Frozen Sandwiches

A Newsy Letter to my Fans. By Syl Boyd.

2011-11-03T11:07:00.002-05:00

Hello from the great city of Nashville!

In case you weren't aware, Phil and I have moved down South to be closer to our family - more specifically, our two unwed daughters. If you are a tall man who is fluent in American Sign Language and has a complete understanding of the Bible (King James Version only), you may just be the next member of the Boyd Family! This is a great honor and includes, but is not limited to:

Frequent opportunities to buy Phil and I dinner, lunch, and/or breakfast.
Many hours of watching television with us. We enjoy most shows on the USA network, but Saturdays are reserved for Alabama games (Roll Tide!). Phil also enjoys Storage Wars.
One (1) matching Alabama tracksuit to sport year-round with us.

But I digress. Today is that most celebrated of holidays, National Sandwich Day. I'm going to share a few tips with you on not only how to make the perfect sandwich, but how to store it properly for future consumption.

Firstly, it's all about the bread. Don't be easily swayed by the light and fluffy texture of white bread or baguettes. That stuff will sour and mold faster than Kim Kardashian's marriage (zing!). You'll want to go for the hardy, thick, whole-wheat bread that's only digestible with a healthy serving of powdered milk. Now on to the fillings. If you're on a budget, peanut butter & jelly will go a long way, especially when freezing (spoiler alert!). However, if you've got a little extra cash, nothing says "Lunch!" like bologna and government cheese. Mayo or mustard should be the only other accoutrements - you're running a household, not a gourmet deli.

An example of expensive sandwichery that is NOT economical.

VERY economical.

Once you've made a batch of approximately 42-58 sandwiches, you probably won't be hungry anymore. But what to do with all these figurative pieces of Manna that lay before you? No worries! Simply insert each sandwich into its own little baggie, and shove 12 sandwiches into an empty loaf of bread bag. Then, place the filled bread bag into the freezer for storage! It's that simple!

The next morning, retrieve one frozen breadcicle and place it into your lunch bag. Wait 8-10 hours for it to thaw, then enjoy!

I hope you've enjoyed these pearls of wisdom on National Sandwich Day, and feel free to send me feedback on how your own sandwich freezing goes. Your family may not appreciate it at first, but they'll thank you for the tens of minutes it saves each week.

Until next time,

Syl Boyd

Deaf Can Do Anything! Almost. By Jemina

2011-06-24T08:48:00.021-05:00

For some reason, this made it into the trip's photo album?

“Deaf people can do anything!” is a phrase our mother often throws around to let us know that if a person puts their mind to something, they can be successful. As a youth, this phrase filled me with hope and admiration for my determined parents. But, when the phrase was bandied about prior to a rafting trip, I should have known we were headed for trouble.

One summer, Joy and I were invited (i.e., forced) to go camping with our parents and a couple of their married friends. We’ll call them Sandy and Brian. Sandy and Brian were lovely people and we had no qualms about enjoying the Smoky Mountains with them and our parents for a few days. The first day we arrived at the campsite, the main office had colorful pamphlets strewn about that Syl picked up to peruse. “Oooh, rafting, wouldn’t that be fun?” she exclaimed. We naively agreed and Syl wasted no time making our reservations.

The faces only a Syl could love.

On the appointed day, our party of six rafting novices lined up dutifully in front of our guide, a sunburned albino who had no clue that he’d just drawn the shortest of straws. Immediately, Joy begins interpreting his preliminary instructions, trying her best to emphasize the same words emphasized by the guide, as in, “When I yell LEFT, ONLY the left side paddles.” Strangely, nobody saw a problem with this scenario. Of course, once we left the safety of dry land, ‘twas mere minutes before the guide fully realizes that four of the six people in the raft cannot hear any of his commands—commands that are, to put it mildly, time sensitive. Joy and I are stationed on opposite sides of the boat, but by the time we get everyone’s attention to have them paddle a certain way, the current would shift and we'd wash up on a rock or spin aimlessly down the river.

It is during one of these free-for all spins that my paddle hits a rock, ricochets off my face, pokes a lens out of my glasses, and gives me a black eye. I also lose the paddle. Frantic, I am searching for the lens on the floor of the raft so I don’t end up with Mr. Peanut’s monacle when we wash up on another rock. Defeated, the albino looks at his raft of four deaf people, a half-blind eleven year old, and my sister, the only capable one on the raft. Syl, noticing that her hearing offspring are at their wit’s end, decides to seize this moment and sign “Deaf can do anything!” For this lack of tact, she is met with only cold, angry stares.

When our albino guide steers our raft onto a nearby embankment, he signals to another guide and says, “I QUIT!” After conferring with an obviously older, more experienced guide, this brave man takes on our raft of misfits. The new guide, to his great credit, works out a system in which he slaps the side of the boat that needs to paddle . After a few stops and starts, we’re soon on our way again. My horrors, however, are not over. Since losing the adult-sized paddle, I’m left with the child-sized spare. Not wanting to leave my counterparts to shoulder the paddling burden, I decide to do my part, which unfortunately requires me to lean over the side of the raft at a precarious angle to reach the churning waters. I am officially not amused. It’s not long before we reach a shallow part of the river where the current is strong and rocks and tree stumps abound. New Guide slaps my side of the raft and I start paddling furiously. So furiously, in fact, that my momentum propels me headfirst into the swift river, child-size paddle in hand, other hand holding onto the outside of the raft for dear life. My legs receive a heinous beating as they’re bumped along the shallow current and tree stumps.

Confidently, the guide says “No problem, we’ll just lift you right up outta there,” grabbing the shoulder of my life vest. He pulls up and stops. Then pulls again. It’s only after he repeated this exercise several times, my legs dangling like a marionette’s, that he and I realize my vest is stuck on the raft’s air valve. Still, the fact that the burly guide couldn’t pull me into a raft did little for my fragile 11 year old self-esteem.

After a final series of mini-rapids, the raft mercifully reached its destination. Once we floated into the shallows, all four deafies disembarked, each one claiming to have had SO MUCH FUN! Meanwhile, Joy and I stormed ashore, vowing never to go rafting with deaf people again. To this day my parents look back on that trip with a healthy glow of nostalgia while the mere mention of it causes my legs to twinge in pain.

In conclusion, dear readers, Deaf people really can do anything. Except raft.

An Interview with a Cicada (aka Jem)

2011-05-11T12:01:00.003-05:00

Jem's officially been published! Granted, she had to pose as a cicada (check out her twitter account: Cicadas XIX), but we think this will make for an excellent story about humble beginnings when Jem is famous...

Read Jem's (aka Cicadas XIX) riveting and witty interview with Tennessee Home & Farm here: http://cicadacentral.com/interview

Our Mother's Day Gift to You: Syl's Tornado Survival Tips

2011-05-08T16:32:00.004-05:00

Frozen Sandwiches would like to wish Syl and mothers everywhere a Happy Mothers' Day! In my mother's honor and in recognition of all mothers' apparent need to impart unsolicited advice to their offspring, I offer the following anecdote. Please note that I am not, in any way, making light of the destruction caused by the tornadoes that recently swept across the great State of Alabama. I am only relaying some of the words of wisdom Syl shared with me as one of several tornadoes made its way toward Anniston:

Syl: I am watching the news now. How awful for Tuscaloosa! What about Anniston?

Joy: There are several tornadoes in the area, but none have touched down near my house yet.

Syl: Stay away from the window. Go to your bathroom. Get in tub and hold onto faucet because tornado can vacuum u up if the roof flies away.

Joy (doubled over with laughter, is unable to immediately respond)

Syl (doubtless sensing Joy's skepticism): I am not kidding. I am serious. That is what I learn from tornadoes safety tips!

Joy (sitting in front of the t.v., eating cookies): Ok, I'm in the tub now.

Though this should be painfully obvious to you, the lawyer in me feels compelled to add this disclaimer: should any of you find yourselves in a life threatening weather situation, I urge you not to follow Syl's advice.

