent revival or bible camp.

No destination was ever within an eight hour radius of our house since everyone knows outdoor Baptist worship events must be held in a godforsaken part of the Catskill Mountains. Therefore, Boyd Family road trips consisted of extremely long hours in the car with Syl carrying on lively one-sided conversations in order to keep Phil awake while he drove. More often than not, we children fell asleep in the back of the van after hours of watching Syl gesticulate wildly to Phil as he tried to both watch her and the road. Syl’s entertaining rants most often began as thinly veiled concerns over various church members’ spiritual growth then moved into the far more unproven rumors surrounding each member.

“I am worried about Sue Flemming- we haven’t seen her in Sunday School for a few weeks. Did you know that she once smoked the marijuana and was so high off her gourd that she crashed into her friend’s fence?” Syl would sign. “Anyways, she may not have taken it so well when I suggested that she was addicted to the marijuana and that the Lord looks unfavorably upon recreational drug use. I hope we see her next week- I’ll pray about it.”
While Phil pulled double-duty as driver and listener, the gentle swaying of the van rocked me to sleep as our fearless driver always managed to swerve out of harm’s way at the last moment.

At some point during our many road trips, blue lights would start flashing behind the Club Wagon and Phil would get pulled over for suspicion of drunk driving. In hindsight I suppose every police officer stopping the giant Ford Club Wagon careening down the highway thought it must be the result of an erratic drunkard behind the wheel instead of a deaf man watching his wife sign, but it perturbed our parents nonetheless.

On one such occasion I was chosen as the interpreter between Phil and the very large, menacing policeman rapidly approaching the driver’s side. Normally a duty assigned to one of my older siblings, I felt a surge of pride as Phil designated me the official keep-your-father-out-of-jail ambassador. Officer Menace peered into the Club Wagon with purpose as he began his discourse of, "Sir, do you know why I pulled you over? Have you been drinking tonight?" while I climbed up to the front of the van near Phil’s window. "Officer Menace, perhaps I can explain; my parents aren't drunk. They're just deaf,” I offered helpfully, smiling with glee at being the chosen mouthpiece of the family.

The officer looked surprised to see a chubby nine year old with smudged glasses and a bowl cut addressing him with such familiarity. His drunk-driving suspicions appeared plausible as long as Phil remained mute. Strengthened by his suspicions, the officer bellowed "SIR, DO YOU KNOW WHY I PULLED YOU OVER? HELLO? SIR, ANSWER ME! DO. YOU. KNOW. WHY. I. PULLED. YOU. OVER???!”

Ever the pragmatists, Phil and Syl knew that while they communicated with hearing people on a daily basis, doing so now wasn’t going to help their cause. They looked at me with affected befuddlement while I explained to Officer Menace that my forty year old father was not suffering from premature hearing loss like an octogenarian, but was entirely deaf. This revelation led Officer Menace to stop looking at my parents as irresponsible simpletons and more like two people who could have him fired for screaming at the Deaf. After the color drained out of his face, the policeman muttered an apology and scurried back to his patrol car.

An unwanted brush with the law makes most people more cautious while driving, but Phil’s righteous indignation at being mistakenly screamed at made him feel like he could speed away on a sort of victory lap back onto the highway. Both parents praised me for what they assumed was excellent interpreting as Phil did not receive a ticket and/or go to jail, and I went back to dozing in the back seat. Before my eyes shut I felt a calmness wash over me as Phil and Syl picked back up where they left off with their conversation, our van barreling towards the great outdoors and the Great Commission of soul saving.

The Naked Truth. By Joy.

My parents are big believers in the American dream. Like most of their fellow believers, they have always equated home ownership with securing a tangible piece of that dream. Unfortunately, as a young deaf couple trying to support a family of six on my dad’s meager associate pastor’s salary, their housing options were limited to a few neighborhoods bordering some less-than-family-friendly areas of Rochester, New York. By the time I reached my tween years, I noticed that our neighborhood was transitioning, and not in an upward direction. Once lulled to sleep by the sounds of crickets chirping and birds warbling, the popping of stray gunfire and wailing of police sirens now drowned these hallmarks of nature out. Though I was largely oblivious to the economic implications of the changing landscape, I definitely noticed that my new neighbors were a lot more colorful than they used to be. When some new blood moved in on the other side of my house, I was eager to make a good first impression. Before I could introduce myself, however, one of my new neighbors beat me to the punch.