Always thinking of you,
Joy

Onward Christian Culottes

2011-03-02T11:19:00.003-06:00

The following is a public service announcement, courtesy of your long lost friends, the Boyd Sisters. It has come to our attention (via an email from Syl) that our stories might have given some of our readers (mostly Syl’s friends) the “wrong impression.” We would like to reiterate here that Phil and Syl were not “bad parents” and that we did not intend to mislead anyone with our semi-hyperbolic accounts of certain childhood events. While we maintain that all of our stories are true, we do, from time to time, take artistic license with certain facts for comedic effect. Any exaggerations are obvious and intended to be as such. Again, the point of our stories is to make our readers feel better about their childhoods by reading about ours, not to lambaste Phil and Syl for their unconventional parenting techniques. Actually, all of the foregoing applies to the stories we’ve posted thus far. But not this one. Syl is completely responsible for…my greatest humiliation.
We all have our young crosses to bear. Some of us were chubby (Josh and Jemina). Others were ugly (James and I). Still others were shy and socially awkward (Me again). This is the story of my single greatest source of childhood humiliation. The skeleton I have shoved so far back into my proverbial closet—the one that both Syl and I both feared would one day see the light of day. (Insert loud SIGH here). Culottes. To the untrained eye, I (the unfortunate gangly he/she youth in the picture with the adult-sized glasses and makeshift bowl cut) might appear to be wearing a black skirt. In the much overused words of Lee Corso, “Not so fast, my friends!”
The word “culotte” is French in origin and is defined as “a garment having a divided skirt.” While many of our finest fashion trends originated with the French, the culotte has to be one of the most enduring blemishes on the face of French fashion. What must have originated on the farms and in the wineries as a practical means of adapting to manual labor and making the cheese growing, goat milking, and grape stomping a little less cumbersome, however, was misappropriated and revived by fundamentalist protestants in the 20th century as a conservative alternative to its evil and immodest counterpart: pants. Yes, pants.
I don’t really remember putting on my first pair of culottes. Photographic evidence suggests Syl surreptitiously swapped my brother’s hand-me-down pants for culottes when I was between the ages of four (4) and six (6). Being a somewhat observant child, I first began to question said substitution in kindergarten when, during the frigid Rochester winter temperatures, Syl insisted that I put on a pair of sweatpants, and then cover said sweatpants with a pair of culottes.
“Why?” I signed to Syl.
“Because it’s modest,” Syl explained matter-of-factly.
“What does that mean?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“It means that your body is covered so boys won’t look at you in the wrong way.”
I suppose I should have been flattered by Syl’s maternal instincts but, as you can see from this picture, such instincts were a little off as I was not in any danger of getting positive attention from my male peers. I accepted my mother’s explanation that night and waddled out the back door of our house, through the snow, and joined my siblings as they clambered up into our fifteen-passenger Ford van.
Some time later, presumably because her secret hand-me-down supplier of dated women’s fashions did not share her pants-free worldview, Syl decided to commission a seamstress friend of hers to fashion custom-made culottes for me. Having rarely felt the crisp, cool stiffness of store-bought clothing, I viewed the ensuing trip to JoAnn Fabrics to be an acceptable compromise between the garbage sacks filled with used clothing that reeked of mothballs and the pipe dream of store-bought clothing with actual price tags. Once we entered the store, Syl selected three rolls of fabric: one blue, one black, and one gray. She asked me if I liked those colors and, after a glance through my smudged glasses I stated, “No, they’re boring.” Syl then tried to reason with me, explaining that these fabrics, once made into culottes, would “match with everything.” I was unimpressed. Nonetheless, lacking intellectual capacity at the age of seven to argue with that logic, all I could do was mutter “then why am I here?” under my breath, careful to avoid Syl’s piercing gaze so as to not have to lie about what I said. Syl paused a moment, no doubt mentally calculating her planned purchases before telling me that I could choose a pattern of my own. I brightened at this gesture of kindness, and strolled up and down each aisle, peering through my glasses and down my nose at each pattern, running my fingers along the material, mentally discounting them as I went along as being “too fancy,” “too adult,” “too scratchy,” or worst of all, “too girly.” I rounded the corner to make my way up the final aisle when the proverbial clouds parted and I saw it: a brilliant red Hawaiian print with an interlocking floral pattern and every color of the rainbow splashed throughout. The Wonderment! The Jubilee! TO BE CONTINUED…

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

2010-09-27T11:59:00.003-05:00

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.

2010-08-24T17:45:00.007-05:00

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.

2010-07-02T11:05:00.002-05:00

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.

2010-04-30T13:08:00.003-05:00

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

2010-04-09T10:47:00.004-05:00

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

2010-03-26T09:32:00.009-05:00

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!

2010-03-24T20:55:00.002-05:00

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

2010-03-12T12:39:00.003-06:00

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.......

2010-02-28T13:36:00.006-06:00

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

Papa Don't Teach. By Jemina

2009-11-20T12:31:00.005-06:00

This is a story about the special bond between a father (Phil) and a daughter (me). At first glance, this seems to be a wholesome family photo, yes? After you’re done pointing and snickering at Phil’s creepy porn ‘stache and his signature Boyd oversized glasses, keep this image of Phil in mind as I take you on a trip down memory lane.

We haven’t mentioned this until now, but Phil is an incredibly well-learned man (our intelligence had to come from somewhere). The man holds two degrees—one in Business and one in Theology—not to mention an honorary degree from the School of Hard Knocks. An avid learner, Phil even converts television time into an educational experience. On any given night, he can be found critiquing the History Channel’s interpretation of a biblical event, or yelling at Alex Trebek on Jeopardy. Phil is also a voracious reader. Traditionally, Phil has gravitated toward magazines or publications containing miscellaneous facts and stories (he’s a huge fan of Reader’s Digest) that he can later incorporate into conversations with unsuspecting strangers (or us, if we got cornered). If there is one negative aspect of Phil’s self-education, it is that all of the little nuggets of information he acquires throughout the day often got jumbled together. For example, Phil might read an article about President Obama’s recent healthcare research trip to Brussels in U.S. News & World Report. At some point between the time Phil reads this article, opens his email account, and sends his account of the story to me and my siblings, the content of the article morphs into a matter-of-fact statement that Obama is the worst president ever because he plans to withhold healthcare to anyone who will not consume brussel sprouts. This claim will invariably be met with skepticism, and one of us will ask Phil where he got this information. Phil then gives his standard response, steadfastly announcing that he “read it in a magazine.” When pressed to reveal which magazine, Phil says his age is getting the best of him, that he can’t recall the magazine, but refuses to retreat from his position and the argument continues until I give up.

I don’t mind telling you that, as a young girl, I was not privy to the fact that Phil’s anecdotes were not error-proof. Rather, I recall being consistently impressed by his uncanny ability to recall dates and facts about our great world. That all changed on the day of the Egg Incident. On a Wednesday night in church, AWANA* to be more specific (AWANA = Christian version of boy and girl scouts wherein eager young children learn the tools of spiritual survival, as opposed to wilderness or suburban survival skills), we were given an assignment: we were to learn father/daughter teamwork skills by baking a dessert with our Dads. That night I went home and excitedly told Phil about our assignment. Almost immediately, I conjured up an image of the 17-layer cake that we would effortlessly bake, decorate and bring to church the next week. We’d unveil our creation with a pretense of humility and attribute our feat solely to our synergy (while also giving credit to The Lord). Sadly, Phil did not share my delusions of grandeur, and, in an effort to get back to his translation of the Old Testament in Hebrew, he agreed to participate, but unilaterally decided we should make brownies. From a box.

Dejected, I sullenly watched Phil read the instructions on the box, but I immediately perked up when he told me I could spray the pan myself and crack the eggs into the bowl. Right as I reached for an egg in the carton, Phil stopped me and said, “You know, this egg reminds me of something I read in a magazine once.” Having not yet learned to be wary of Phil's “all-knowing” factoids, I excitedly asked him to expound. Phil then confidently informed me that an uncooked egg would never break unless it was actually dropped on something. Even at a young age, this statement seemed implausible to me. Doubtless sensing my disbelief, Phil hastily attempted to buttress his claim by explaining that the egg’s domed exterior made it one of nature’s architectural marvels, such that one could not crush the egg between one’s fingers. Though a large part of me still felt that Phil’s logic didn’t add up, I watched with rapt attention through my large and somewhat smeared glasses as he positioned the egg between his thumb and pointer finger. The egg shook as Phil applied more and more pressure to its shell, and his hand began to wobble as he inched closer and closer to my face. With each passing half-second, Phil grew more confident in his hypothesis. Just as I was about to become a believer in Phil’s bionic egg theory, the egg spontaneously combusted and a shower of yolk and crud rained down my face, hair, and glasses. The egg explosion was quickly supplanted by a look of surprise in Phil's face, followed by his devolution into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Loud, uproarious, unfettered laughter. As Phil lost his composure, I, too, was losing mine. Completely blind to the humor of the situation, I felt my overgrown body swell with rage as the cold egg yolk dribbled down my neck and onto my favorite hand-me-down bible camp sweatshirt. Phil half—no, quarter—heartedly attempted to offer an apology while I tore through the house screaming for my siblings to tell Syl to help me get the rapidly drying/crusty yolk out of my sweatshirt, scalp, and glasses.

Needless to say, The Egg incident was the first and last Father/Daughter baking experience we shared and the beginning of the “Doubt Everything Phil Says” movement. I have no idea where the idiom “egg on your face” came from, but a friend told me that it started out as a comment one might make to a fellow diner who had poor manners or, was a sloppy eater—one who, perhaps had left egg crusties around one’s mouth. In a perfect world, Phil would have been the one to get egg on his face. Yet, as you all should know by now, life isn’t fair (hello? Powdered milk? Frozen sandwiches?), especially if you’re a sucker like me. Combust a raw egg on my face, shame on Phil. Believe anything Phil says after that, shame on me.

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Halloween Be Thy Name. By Joy

2009-10-30T11:10:00.004-05:00

I’m not quite sure at what point it became socially acceptable for kids to run amuck and demand food from complete strangers, but research tells me my Irish-Catholic ancestors may be to blame. Though we were not Catholic, the observance of Halloween always posed a spiritual dilemma for Phil and Syl. You see, Halloween is Satan’s holiday. This was a problem because Phil and Syl swore their (and our) allegiance to Jesus Christ, who is, as most of you know, the natural sworn enemy of Satan. But Halloween also presented the one annual opportunity for us kids to beg at our neighbors’ doorsteps and come home with bags full of candy—FREE candy, I might add. If there’s anything Phil and Syl love almost as much as Jesus, it is all things FREE. So you can understand their dilemma.

Lucky for us, Phil found a theological loophole in the traditional “a vote for Halloween is a vote for Satan” Baptist mantra. Phil instructed us that we could escape eternal damnation if we informed our pagan neighbors that we were not dressed up because it was Halloween, but rather, because it was All-Hallows-Eve. This was the night before All Saints Day—the day when Christians honor the saints and martyrs who doubtless gave their lives so future generations of greedy, overindulged children could stuff their cheeks with candy and lapse into sugar-induced comas.

With our behinds firmly nestled in the notched fencepost separating heaven and hell, the Boyd children set out to make each All Hallows Eve memorable. This was no small feat as Phil and Syl’s shared disdain for store-bought clothing extended to store-bought costumes. In Phil and Syl’s opinion, store-bought costumes constituted the most frivolous (read: sinful) of all clothing purchases as such items were—GASP!—only good for one use. As with most things (school lunches, projects, homework, etc.), we were left to fashion our own costumes. Every year, I’d stare at my closet, ransack my and my siblings’ dressers, and thumb through Phil’s wardrobe in an effort to be inspired.

On one particular All Hallows Eve, I decided to be a ghost. I knew this idea would not win me the envy and admiration of my friends, but I was desperate—desperate for candy. Proud that I had a plan in place, I approached Syl to request a sheet for my costume. Syl initially grabbed a clean, crisp, white sheet, but once Syl learned that I intended to cut holes in the sheet for my eyes, nose, and mouth, she replaced it with an ugly, paint-stained, yellow sheet with brown print that vaguely resembled flowers that had clearly withered and died at some point in the distant past. I looked down at the sheet and back up at Syl. “Seriously?” I signed. “I’m supposed to be a ghost,” I continued. “And everybody knows ghosts are supposed to be white,” I finished. Syl looked down at me and frowned. “Well,” she replied, it will be dark outside and no one will be able to see what color the sheet is anyways.” With that, Syl hurried off, leaving me holding my urine-colored-possibly-stained sheet at arm’s length between my thumb and index finger.

Left with no viable costume alternative, and unwilling to sign up for a candy-less existence, I trudged upstairs, located a pair of scissors, and grumbled as I cut holes for my eyes, nose, and mouth. I then slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and my favorite sweatsuit, threw the puke sheet over my head and adjusted the holes to cover my glasses, nose and mouth. One might surmise that a simple sheet (if we’re calling it that) would constitute a fairly low-maintenance costume. I thought so, too. However, when my siblings and I stepped outside into the cold October night, I ran into my first logistical difficulty. As I breathed in the frosty air and exhaled, my behemoth-sized glasses immediately fogged up. I tried to pull the sheet away from my face, hoping this would clear my glasses up, but this was an exercise in futility. I stumbled down the street after my siblings, tugging at my sheet, trying to get a clear line of vision. After taking a tumble down a set of stairs, I jerked my glasses out from under the urine sheet and jammed them on my face, over the sheet, thereby cementing my shame. After downing a few Snickers and Butterfinger bars, however, I was high on sugar, over my humiliation, and fully focused on the business of candy acquisition.

When one lives in a “transitional” neighborhood, one has to put up with neighbors who give “filler” (read: undetectable to the human eye) candy or other similarly undesirable household items such as pennies or apples. Ordinarily, I’d be chastised for throwing away a perfectly good apple, but on All Hallows Eve, we were under strict instructions to discard anything that was unwrapped as Syl believed all of these items contained hidden razor blades. I never took issue with Syl’s rule—until I walked up to a house not far from my own and, to my extreme surprise and delight, the homeowner was giving away donuts! WHOLE DONUTS! Not just crappy glazed donuts, mind you, but powdered, jelly, chocolate covered, and crème filled donuts.

In light of the fact that I’d be just as likely to spot a donut in my house as I would a unicorn or a leprechaun, I hungrily reached for a powdered jelly donut. As I did, I momentarily froze as Syl’s disapproving face suddenly appeared. I rationalized my choice, reminding myself that donuts had never made the official “don’t-eat-this-or-you-will-surely-die” list. Still, I worried that Syl would find out that I had tasted of the forbidden fruit, so I hastily shoved the donut in the direction of my mouth to destroy the evidence. Herein I encountered my second logistical difficulty of the night. I had cut a hole in the sheet large enough to allow me to breathe, and to eat small pieces of candy, but said opening was woefully undersized when it came to shoving in a confection as big as my hand.

Undeterred, I attempted to roll, fold, cram, or otherwise wedge the donut into my mouth. As I did so, the jelly that was inside of the donut seeped through my fingers, stuck to the sides of my mouth, dribbled down my chin, and rolled onto my shoes. Having already committed to this course of action, I naturally felt compelled to see it through. I poked the remaining dough and jelly droplets through the hole and swallowed, relieved to have completed my mission. At this point, I was sweating, disoriented and woozy, but simultaneously glad that Syl had seen fit to deny me that pristine white sheet after all. Unfortunately, my gluttony left me with a sticky sheet that adhered to my mouth and hands not unlike a piece of medical tape or liquid cement, and every time I tried to wipe my hands or face, I smeared the jelly even more. When all was said and done, I had jelly on my glasses, in my hair, on my sweatsuit, and everywhere in between.

I quickly retreated home, where I immediately deposited my “costume” in the washing machine, grabbed my sack of candy, and made a beeline for the nearest restroom. After thoroughly scrubbing my face and hands, I slipped into my bedroom and shut the door. Safe inside my sanctuary, I closed my eyes, thanked Jesus for my free candy, apologized for not telling any of my neighbors about All Hallows Eve, and requested not to be sent to hell for my oversight.

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We Have A Winner!

2009-09-25T14:08:00.004-05:00

Hello, Frozen Sandwiches Fans!

I know you've all been crying into your pillows at night without our presence, but never fear- we have a little something to tide you over in the meantime-

OUR CONTEST WINNER, BRIAN McVEIGH (AKA, Joy's Boss...suspicious, hmm?)

We'd like to thank the tens and tens of people that submitted stories, but we mutually decided on the winner since he provides Joy's paychecks and in turn pays for Jemina's shenanigans.

Read the winning story below, and we'll be back soon!

“Honor thy mother and father,” by Brian McVeigh- Joy’s Boss.

In reading the humorous accounts of the Boyd children contained in these pages, I came to the realization that, not only do I understand Phil and Syl more than the ungrateful lot to whom they gave birth, but that I aspire to parent in a manner consistent with their example. Therefore, I have decided to pen this column in defense of Phil and Syl. As a father of three, my main goal is to get my children from birth to adulthood in one piece. I would hope that during that journey, they come to love God, become educated, stay healthy, avoid vices, contribute to their community and one day have families of their own. All of the frills and luxuries of childhood really mean surprisingly little to a parent. Sure, I would like my kids to have fun, fit in, be popular, etc…, but parenting is like war, and as Sun Tzu teaches in the “Art of War”, the most important thing is that your little tyke lives to fight another day.

My guess is that this utilitarian model is behind the Machiavellian child rearing of Phil and Syl. Once you have found something that works- names beginning with “J”, bowl cut hairdo’s, unisex hand-me-downs, and the like, why stray from that familiar ground? As they say here in the South, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it”. That is what led to Bear Bryant’s success. Repetitive defense and offense that got the job done, but was boring to watch, resulted in twelve National Championships (I can only find proof of seven, but that is fodder for another column).

It appears from the revisionist historical ramblings of the Boyd children that they are laboring under the misconception that their parents were somehow oblivious to their childhood shenanigans. They would have you believe that Phil and Syl stood by in some sort of parental fog, unaware that the kids were bartering to upgrade their lunches, dropping the “f” bomb in public, viciously abusing the oft-maligned Jemina, manipulating the powder content of the milk that lead to their hormone induced growth streaks (honestly, have you looked at the school picture of Joy on this page? She’s ten feet tall in first grade. No wonder they relied on hand-me-downs) Anyway, the truth of the matter, and I am sure I am violating some parenting rule revealing this to you like Dan Brown discussing the Catholic Church, is that we parents know about all of that stuff as it is happening. And we could care less. As a matter of fact, we get a kick out of it.

Phil and Syl got a free trip to Disney World, and got to laugh their heads off as they forced their children to dumpster dive for the 60,000 cans needed to finance the trip. Can you imagine that? It was brilliant! As a point of reference, go today and try to get anyone- your best friend, spouse, whomever, to rummage through filth collecting things so you can get a free anything. They will laugh at you like you are a buffoon. Phil and Syl got these childhood geniuses to volunteer. Who’s the dummy now, Joy?

Anyway, it appears that all of the Boyd children are grown, still alive, self sufficient and socially adept. Along the way they learned that if you want a Mickey Mouse shirt that fits or a happy meal rather than a plain burger with no sides, then you have to work for it. Any parent would be glad to have those results. So I say, Long live Phil and Syl!