Late one afternoon, I arrived home from school and hurried upstairs to my room. I threw my book bag on my bed and pressed “play” on my newly acquired compact disc player. I grabbed my brush and began rapping along with my favorite Christian rap group, DC Talk. I was rhyming hard core when I heard a competing beat. After a brief pause, I mentally confirmed that yes, I definitely heard the beat of steel drums coming from somewhere outside. Curious, I stopped rapping, hit the pause button, walked over to my window and peered out. My eyes scanned to and fro and I tried to pinpoint the source of the music. Suddenly, I saw a flash of bare skin through an open window in our neighbor’s house just above my own. The window, like the others in the house, was not equipped with blinds, shades, curtains, or any other fabric intended to ensure privacy. As the music I heard earlier was seemingly coming from that direction, I kept my eyes trained on the window and was mortified to see that the flesh belonged to my neighbor, a mysterious thirty-something woman with a pack-a-day habit and tattoos covering seventy percent of her body. Unfortunately for me, her tattoos did not fully obscure the undulating parts of her chest and mid-section I saw next. Horrified, I immediately spun around and tried to collect my thoughts. My first thought was to tell someone. Someone important. Someone who could make sure no one else was subjected to the gag-inducing scene I had just witnessed. But who? After mentally scrolling through a list of candidates, I settled on the one person whom I knew would share my sense of righteous indignation: my mother (hereinafter referred to as “Syl”).

My shoulders now heavy with the important news I carried on them, I approached Syl in the kitchen and requested an audience. Syl obliged and I proceeded to relate in fast in furious hand gestures the subject of my moral outrage. Predictably, Syl was furious at my neighbor’s inexcusable indiscretion and sprung into action. Or, as I should say, we sprung into action.
Having discharged my whistle-blowing duties, I attempted to leave the room. But before I could get out of arm’s reach, I felt Syl’s hand tighten around my shoulder blade. Twisting my neck around to see what she wanted, Syl signed, “You’re not going anywhere. We’re nipping this problem in the bud RIGHT NOW.” Slowly I realized that she intended for me to be her mouthpiece. My stomach immediately dropped as I realized I would soon be charged with the unenviable task of confronting my naked neighbor. I begged her to drop a note in the neighbor’s mailbox or adopt some similarly non-confrontational course of action, but Syl demanded that we address the issue right then.

And so we marched out the back door, down our driveway, up our neighbor’s lawn and climbed her porch steps before stopping at her front door—a door that Syl proceeded to rapidly and determinedly beat with her fist. I tried to explain that custom dictated that one knock on another’s door no more than three times, but Syl had no use for such meaningless social conventions. After a few seconds passed without an answer, I grew hopeful that my slutty neighbor would not make an appearance and began my transparent and ultimately fruitless attempt to coax Syl off of the neighbor’s porch. I had just convinced Syl to take a step or two back when I heard the screen door hinges squeak and saw the main door open a crack. Before I could stop myself, I looked back, but then quickly tried to spin Syl around before she saw the door. Alas, I was too late. Syl marched back up to the door, excitedly motioning for me to follow. I slid my feet across the splintered wood porch at a glacial pace, eventually making eye contact with the slits glaring at me from the dark crevice between the screen door and doorjamb.

“Yes?” a husky female voice queried.

I dutifully signed “Yes?” to Syl and waited.

Syl proceeded, unleashing her silent fury. As she signed, I spoke, trying desperately to soften the blow, to bring a sort of diplomacy to the situation.

Syl signed: “You have no respect for us. I have two teenage sons. You need to either keep your clothes on or get some curtains!”

I said to the naked neighbor: “We’re your next-door neighbors. Welcome to the neighborhood! Nice house. Though it sure could use some curtains, don’t you think? They’d really add a lot to your home décor.”

Doubtless sensing the disconnect between Syl’s beet red face, foaming mouth, and wild gesticulations and my composed, flat affect, the neighbor opened the door to reveal the same scantily clad woman I’d seen earlier. At this point, though, she was (thankfully) at least sporting a silky robe, albeit one that hit mid-thigh.