Frozen Sandwiches Sabbatical. And Contest! By Jemina.

2009-08-21T15:43:00.003-05:00

GASP! Frozen Sandwiches on SABBATICAL?!

Never fear, readers. Joy and I will be taking a short break to focus on personal projects near and dear to our hearts (and hopefully, wallets), so we've devised a clever way to keep you entertained for the next few weeks!

Contest: Ever read some of our stories and, while laughing hysterically, experience a flashback of your own to earlier days of pre-pubescent horror? Since we have now moved up from tens of fans to dozens, we're sure there's a Frozen Sandwich-like story of your own that you'd like to share.

Your story can reiterate any funny event from your childhood, as long as embarrassment and hilarity abound. Keep it relatively short, no longer than 2 pages double-spaced.

All submissions must be sent to: frozensandwiches@gmail.com

Extra Credit points for including a childhood photo!

The winner will have their story posted and receive the praise and adoration that accompanies the life of a notorious blogger.

Good luck with those repressed memories and we look forward to reading your submissions!

Ode to the Hand-me-down(and down, and down, and down)s. By Jemina.

2009-08-14T12:47:00.003-05:00

Most of you non-firstborns out there are probably familiar with the almighty hand-me-down. For the 1% of our readers who led charmed lives and have no idea what I’m talking about, a hand-me-down (“HMD”), is an article of clothing, often a shirt, pair of pants, or a dress one inherits from an older sibling (hopefully one of the same sex, but this is not always the case). A HMD’s chief purpose is to help parents economically justify having more than one child. For the Boyds, HMDs were commonplace; even James the eldest was not exempt. James inherited his clothes from another church family, so not even he escaped the cold, slightly worn grasp of used goods.

As young children we thought nothing of the trash bags overflowing with “new” clothes that showed up on our porch once or twice a year. Giddy at the prospect of acquiring new (read: old) clothes, we tried on things until we found the items we liked (and some that Syl demanded we keep), put the castoffs back in the trashbags, and carried them to the Salvation Army where some other poor family could purchase our reject HMDs for 10 cents apiece. Given the frequency with which growth spurts hit in our house, it didn't take long for HMDs to make their way down the family line to me.

Case in point: the Summer of 1984 brought with it an exciting new addition to James' wardrobe—a practically new (translation: less than one year had elapsed since the original date of purchase) Mickey Mouse t-shirt with a navy blue ringed collar and sleeves! This wardrobe coup was the result of a hasty decision by a fellow church family to rid their home of all things cartoon and rodent-like after hearing a sermon about satanic subliminal messages in Disney cartoons. After enduring many seasons of HMDs that were a touch out of fashion, James hit the HMD jackpot. It was as if Walt Disney himself shined his devilish light upon us and decided to bless us with a cool piece of clothing. I say “us” because we all knew that, if we played our cards right, we’d someday get to wear the Mickey shirt, too! Josh and Joy stared longingly at James every time he donned the Mickey shirt, anxiously awaiting the day the hallowed torch would be passed on to them.

Unfortunately for James, his time with Mickey was short lived; 1985 brought an additional 3 inches to his frame, rendering the golden tee a midriff on his already lanky, scrawny frame. Thus, Josh was blessed with Mickey's presence and Joy, sensing her time was nigh, began formulating a plan to make the t-shirt hers. She could hardly believe her luck when Josh tried on the shirt and realized the “husky” jeans he wore also applied to his torso. Poor Mickey looked bloated and misshapen stretched over Josh's belly, and Josh resigned himself to the fact that he would not get to live the dream. Ever the sympathetic sibling, Joy quickly capitalized on Josh’s grief, snatched the shirt from Josh, and ran to her room to see which culottes (re: gaucho pants in unflattering textures and colors) best matched with it. Evidently Joy concluded that Mickey matched with every pair of culottes in her closet, as he and she made a joint appearance in practically all of our home videos for the next few years.

When the time came for me to inherit the now slightly less coveted Tee of Mickey, the ringed collar and sleeves had faded from navy blue to a dull purple and were stretched out and virtually elastic-less. The shirt itself had grown threadbare due to hundreds of washings and was pockmarked with holes under the sleeves and seams. Mickey's wrinkled and sagging face bore the tell-tale signs of a mouse that’d been ridden hard and put up wet during his years with the Boyd family, and his now cracked gray eyes begged us to put him down, Old Yeller-style. Though I was hell bent on claiming and wearing my piece of history, this dream was abruptly shattered when I, a fellow recipient of the “husky” gene, attempted to squeeze into the t-shirt and Mickey’s face summarily ripped in two. Only then was Mickey quietly laid to rest in our trash can following a touching eulogy by James and Joy, the only true beneficiaries of Mickey’s magic.

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Baptist Bible Birthdays. By Joy.

2009-08-07T08:42:00.005-05:00

Fact: my birthday is tomorrow. Happy Birthday to me!!! It’s no secret that the Boyds like to make a big deal out of birthdays (well, really just us Boyd Sisters). The reasons for this are twofold. First, nobody made a really big deal about our birthdays growing up, what with the deaf parents, four children, and abject poverty, and what not. Therefore, we feel the need to make up for lost time. Second, it is a shameless ploy for attention, but we can’t quite help ourselves, given our simple upbringing.

I thank God every day that my actual age was not measured by the number of childhood birthday parties I had. If that were the case, I’d be approximately three years old. See, in the Boyd household, each child got to have a birthday party once every four years. I’m not exactly sure why or when the quadrennial Boyd birthday tradition began but I have a couple hunches. First, as to the “why,” I suspect that Phil’s or Syl’s decision (let’s be honest, all signs point to Syl) to limit birthday “parties” to once every fourth year was—as most decisions in the Boyd household—economically driven. Second, I believe this decision came on the heels of the birth of their fourth child, Jemina (yet another negative circumstance for which Jemina is to blame).

The birthday countdown evidently began in the year of one’s birth, with the first official birthday “party” being thrown at the age of 4. You might envision a quadrennial birthday party as being quite the affair—a happening scene with a menagerie of docile farm animals to pet and ride, a clown painting faces, a magician sawing partygoers’ bodies in half, perhaps, or a giant blown up moonwalk castle. Sadly, I’m using the term “party” loosely. A “party” in the Boyd household meant that, on the appointed day (i.e., a fourth, eighth, or twelfth birthday), we could invite two or three friends—from church—to the Boyd house for a maximum of two hours. There would be a cake and ice cream of our choosing and we could request our favorite meal from Syl’s limited repertoire of recipes (all of which incorporated Sams Club chicken in some form or fashion). On the “off years,” we still got to pick our cake and meal but we had to settle for a family-only celebration.

To add insult to injury, my birthday always coincided with our church’s annual week long bible conference. A “bible conference” is, to all of my unchurched friends, an event involving much hoopla and hootenanny, like Woodstock or Bonnaroo, but instead of a week of hedonistic concerts put on by various music artists, the featured performers were preachers, and the main events- sermons. For seven seemingly interminable days and nights, we sat through sermons from dawn until dusk. Because I was of the opinion that anything any of the visiting preachers said in their sermons was of little to no benefit to me, a nearly perfect child, you can certainly understand why I resented having to waste a whole week of my summer vacation—my birth week no less—listening to preachers pontificate on salvation, baptism, repentance, and the like. Especially when I could be doing much more important things, like perfecting my Native American battle cry, or polishing the faux gold plate on my musket.

Every year, I’d ask Syl why we had to attend every single service, and she replied that because Phil was a preacher on staff, people “expected us to be there.” Plus, she added, in a feeble attempt to sweeten the pot for me, “you want to be there if a revival happens, don’t you?” A “revival,” as I understood it, was an elusive but much sought after religious phenomenon wherein hordes of people very suddenly became convicted of their wicked ways (read: addictions to rock-n-roll and smoking cigarettes) and decided to “get right” with the Lord. Growing up I was not sure what “getting right” meant, exactly. I mean, I was perfect already. Further complicating matters was the common metaphor church people used to describe people who’d been “revived.” These people were said to be “On Fire” for Jesus. I always thought being on fire was a bad thing, but the way people talked about it made it sound like a biblical badge of honor, something to aspire to. Try as I might, I could not figure out why preachers devoted so much time and energy trying to save people from an eternity in a lake of fire if they were just going to turn around and ask these new believers to set themselves on fire for Jesus!

Notwithstanding the fact that I spent the better part of most birthdays in church, I have made up for lost time in recent years. When Jemina started college, she and I started throwing each other birthday parties in an effort to recapture our phantom birthday years. I will freely admit here that throwing said parties during adulthood does have its benefits. This year, for example, I expect Jemina to have set up the piñata, margarita machine, kiddie pool o’ queso, and twelve-piece mariachi band I requested by the time I arrive in Nashville for my fiesta. So, for all of you who will not get to celebrate my birthday with me (unfortunately this means most of you), I propose a toast. If you have a drink handy (adult beverage or otherwise), raise it and drink to 28 Years of Joy!

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To All My Fans. By Syl.

2009-07-31T10:34:00.004-05:00

Hello Readers! I wanted to write a letter to all those fans out there who are undoubtedly in love with me. I am sure my daughters’ tales of my sagacious ways have convinced most of you to apply “Syl’s Principles of Economics” by collecting pop cans, making milk, and freezing sandwiches. Because we’re all pretty much one big happy family now, I’ll share my secret to success: have a lot of children. You see, when you have 4 or more children, you can start to delegate responsibilities to them by their third birthdays. For instance, James and Josh started shoveling snow as soon as their tiny hands could grasp the shovel handle. Joy and Jemina were sorting the laundry and washing all of our clothes as soon as they were tall enough to reach the washing machine (i.e., 4 years of age). By delegating chores to your offspring, it leaves more time for you and your spouse to spend time together shopping for matching track suits. Phil and I prefer to show our loyalty to Alabama football by displaying Crimson Tide tracksuits during the fall, and coordinating light green ones during the spring. Early delegation also teaches your children that they have a purpose, and that purpose is to make your life easier.

My children’s stories, though hysterical, often paint me as an unfeeling taskmaster, but I laugh along with the rest of you because I know that I love them and I am deeply committed to helping them reach their goals. Never mind the fact that my goals for them might differ from their goals for themselves—they will realize that I am right in the end. My greatest dream is for my children to marry a deaf person or a C.O.D.A. (Child of Deaf Adult). Since James and Joshua have failed in this respect, all of my proverbial eggs are firmly nestled in Joy’s and Jemina’s baskets. I pray for them daily to find someone who loves the deaf and can sign with their future in-laws fluently. Along with being able to communicate with Phil and I, they must be able to answer—in fluent ASL—the following questions: (1) When will you propose?; (2) What are your immediate and long –term goals in life, work, and religion?; (3) Do you love God more than my daughter? Though my daughters complain that these simple questions are somehow the equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition, I disagree. Despite the fact that I clearly have my daughters’ best interest at heart, they still don’t seem to share details of their dating life with me, which I simply cannot understand. To make matters worse, Joy is nearing 28, and still she refuses to listen to me when I tell her that women over the age of 30 are no longer desirable spouses and are doomed to a lifetime of spinsterhood.

Anyways, I thank all of you again for being loyal fans and if you’re ever in Iowa, come see me and Phil. You’ll be able to find us as we are the only house in Ankeny that proudly displays a 10 foot Alabama flag on its porch. And if you know any deaf or CODA men who are unmarried, please introduce them to Joy. She needs to marry very soon so that she may produce grandchildren who can also sign ASL.

Love, Syl

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Sam's Club V.I.D. (Very Important Deafie). By Joy.

2009-07-24T10:53:00.004-05:00

The Boyds love bulk. And by bulk, I mean Sam’s Club. If you grew up in a large family, you are no doubt familiar with the concept of purchasing large quantities of household items that are consumed as soon as they are bought. Examples of these items in the Boyd household were as follows: (1) anything sugary; (2) anything caffeinated; (3) anything processed.

Every Sunday without exception the Boyds made a beeline from our church to the local Sam’s Club. In an effort to beat the other churchgoers to the checkout line, Generalissimo Syl, with military precision, assigned each child a “jumbo” or “family-sized” item for retrieval. Like a small team of elite green berets, we synchronized our watches and fanned out across the expanse of the stadium-sized warehouse in search of our marks.

Time was of the essence on these missions as Syl not only expected us to succeed but to do so in a timely fashion so she could dispatch us on another tour of duty. Occasionally one of use would dilly-dally a little longer than Syl liked and she’d begin to fear that we’d been abducted or, worse, that we’d been distracted by the scores of free samples and had lost sight of our all important missions. In an effort to startle any would-be abductors and/or jerk us away from the mini beef ravioli table, Syl would shriek the name of the suspected lollygagger(s) at the top of her lungs. Let me apologize in advance to our handful of deaf readers (mainly Phil and Syl), for the picture I’m about to paint. Imagine hearing “WAAANNGGGHH!!!,” a noise I’d liken to a pack of alleycats midbrawl…next to an amplifier…hooked up to a stadium’s PA system. Or a hawk circling overhead, combined with the sound of squealing, screeching tires, a pack of baboons mating, and nails on chalkboard. Suffice it to say, Syl lacked neither volume nor range. See, some deaf people (“deafies,” as Syl refers to them) are blissfully (and understandably) unaware of the appropriate level of volume required to accomplish a given task or to achieve a particular result. Deafies are similarly unlearned in the realm of intonation. To Phil and Syl, there exists but one volume—loud, and one tone—hyper urgent, of the sort a hearing person might take with a 911 operator after witnessing a loved one being run over by a bus or eaten by a pack of wolves (hey, it happens!).

If we’d had our druthers, Syl would keep her yap completely shut during public excursions—a fact of which Syl was well aware and one which she regularly exploited to shame us into immediately showing ourselves in Sam’s or wherever else we may be. As soon as we heard Syl’s trademark shriek, we all aborted our respective missions and Operation Shut Up Syl went into effect. It mattered not whose name Syl was screaming; we all had a vested interest in minimizing the public humiliation that was sure to accompany being seen with Shrieking Syl. The longer the shriek, the farther the intolerable wail traveled up into the warehouse rafters, echoing off the concrete floors, reverberating through the walls and shaking the wooden pallets (and our hearts) to their very core. Back then, I was sure that if the walls had had ears, they’ve collapsed under the force and weight of Syl’s howling. When the fastest and closest among us reached Syl, she’d immediately, as if on cue, clam up and calmly sign, “Where have you been? That twelve pack of frozen chicken breasts ain’t gonna throw itself into the cart. Move!!”

I’m ashamed to admit it, but to this day, I still shush Syl in public. But this is mostly because she still insists on yelling my name in public venues despite the fact that I am standing, at most, three feet away from her. Does that make me a bad daughter? Perhaps. But unless you’re a CODA* (*Child of Deaf Adult—I did not make this term of art up; however, you should commit this term to memory as it surely will be referenced in future blogs), you can’t judge. The Native Americans had it right: you shouldn’t judge another until you’ve walked a mile in her moccasins. So feel free to try them on, would-be judges, because they’re a size ten I’ve got a coonskin hat and a rifle to go with them!

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Kindergarten Snob. By Jemina.

2009-07-17T10:18:00.009-05:00

This is me as a nearly 5-foot kindergartener. Note the look of disenchantment on my face due to my hopes and dreams being dashed by my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Reagin. To be fair, while Joy and I often wax poetic on Syl's more erratic habits and policies, she and Phil did have their bright points. For instance, she made sure all four kids could read before entering school, something that I truly thank them for (and so should you, dear readers, as you probably wouldn't be enjoying this blog if she hadn't!). Syl was constant in her teaching, reiterating the fact that all the other children in my class would already be reading Hemingway by the time our first day of school started. I recall my first day of kindergarten, and being quite unsure of what to expect. I walked my already overgrown legs and feet to the classroom door, and was greeted by my teacher, Mrs. Reagin...who was the same height as me. She looked at me in surprise, then recognition as she said: “you must be one of the Boyd children.” I nodded in acknowledgement, and lumbered to my desk, fearful of all the learnin' that was to be set upon me.

Imagine my surprise when our first lesson was the alphabet- I looked around in disbelief and apparent snobbery when I realized every other child in the classroom was staring at Mrs. Reagin with rapt attention. Surely the alphabet lesson must be some sort of refresher course, and the real trials and tribulations of kindergarten were sure to come?

I gave Mrs. Reagin one month to impress me, and then disappointment set in. To the left of my desk was Stuttering Sally, who took so long to read “Robbie ran right around the room” I was sure Robbie was much older and had completed many a marathon by the time Sally was relieved of her epileptic speech. To my right was Lisping Logan. I felt sorry for Logan, as I quickly realized he'd much rather be cooking soufflés and decoupaging instead of going to speech therapy class every week. I cringed each time Mrs. Reagin assigned him “Sam saw six sets of sticks,” and tried to mouth it correctly for him to no avail.

Suffice it to say, I became disillusioned with Mrs. Reagin and her so-called “kindergarten” quickly. So, I did what any bored child does- started making up excuses to leave class, or even better, be sent home. My personal favorite was “The Granola Puke” trick. After two nauseating hours of C for Cat and D for dog, I'd had enough- I took my snack of granola bars, and slowly began to chew it without swallowing. I managed to shove both granola bars in my mouth and waited for my first shot at acting. Right as we were opening up our reader, I managed to convulse effectively and spit out my granola wad right into the “I See Colors” chapter. Stuttering Sally tried to ask me what was the matter, but only got to “Wha-wha-” when Lisping Logan came by my side and asked if he could whip me up a cold compreth and a carbonated beverage to thoothe my thtomach. I stayed in character and looked at Mrs. Reagin with baleful eyes as she pursed her lips in anger and quickly dismissed me to the school nurse. Syl was called and only felt obliged to pick me up after the nurse told her that no, I could not stay in the office all day.