“What’s this about?” my neighbor said this time, with a decidedly unkind tone and an angry eyebrow raised in my direction.

Syl looked at me. I looked at the neighbor.

Syl signed, “Did you tell her what I said?”

I, of course, lied and said “Yes.”

I then turned to the neighbor and hissed through gritted teeth, “For the love of God, get some curtains.”

The neighbor leaned forward, cupped her hand around one ear, and said, “Huh?”

Seeing this, Syl all but flew into a deaf rage as she construed the neighbor’s physical gesture as a form of mockery. Before Syl could cut her way through the neighbor’s screen door and stab her, however, I desperately blurted out, “SHE WANTS YOU TO KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON!”
Unfazed, our tattooed neighbor said, “Tell your mother to get over it” as she shrugged her shoulders and slammed the door in our faces.

“That went well,” I cheerily signed to Syl.

“What did she say?” Syl asked. “Is she going to get curtains or what?”

“She didn’t say,” I responded truthfully, speed walking back to our house, effectively ending the conversation, and praying all the while that our neighbor would move. SOON.

The Hunchback of Lawrenceville. By Jemina.

The Hunchback of Notre Dame often evokes images of a misunderstood creature with a heart of gold. He leads a lonely and meaningless existence until he meets and falls in love with the beautiful Esmeralda. Their one-sided love story ends tragically when Esmeralda is hung on suspicion of being a witch, and Quasimodo is so overcome with grief that he lies beside her corpse and starves himself to death. The whole tale is incredibly macabre (nothing like the Disney version, people—read the book!) and loosely parallels an experience I had as a younger lady.

I once had a deaf Quasimodo in my life. Although he shared his namesake’s red hair, unappealing body shape, and unfortunate facial features, his heart was not made of gold. Quasimodo, “Quasi” for short, had set of crooked teeth ranging in hue from yellow to black. He also had a number of unattractive habits, which included smoking three packs a day and driving with the Backstreet Boys playing at full blast. The bass in his Geo Metro was so loud the windows shook and probably came perilously close to shattering. I’d like to attribute his poor taste in music to the fact that he was deaf, but it could’ve just been poor judgment (a sign of things to come). Quasi was also one of the loudest mouth-breathers I’d ever come across in my life. (As an aside, I’d like to emphasize that Quasi’s unfortunate looks, ginger-kid genes and poor lifestyle choices earned him his nickname, not his disability).

I first met Quasi at Phil and Syl’s church. As with most parishioners, Quasi viewed Phil and Syl as Deafie guidance counselors. Quasi perpetually needed guidance. At all hours, Quasi would spontaneously appear at our house, citing a need for “advice,” “discipleship,” or “fellowship.” I thought nothing of Quasi’s frequent visits and did my best to steer clear of him and his stench. One Sunday after church, I was feeling bored and charitable, so I carried on an entire conversation with Quasi wherein both of us weighed the pros and cons of N’Sync and the Backstreet Boys.

Not long after our scintillating conversation, Phil and Syl were out running errands when the TTY rang: it was Quasi. For those of you who have not done your deaf-awareness homework, a TTY is a prehistoric deafie phone—an archaic instant messaging machine, if you will. After informing him that neither of my parents was available to chat, I was about to hang up the phone when—out of nowhere—the following words scrolled across the screen:

WAS WONDERING IF YOU HAD A DATE FOR VALENTINE’S DAY? IF NOT I WOULD LIKE TO TAKE YOU OUT FOR DINNER AND DANCING

Egad! A shiver of horror mixed with disbelief and panic scurried down my spine. Temporarily ignoring the fact that a grown man had just asked out me, a sixteen year old, I was perplexed by the latter half of Quasi’s unsolicited invitation. What sort of dancing might a deaf Backstreet Boys fan have in mind? My mind raced as I briefly pondered the possibilities. Almost immediately, an unsettling image of Quasi and I, drenched in sweat, mouth breathing, arms flailing and feet stomping, with a neon Dance Dance Revolution sign overhead came to mind.