Syl managed to be quite maternal on the ride home and even asked if I wanted a Happy Meal from McDonalds. I excitedly told her YES! and off to the drive-through we went. I was munching on French fries happily when Syl looked at me with narrowed eyes and stated that my upset stomach was certainly making a comeback and was I aware that lying was a sin? I practically choked on my French fry and gave her a sheepish grin as she told me that I would no longer be able to pull stunts like that in class, and instead told Mrs. Reagin to begin making sure I was actually reading more advanced books in class that would keep me occupied- thus cementing my snobby attitude in school for life.

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Got "Milk"? By Joy.

2009-07-10T10:59:00.003-05:00

Some of my earliest memories are of Syl, standing in front of the sink with her back to me, wooden spoon firmly in hand, stirring an opaque watery liquid round and round in a 1970’s burnt orange Tupperware pitcher. Sometimes Syl would turn around and pour said liquid into our teacup-sized glasses, over ice, and tell us to drink it with our dinner. I was told early on that this runny beverage was “milk.” Having no frame of reference, I had no choice but to believe this to be true. Sure, I noted the striking similarity in texture and taste between “milk” and other liquids, like water, but who was I to argue?
After taking a swig from a friend’s milk carton at school one day, I noticed a distinct difference between “store-bought” milk and Boyd milk. I marched home that day and promptly asked Syl why we couldn’t have store-bought milk. Syl then informed me that our milk, in powdered form, was equally delicious and far less expensive. I begged to differ with Syl on the taste point, but she would see none of it. Instead, Syl invited me to witness the miracle of making milk for the umpteenth time. Bored, I watched as Syl expertly measured out the water and powder and poured it into the burnt orange Tupperware pitcher and started stirring. In an unprecedented move, she turned around and offered the spoon to me. Stupidly, I grasped the spoon and with this one move, I unwittingly sealed my fate. Having now observed the milk-making process from start to finish, Syl announced that I was ready to take on the dubious role as Boyd Family Milk Maid.
As with any new responsibility, the novelty of making milk quickly wore off as I found myself under constant pressure to make enough milk to quench my and my siblings’ collective thirst. Our drink choices for breakfast were as follows: orange juice, milk or water. For lunch and dinner: milk or water. Like most kids, we all hated water. Powdered milk, though just a rung above water in terms of taste and consistency, was nonetheless preferred. Consequently, there was never enough milk and my greedy siblings were constantly nagging me to make more milk. Not just make milk, mind you, but make it fast and make it cold. What’s more, I was not only expected to keep the fridge stocked at all times with plenty of milk, I was further expected to anticipate their hydration needs, to make sure our two Tupperware milk pitchers were always full and chilled before every meal.
Needless to say, I did not always have the time or the inclination to whip up pitchers of milk in advance. I was, in essence, an indentured servant in my own home. A liquid short-order cook, if such a thing exists. On the nights I simply forgot to make milk before I went to bed, I would invariably wake up in a cold sweat, fearing the wrath of my siblings once they discovered there would be no cold milk to pour over their off-brand Toasty-O’s or Golden Flakes. After being on the receiving end of numerous grumbles, muttered curse words, derogatory comments, dirty looks, and overly audible sighs, I learned to fear the dawn and what it might bring if I forgot to make the milk. Yet no matter how hard I tried, desperately, to remember, I often failed. For those panic stricken nights and early mornings when I shot up in my bed and remembered, correctly, that I was once again derelict in my duties, I’d race downstairs and whip up a batch of watery brew, splash the outside of the pitcher, and set it on the table, in a small puddle (also my creation). With a final flourish, I’d take a juice glass from the cupboard, swirl some water around the inside of the glass, dump most of the water out, and put it in the sink. I’d then creep back up to my bedroom and go back asleep. When Syl woke us all up for school, I’d wait until I heard my brothers going downstairs to the kitchen and I’d follow them—while maintaining a safe distance. When they observed the warm pitcher and “condensation” on the pitcher and table, along with the glass in the sink, they’d assume the role of mini-Sherlocks and deduce that someone must have had a post-dinner drink and forgotten to put the milk back in the refrigerator. Once they cracked the case, I’d stare dumbly at them and vehemently deny getting a midnight glass of milk and subtly point the finger at the only sibling not a part of the discussion: Jemina. This tactic always worked as nobody believed anything Jemina said as she was: (1) the youngest; and (2) a known habitual liar.
See, dear reader, something as simple as milk (or a freshly made sandwich) can be taken for granted. In keeping with our mission here at Frozen Sandwiches, we like to periodically remind you of your comparatively normal childhoods. You’re welcome!!!

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An Obituary for the King of Pop in 100 Words. By Jemina.

2009-06-26T12:14:00.005-05:00

Michael was born into the Jackson 5 with a song in his heart and a two-step jive in his feet. He was Off the Wall, Thriller and We Are the World. He tried to seduce a 12 year old Tatum O’Neal. Then he turned white and almost burned off his head for Pepsi. Neverland Ranch was built, a lot of creepy stuff went down, and he started popping painkillers like Pez with a Jesus Juice chaser. Michael married and divorced Lisa Marie, artificially inseminated a handsome looking surrogate, and went bankrupt. Then his heart stopped and he died. The End.

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When Bad Hair Happens to Good People. By Joy.

2009-06-19T10:04:00.003-05:00

This is me, age 18. Check out my hair. It’s awful, I know. Unfortunately, this is not my natural hair (actually, that is somewhat fortunate); this cluster of curls was the result of a perm. And a poorly timed one at that. Allow me to explain (to the extent possible). The Boyds are not “hair people.” Some girls grow up with cool moms who unlock their daughters’ hairstyling creativity at an early age and said daughters grow up into lovely young women who instinctively know how to manage their manes. Said cool moms set their daughters up for hair success at an early age by ensuring that they get the cutest haircuts in the latest styles, or braiding their locks into the fanciest of all hairstyles- The French Braid. As is clearly evidenced by the “About Me” picture of me with a mullet, Syl was not one of those people.

I can count on one hand the number of “real” haircuts I got during my childhood (this excludes Syl putting a bowl on my head and cutting around it, or, worse, letting her friend in beauty school cut my bangs). My first haircut was a doozy. When I was in kindergarten, I had hair down to my derriere. It was long and luxuriously thick. Syl called me “horse hair,” which, at the time, I believed to be a term of endearment, but have since realized was really a sardonic statement of fact. Like any tomboyish five-year old, I did not care what I looked like. I never brushed my hair and I hated washing it. Every other day or so, Syl would take notice of my wild banshee-like appearance and spend an hour or so vigorously working the snarls and tangles out of my hair.

One night, I went to sleep whilst chewing gum (disobeying Syl’s strict orders to the contrary) and woke up with the gum thoroughly entangled in my hair. This act of defiance not only resulted in an unpleasant encounter with the Board of Education, it also resulted in Syl seizing a golden opportunity to chop my locks (again, see Mullet Joy in picture to the left). Having been shorn like a sheep in spring, I felt exposed and embarrassed and was a little wary of salons (and I use that term loosely) after that. While I, like the rest of my siblings, had bargain-basement cuts, every six (6) months or so Syl would go to the salon (a real one, I think) and get a new perm. Throughout my childhood, Syl had various permutations of the perm, and I loved and admired them all. Every six months, I would beg to accompany Syl to the real salon so I could get a perm, too. While I am sure Syl would have loved for us to have matching perms, the fact is that there was just not enough money in the Boyd Bank to buy me a perm…until I turned 18.

Though I quit asking for a perm after elementary school (doubtless having concluded that this dream would never be realized), I had renewed interest in the elusive perm towards the end of high school. Much to my inexplicable delight, Syl offered to buy me a perm for my 18th birthday, just before I left for college. To this day, I have no idea what I was thinking. Perhaps my motivation was not aesthetics (clearly), but rather laziness. At this point in my life, I had not yet been introduced to the almighty straightener; every morning I tried to wrestle my horse hair into some semblance of a hairdo and, having recently seen some high school photos, I was wildly unsuccessful at it. Having sensed on some level that I was fighting a losing battle, then, I must have thought a perm was the perfect solution for my hairstyling ineptness. What could be better than taking a shower and letting the ole curls air dry? Just a little gel! No more blowdryer! No more crazy hair! Or so I thought. Not only did the smell send everyone in a 5 mile radius running, I looked like a cross between Weird Al Yankovic and the Soul Glo commercial from “Coming to America.”

As you can see from this picture, my jheri curl didn’t do me any favors in the looks department. Turns out I was not any better at managing the perm than I was my old hair, so I eventually let the curls out, and discovered a straightener, thanks to my sorority sisters. I think the moral of this story is clear: you can get away with a perm you’re seventy or if your mom makes you get one, but not if you’re old enough to know better!

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Frozen Sandwiches on Facebook!

2009-06-15T19:36:00.004-05:00

Huzzah! We're on Facebook. Become a fan- you know you want to...God will tell Syl on you if you don't!

Click here for the Frozen Sandwiches Facebook Page!

The Green Bean Incident. By Jemina

2009-06-12T14:59:00.003-05:00

I have an announcement to make that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me- I hate green beans. Loathe them. If I come over to your house for a dinner party, please know I will put green beans on my plate, but will shove them around in an effort to look like I ate some of what you probably assume to be the best vegetable on the planet. I’m not proud of my bean-hating ways, but I feel like one particular incident cemented my distaste for them when I was at the young age of five.

On a balmy Sunday afternoon, we were invited to dine at a friend of the family’s home, who had air conditioning (yay!) and toys for their grandchildren which we promptly commandeered as our own for the day. Since it was so delightful outside, we were told that dinner would be served on the patio under the guise of enjoying the fresh air, although I think the real reason for al fresco dining was that having six additional messy eaters inside would have called for heavy-duty clean up that nary a Merry Maid could have handled. As I ran from the basement to the kitchen to load up my plate full of deviled eggs, potato salad, chicken, and corn, I saw them- the abominable beans. Unfortunately for me, since Syl knew I hated them she made sure I took a heaping portion and gave me the Stink Eye which meant “if you don’t eat every single one of these, we’ll be having a chat (precursor to the Board of Education, see below)”.

As I morosely made my way to the children’s table on the patio, I began to look around for the family dog to try and tempt it into eating the green beans, but he was having none of it. Then, inspiration struck! I would take several green beans at a time in my hand, pretend to drop my napkin, and would stick the beans through the cracks of the patio to avoid the gagging reflex that would most assuredly come if I actually tried eating them. The plan worked- not only was I happy to clean my plate (much to the suspicious eye of Syl), I felt almost smug at my cleverness.
Dinner was over, and I was happily playing downstairs with my new toys for the day, when Syl came stomping down the stairs. She took one look at me and said “Come with me. NOW.” I followed her with trembling knees to the bathroom where she pointed to the wastebasket beside the toilet and gave me the ultimate Stink Eye. As I peered inside, I gasped at what I saw- a napkin BULGING with green beans. Now as an adult, I could have clearly defended myself in stating that there was no way that any amount of patio green beans could have made its way into the wastebasket in the downstairs bathroom, but my obvious guilt was already written on my face. Five year old me just assumed that Syl was right when she said God told her when we did something wrong, and He planted the green beans in the bathroom because He knew she would never find them under the patio. Sneaky bugger.

My butt stung for days. It wasn’t until we were in our teenage years that Joy finally admitted her similar distaste for green beans, and that she had been the one to shove her guilty load of sin into the wastebasket. Apparently when Syl came stomping down the stairs she thought she was done for, but when Syl grabbed me instead her, self-preservation kicked in and let me take the fall. However, even though it happened ever so many years ago I demand retribution.

Lesson of the day: if you’re smart enough to devise a plan, be smart enough to realize you got away with it. Most importantly, eat your veggies!

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Butt vs. Board of Education, by Joy

2009-06-05T14:57:00.006-05:00

This is “The Rod,” commonly referred to in the Boyd Household as “The Board of Education.” Though perhaps not awe-inspiring on this web page, if you were staring down the barrel of this paddle at 5 or 6 years old, you’d be terrified (I speak from personal experience). As you can see from this picture, one side of the Board of Education has “The Rod” bored into the wood; the other side, however, featured a Bible verse: Proverbs 22:6. This verse is an oldie but a goody: “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” Trust me, the verse side of The Rod is quite worn and faded, as Phil and Syl trained us a whole lot. And if you think that The Rod is a paddle Phil and Syl just swung by and picked up at the church bookstore, you’d be wrong. This wooden piece of art was specially designed and commissioned by Phil and Syl, who doubtless envisioned molding and shaping their growing brood into little Christian soldiers, two cheeks at a time.

Some of us were on the receiving end of the Board of Education more than others. Phil and Syl beat James so early and often that he did not commit a sin after the age of three. Jemina got beat early, often, and late into her childhood. I don’t think the bruises on her bottom ever healed—if they did, they were quickly replaced with new bruises. Ironically, Josh (aka “the black sheep”) saw the least of the The Rod (he did not really get into sinning a whole lot until his teens), and I fell somewhere in the middle of the spectrum between Jemina and Josh.

When we committed an offense worthy of corporal punishment, Phil or Syl let us know that we would be facing the Board of Education. Justice was not swift in the Boyd Household, however. Upon witnessing the corporal offense (or learning of it from a tattler), Phil or Syl would pronounce sentence and send us upstairs to their room to await our fate. Some of my siblings would trudge up the stairs (aka the Green Mile) and sit patiently on Phil or Syl’s hope chest awaiting their arrival. Not me! By the time I reached kindergarten, I had devised a plan to make my encounters with The Rod less painful. I saw the five-minute delay between the infraction and the imposition of punishment as an opportunity to shore up my line of defense—to protect my most precious asset, if you will. I sprinted up the stairs and made a beeline for my room, grabbed every pair of underwear I owned and put each pair on, one over the other. When I head Phil or Syl coming up the stairs, I’d scamper over to their room, take my licks, muster up some crocodile-sized tears to signify pain and regret for my actions, and skip back to my room, satisfied that I’d pulled one over on the ‘rents.

You’d think the fact that I haven’t been on the losing end of Butt v. Board of Education in a couple of decades would make me less fearful of The Rod. Not so. To this day, I can hardly bear to look at The Rod, much less talk about it, so I hope you can appreciate the courage it took for me to stare at this picture of the Rod and write about it. While my siblings and I still tiptoe around The Rod as if it were the Ark of the Covenant, Phil and Syl continue to take great pride in their creation. They will seize any opportunity to show The Rod off to their friends and fellow parents whenever the issue of children and/or discipline arises in conversation. “I just can’t seem to get little Suzy to eat her peas and carrots,” their friends might say. “Give her the Board of Education and see how she likes her veggies after that,” Phil and Syl would reply, exchanging knowing glances at one another and smiling at their friends’ child-raising incompetence.

If any of you parent-readers out there have a particularly unruly kid or kids in need of an attitude adjustment, I’m sure Phil and Syl will gladly loan you their precious paddle for a small fee (so far, both James and Josh have declined to use The Rod for their disciplinary needs). Heck, Syl will come down and whup your child for you if you want—I think she kind of misses it!

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School Bus Education Series: Part 3 by Josh

2009-05-29T09:10:00.003-05:00

Since my 3 siblings have all written blogs about our childhood, I figured I’d guest blog, too. I be Josh, the involuntarily labeled yet self-actualized black sheep of the Boyd offspring. Second oldest but last in charge. My 4th grade teacher Mrs. Carlson once asked me, “Why can’t you be like your brother James?” This single question started my path down the wide road that leadeth to destruction according to the Good Book. Thanks for that, Mrs. Carlson. This single question also sparked my lifelong disdain for the Red Sox (Mrs. Carlson was a fan). However, I digress.

As my sisters alluded to in earlier blogs, we all endured our fair share of trials and tribulations on the bus. Twice a day, one or more of us interacted with kids of the sordid type: girls that wore fake nails, makeup and short skirts and guys who listened to Rock-n-Roll and Roll, cursed at every opportunity, gambled with their lunch money and looked at their dads’ porn. Needless to say, I knew all of these abominations were strictly forbidden inside the hallowed walls of the Boyd Compound of Fundamental Christianity. When I first set foot on the bus I felt like Pinocchio must have felt when he arrived on Pleasure Island (but before he started turning into a donkey). I had access to all of the forbidden fruit and I could eat—as long as James didn’t find out. The bus was a mobile Sodom and Gomorrah, a Pleasure Island on wheels, and I sampled almost all of the fruit the Island had to offer.

Of all the forbidden fruits I tasted on the bus, the most delicious by far was Rock-n-Roll. Not just any sort of Rock-n-Roll, mind you, Heavy Metal Rock-n-Roll. Unfortunately, I had to keep my newfound snack a secret. Notwithstanding Phil and Syl’s deafness, their fundamentalist Baptist leanings made them hyper-aware of sins of an auditory origin. These auditory sins were things that their hearing church brethren informed them were sinful. Chief among these sins was Rock-n-Roll. In Phil and Syl’s minds, all music fell into one of two categories: Rock-n-Roll and Christian. If music was deemed to be Rock-n-Roll, it was forbidden on the Compound.

Phil and Syl devised a three-prong test to determine which category the proposed music fell into: (1.) Do we sing it in church?; (2.) Is it sold it in the church bookstore?; and (3.) Does James approve? If the answer to any of these questions was “no,” it was Rock-n-Roll and tantamount to Satan worship, according to Phil and Syl. Period. Sadly, this three-prong test weeded out all of what I considered to be enjoyable music. Anything with electric instruments or drums (the core of Rock-n-Roll according to Phil) was quickly disapproved and labeled as ungodly. This was true even if the artist was a self-proclaimed Christian musician. What made matters worse was the fact that we didn’t have a lot of money so I wasn’t able to purchase my own heavy metal cassette tapes. Even if I could, I wouldn’t dare try to smuggle home a cassette. Where would I hide it? What would happen if Phil and Syl found it? Or James the narc for that matter… too risky. Eventually I enlisted the help of my friend Tim.