Panic-stricken, I slammed the phone receiver down then dialed my best friend Jessica’s number. Before she could say hello, I breathlessly rehashed the details of Quasi’s indecent proposal. Having met Quasi several times, Jessica howled with laughter before adopting a serious tone and commanding me to lock the doors and draw the shades in case Quasi decided to stop by. Knowing that the odds of Quasi showing up unannounced were pretty good, I ran around the house like a 1940’s housewife reacting to news of a Soviet bomb threat—I closed all blinds, shut off all lights, and locked all doors before collapsing on my bed in the dark, woozy with worry.

When Phil and Syl finally arrived home, I bolted upright and my fear quickly morphed into outrage. I stormed downstairs and promptly relayed the night’s events in detail, hoping that Phil would spring into action and attempt to defend my honor in some fashion. Sensing a window of opportunity, I also made a transparent attempt to parlay my trauma into a get-out-of-church-free card by claiming that future church attendance would simply be too much to bear.

Ever the pragmatist, Phil listened to my plight, but concluded that, while Quasi was a creep, he did not want our already small church to lose a member. Creeps need Jesus the most, after all. Furthermore, my ploy to get out of church indefinitely fell flat as Phil deemed my presence necessary to keep up our attendance numbers.

And thus, the tragic story of Quasi and me continued with Phil’s blessing. Week after week, both Quasi and I faithfully attended church. In a congregation of twenty people (or less, if it was a holiday weekend), I quickly realized that I would not be able to ignore Quasi entirely. Of course, Quasi exploited this fact and perpetually selected the seat directly across the aisle from mine. As I listened to his mouth breathing and inhaled the aroma of his cigarette stench each week, I could not help but suspect that Quasi was fantasizing about the day when the church would become our private sanctuary. And then I would throw up in my mouth.

Joy Joy Ma.

As Season 9 of American Idol creeps toward the finale, millions of children across this great nation of ours are taking voice lessons, polishing their Rock Band lead vocals, and envisioning the day when they, too, will have the opportunity to showcase their talents on what is often referred to as the biggest stage on television. Because American Idol’s early predecessor, Star Search (R.I.P. Ed McMahon), was not on Phil and Syl’s (short) list of approved television programs, I never aspired to be a rock star. In light of my general fear of going straight to hell for musically transmitting Satan’s message to the masses, I planned to achieve fame and fortune in the world of music by plotting an alternate course- the violin.

I began my campaign to convince Phil and Syl to underwrite my dream at the age of six. Naturally, Phil and Syl were skeptical. Aside from the fact that both of them are deaf, neither side of the family boasted a single member with any demonstrable musical talent. For two years, I begged Phil and Syl to let me take violin lessons, reminding them at every opportunity that the Bible instructs us to “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.” Perhaps realizing that I was unwavering in my determination to become the next Yo-Yo Ma (albeit wielding a violin instead of a cello), or perhaps deciding that I needed to taste the bitterness of defeat for myself (I suspect it was the latter), Syl finally agreed to sign me up for violin lessons.

On the day of my first violin lesson, I nervously clutched my violin case, plopped down in a chair in my teacher Mrs. Neal’s office, and waited for her to unearth my raw talent. Our first lesson began unceremoniously, as Mrs. Neal identified each part of the violin and made me repeat after her. At long last, Mrs. Neal told me to pick up my beloved instrument. I lifted the instrument to my chin and allowed Mrs. Neal to position it correctly between my chin and shoulder. I then snatched up my bow, ready to unleash the concerto bubbling inside of me, when Mrs. Neal burst said bubble by taking the bow out of my hand and informing me that I would have to learn to pluck the strings by hand first.

During the honeymoon phase of my violin-playing days, I came home from school every day, scurried up to my room and began playing what I imagined would be my Julliard audition piece: Mary Had a Little Lamb (this is the only piece I learned to pluck with any level of skill). For weeks, I dutifully picked up my violin and plucked the strings until my fingers were red and raw. After the first few lessons, however, Mrs. Neil and I both realized that I was no virtuoso. Unable to admit defeat that quickly, I was determined to keep up appearances and continued to “practice” for forty-five agonizing minutes every day. Gradually, my practice sessions grew to mean anything but. Said sessions now included, but were not limited to, nap time, snack time, reading time, and playing my violin in every manner except the manner in which it was intended to be played. As a precocious 4 year old, Jemina often stopped by and watched. One day, I revealed to her my newfound talent: playing the violin with a comb—bluegrass-style, I called it. “Anyone can play this thing with a bow…BOR—ING!” I told her. “Only a true musician can make this baby sing bluegrass-style.” At this, Jemina pondered a moment before nodding in agreement. Several practice sessions later, in a moment of weakness, I confided in her my growing hatred for the instrument, blaming it for failing to unleash my musical genius quickly enough.

Periodically, Syl also dropped by during my seemingly interminable practice sessions. As soon as I heard her coming, I’d hurriedly throw down my Nancy Drew book, wipe the drool and/or crumbs from my chin, and snatch up my violin. When Syl peeked in, she’d see me, fake smile plastered up against the chin rest of my violin, bow in hand. In a transparent attempt to simulate the relationship between a hearing parent and child, Syl always asked me to “play something.” I then focused on the sheet music to which I was illiterate, and poorly reenacted the performance style of every violinist I’d ever seen on television—my body jerking around spastically from the waist up, hair flying, limbs akimbo, bow screeching over the strings while the violin stuck to my chin like a giant protruding tumor. Following the completion of each “piece,” Syl always clapped with pride while my siblings’ ears bled.

My certainty that I was getting away with musical murder lasted until the day Syl barged into my room with an enormous video camera perched on top of her shoulder, red light blinking. I immediately threw down my bluegrass comb when Syl began gesticulating wildly behind the camera. As Jemina and I both looked at her with horror, she instructed me to commence a violin-based show and tell. The Boyd Family Video of 1989 contains a scene that goes as follows:

Me, ears and face burning, sweat beading up on my eyebrows and nose: This is my violin. First, you have to learn how to pluck it, then you can learn how to play by using the bow.

Jemina, eyes lit up with malicious glee: Joy! Joy! Joy! Look at me!

Me, looking at Syl behind the camera, feeding me lines: Sigh. I like my violin.

Jemina: Joy! Joy! Joy!

Me, to Jemina: What?!?

Jemina: Do you LOVE your violin?

Me, barely audible: Shut. Up.

Thankfully, I was able to hem and haw about the various parts of the violin, demonstrate my plucking skills, and fumble around long enough for Syl to grow weary enough of holding the thirty-plus pound camera on her shoulder to turn it off. Needless to say I quickly announced my retirement from the classical music field shortly thereafter, much to the dismay of my parents and the applause of my siblings. Aside from a brief stint as a snare drummer in junior high school, I never again pursued a career in music following my ill-fated attempt to become the next Yo-Yo Ma. And wisely so, for while we Boyds are multi-talented, our greatness is confined to certain realms (e.g., mass producing sandwiches, collecting cans, and the like). So we leave the instrument playing and vocals to those better suited than we are. Everyone wins this way. Trust us.

The Wall of Shame: Week Two

We're told this photograph was taken at a "fashion show." At first blush, you might not be able to guess which poor soul in this photograph is our victim this week. Amy G., on the right, prided herself on being known as the Canadian version of "Six" (that's her pal Blossom on the left). A little more about Amy G.:
Age: 13
Nickname: Aim-Bo-Dame
Favorite TV Show: Blossom (duh)
Biggest Celebrity Crush: What's a celebrity?
Favorite Movie: The Goonies
Extracurricular Activities: Reading, gymnastics, soccer, ringette (we're not sure what this is, but it's probably something lame like Canada or curling), reading
Planned Future Occupation: Actress (hooker, actress, it's all the same, right?)
Actual Occupation: Lawyer


Keep the embarrassing photos coming, everybody! You can email them to us at: frozensandwiches@gmail.com

The Wall of Shame: Week One

Welcome to the first installment of Frozen Sandwiches' latest project: The Wall of Shame. In keeping with our mission of helping people feel better about their childhoods, we've decided to let our readers take part in the fun. To that end, we are asking our readers to share their most embarrassing childhood photographs and to reveal their most intimate secrets. Why? We believe Mark Twain said it best: "Humor is tragedy plus time."
(We are particularly interested in pictures demonstrating a slow metabolism, a bad haircut, a poor wardrobe choice, or an unflattering pair of glasses. Bonus points if your picture contains all of the above!).

Name: Emily M.
Year Picture Taken: 1994
Age: 8
Nickname(s): "M & M" and "Son" (see above picture for obvious gender-identity issues)
Favorite Magazine: Cat Fancy
Biggest Celebrity Crush: Jonathan Taylor Thomas
Favorite Movie: Lion King
Hobbies: Softball, Eating, and Devising Cries for Attention
Planned Future Occupation: Veterinarian
Actual Occupation: Marketing Assistant

Awkward Stage Photos Needed!

Attention Fans: we want your awkward childhood photos for a new installment: Wall of Shame! First picture gets posted this Friday!

Email your awesome pics to: frozensandwiches@gmail.com

2009-2010 Boyd Newsletter, By Syl Boyd

Hello, Fans! My daughters tell me that some of you have been anxiously awaiting a new installment of their charming yet biased blog. I took the liberty of picking up Joy and Jemina’s slack and drafting a Boyd Family Newsletter to help stave off your collective literary hunger pangs.

Christmas 2009 descended quicker than Phil on a free sample at Sam's Club. To my great satisfaction, all of my children (save James and his offspring, who already live here in Iowa) made the sojourn to my house in order to honor the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. I fired up my oven and started baking weeks in advance. I also set about the difficult task of childproofing the house. These preparations mostly consisted of wrapping all furniture in plastic, giving Phil strict instructions on the enforcement of no-shoes zones, and putting away all of my valuables to prevent them from being tarnished by grubby grandbaby fingerprints. At long last, my three youngest children arrived. Together with the information I already know about James, I am prepared to share the following items of intelligence:

James Charlie, our eldest and most favored offspring, begat his latest child in July of 2009 with a little help from his wife Reba. Baby Rowan was the fourth child for James and Reba, so naturally Phil and I are quite proud to see them following in our fertile footsteps! I suspect that when James’s litter gets out of line (and they most assuredly will), James will finally take me up on my offer to let him borrow The Board of Education.

Joshua David, the second one, and his wife, Ashlee, are busy juggling various and sundry careers. I have made numerous inquiries as to when I can expect grandchildren from them, but they claim to be too busy to think about starting a family. Poppycock! What’s to think about? I ask. You don’t plan these things, they just happen! At least, that’s what Phil and I always believed. And look how our kids turned out!

Joy Anne, our pretty daughter, is busy being a VERY IMPORTANT LAWYER. I try not to pry into her financial affairs, but I am pretty sure that she is diligently devising a plan to support Phil and I in the future. I've told her that all we need is an in-law suite in her house, but for some reason she is determined to provide us with our own house that is at least 1-2 hours away. What a blessing! Despite her career successes, I regret to inform you, dear readers, that Joy is still in need of a good man. Phil and I cannot believe she is still single, and pray for her everyday to find a good man who is fluent in ASL or a male CODA. Either one would make us extremely happy. Please join us in praying for Joy to find a man who will love the Lord, the Deaf, and the fact that she is smarter than he is.

Jemina, the other daughter, is living a life of adventure in Nashville, Tennessee. At least, this is what I’ve surmised as she is quite unresponsive to my many texts, emails, and Facebook messages. We pray that she finds a good Baptist church in Nashville. Can you believe she has been looking for the past 2 years and has had no luck? Since she is only 24 we are not as concerned about her finding a husband, because everyone knows a woman's biological clock doesn't start winding down until the age of 29 (tick tock, tick tock, Joy!). Due to Jemina’s uncommunicativeness, I have resorted to checking her daily Facebook statuses. This has yielded some positive results. For example, I've learned that Jemina enjoys hanging out with her friends Tim Gunn and Tom Collins. Who knows? Maybe Tim or Tom will turn out to be more than a friend in the future (wink, wink)!

Well, I think that's all the news I have on our kids right now. As for Phil and I, we are staying fit and trim and maintaining our diet. We are proud to announce that we have purchased several new sets of matching tracksuits to accommodate our now-svelte figures. I hope this newsletter has satiated everyone's appetite. Be on the lookout for some new stories in the upcoming weeks!

Love,

Syl (and Phil)

Drumroll, please.......

Frozen Sandwiches is coming back with a force bigger and more determined than an Olympic Curling team. Tell your friends, family, neighbors, strangers, homeless people with computers, whomever. We're not picky about our fans.

XOXO, Joy and Jemina!

P.S. Photo by BBC Sport News