Tim and I were in the same grade and lived only blocks apart. We rode the same bus and sat together most of the time. Tim, though labeled by most adults as a “bad apple,” was an awesome friend because he came with a walkman. Walkmans were also forbidden in on the Compound as they provided access to… wait for it…. Rock-n-Roll radio stations (insert collective gasp here). At some point I discovered a small, easily concealed and inexpensive piece of technology called a “double jack.” The double jack enabled the walkman headphone port to support two (2) sets of headphones. Armed with this discovery and several weeks’ allowance (I received a small wage for my slave labor at the Compound), I purchased a double jack and a pair of ear buds for my listening pleasure. Being the good friend that he was, Tim agreed to allow me to plug in my double jack as long as I sat next to the window and supplied an occasional battery. I remember listening to Tim’s heavy metal mixed tape for the first time with my new ear buds. I had never heard such melodious sounds. The drums, guitars and screaming vocals were almost too much. It was like a drug and I wanted more. Tim exposed me to bands like Motley Crüe, Poison, Skid Row, Iron Maiden, Metallica and my personal favorite, Guns and Roses. In 7th grade, I bought my own walkman. Because the walkman led to auditory sin, I had to endure an intense Spanish Inquisition-esque screening process before Phil and Syl eventually approved the purchase.

From then on, whenever I wanted to add music to my growing collection of contraband, all I had to do was take one of James’s Christian cassette tapes, put a little piece of tape over one of the holes and copy over it with the Heavy Metal artist of my choice.

I guess if there’s a moral to this story, it’s that… umm… well there’s no moral. Drive your kids to school. The bus is a cradle of filth and a den of iniquity that I will never let my kids ride. The End.

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Left Behind: By Jemina.

2009-05-22T12:11:00.004-05:00

As adults, we all have certain fears we’d like to conquer--fear of heights, fear of failure, fear of clowns, and whatnot. One of my fears is the fear of being left behind. This fear has been rooted deep within my soul due to several instances as a child that at left me paralyzed with fear. You see, being the baby of the family had its pros and cons. I was more spoiled, it’s true, but that’s more because the novelty of child rearing had worn off by the time I arrived, and Syl just didn’t have it in her to tell me “no” most of the time. Syl’s child-rearing fatigue syndrome also led her to delegate. A lot. In fact, Syl delegated my supervision to my sister Joy much of the time. Unfortunately, this usually resulted in my being wholly unsupervised whenever an imaginary game of “Pioneers” was started (see Davy Crockett entry below). Joy would tear up the stairs to her bedroom like a bat out of hell, grab her rifle and jam that coonskin hat on her greasy mullet so fast, I was alone before I knew what had happened. Over time, I grew used to Joy leaving me alone at home, but the problems started when her absenteeism in public created some unfavorable situations for me.

Although church services on Sunday began at 8:30 in the morning and lasted until noon, we were often forced to remain on hallowed ground as the deaf congregation all clamored for Phil and Syl’s attention. It was not uncommon for a disgruntled parishioner to, in a flurry of hand movements, demand to know something relatively trivial, such as why so and so brought deviled eggs for the potluck and not jello salad like requested? Or why so and so kept their stinky baby in the service instead of leaving and changing their kid’s turd-filled diaper? While Phil and Syl were putting out fires indoors, we kids were usually outside playing tag or running amuck in some form or fashion. We’d play until we heard Syl screaming our names in rapid succession (she refused to actually go and look outside for us) and we’d all load up in our 1985 Ford Club Wagon van and drive home. However, since I was the youngest and most persecuted, I would often go and play by my lonesome to avoid the ridicule that was most assuredly waiting for me wherever Joy and Josh were. Consequently, there were times when I wouldn’t hear Syl’s roll call and everyone would clamber into the van, Joy would fail to mention I wasn’t in the vehicle, and off everyone went back to the house without me.

Sometimes Syl did not realize I was missing until we approached the house. Sometimes, though, it wasn’t until everyone sat down to eat lunch that she discovered I had yet to make an appearance. However, no matter the time of said discovery, there was no effort made to go and retrieve me. Phil and Syl, ever the pragmatists, figured that the bus that took the inner-city kids to and from church would also take me home. This happened so often that it almost became a routine for me to seek out the cluster of poorly-dressed children (a category in which I fit myself), tell the bus driver my plight, and ride along, a beacon of paleness amongst the Caucasian, Hispanic, and African- American masses.

My agony doesn’t end there, my friends. Due to the fact that I was raised in a strict Independent Baptist household (re: compound), we were constantly reminded that “THE END WAS NIGH.” This meant that the Rapture was sure to happen any day or hour. If you were sinful, of course, you wouldn’t be Rapturetized and would be left on earth to suffer the pestilence, flames, and famine of the Tribulation. One of Joy’s greatest pleasures in life was to tell me that I wouldn’t be Rapturetized because I was a snotty-nosed kid who often disobeyed my parents, even though my disobedience was, more often than not, at her suggestion (an evil ploy to keep me out of heaven? I sincerely wonder). As I was far too simple-minded to figure out Joy was a pathological liar, I tended to believe that I’d better shape up or else I wouldn’t be shipped up to heaven. Now, readers, place yourself in my already overgrown feet as a 6 year old--you’re minding your own business outside of church on a Sunday afternoon, trying to avoid the bullies who happen to be your own brother and sister, and all of a sudden BAM! Everyone around you is gone. Panic sets in as you conclude everyone’s been Rapturetized, and who, exactly, is going to take care of you? Scary, isn’t it? Welcome to my childhood.

I eventually realized that being left everywhere was not attributable to The Rapture, nor to the fact that my parents hated me, but merely to the combination of a large family and an older sister who wished she were the youngest. But don’t think that just because I’m old enough to drive myself places, I don’t have my oldest brother (still the most devout person I know) on speed dial just in case I have a Rapture-related panic attack. I may be older, but I still am terrified of being left behind.

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Can I Get a Woo-Woo? By Guest Blogger, James (The Eldest).

2009-05-15T09:18:00.004-05:00

I’m James, the eldest of the Boyd brood. Throughout our childhoods and even today the Boyd kids are routinely asked what it was like growing up with deaf parents. We used to say we didn’t know because we didn’t know any different. On closer examination, however, we all have realized that our upbringing was startlingly different from our friends’ upbringings. During our youth, the four of us adapted to our environment and utilized our senses to pick up on any social cues necessary to survive in the “hearing” world to make up for the lack thereof at home. Sometimes these social cues came too late and some form of public humiliation usually ensued. This is the story of one such occasion.
There are a number of words in the English language that describe sounds or serve as identifiers for sound. Most of you know where I’m going with this. Having deaf parents (“Phil and Syl” to all you frozen sandwiches fans out there) meant that the Boyd children often were not privy to the proper words for certain sounds. Thus, we were forced to: (a) make up our own; or (b) rely on the butchered pronunciation of our aforementioned deaf parents. Phil and Syl will admit that their subpar (I’m mostly picking on Syl here) pronunciation skills are the result of years of wasted sessions with ineffectual speech therapists who were convinced that they could save the world one deaf child at a time. Don’t believe me? Here’s an example. For years we referred to the “foyer” in our home as the “folly” simply because that’s what my parents called it. Who were we as children to question those who had given us life and took care of our most basic needs?!?
Enter the siren, that colorful, rotating device that sits atop most emergency vehicles. Growing up in the ‘hood, we came to regard the frequent blaring of sirens as a nighttime lullaby. As the eldest (I was 5 or 6 at the time), I decided that the proper name for this curious light-emitting device was “woo-woo.” I instinctively knew that because this was an object that emitted sound, my parents could offer no valuable insight on this issue and it was up to me to educate my younger siblings, specifically my not so bright (in my opinion) 3 year old brother, Josh. This new vocabulary word served us well as we interacted in our home; however, that would all change one fateful day.
My world was rocked one sweltering summer day when Josh and I left our non-air-conditioned home with Syl and headed with her to work. That summer, Syl had procured part-time employment at the neighborhood, emphasis on the hood, YMCA. This dilapidated building had a room where members could drop off their impish offspring to be “cared for” by someone else while they exercised. Syl would smile at the unsuspecting parents as they dropped off their screaming little ones, taking the ear-splitting cries with remarkable ease and then placing the upset child amidst a pile of toys and returning, unfazed, to her book du jour. My brother and I passed the time playing with toys and amusing ourselves in various ways (I once got a battery-powered car wrapped in some little girl’s hair and Syl had to cut it out). One toy that we were particularly fond of was an ambulance complete with, you guessed it, woo-woo’s. One day, Josh and I had befriended another boy about our age and we were playing with the aforementioned ambulance when the following exchange occurred:
Josh, with great excitement: I love woo-woo’s!!!
Friend, puzzled: Woo-woo’s?
Josh (looking expectantly at his older brother and replying confidently): Yeah, woo- woo’s!!!.
Fancying myself a bright child, I immediately picked up on my newfound friend’s perplexed response to my brother’s reference to woo-woo’s and quickly concluded that this kid probably had hearing parents and, given our neighborhood, had an accurate name for these flashing things. At that moment I had a decision to make. Do I: (a) defend my brother’s honor and announce flatly that these were in fact woo-woo’s and that any suggestion otherwise would be preposterous . . . or (b) throw my brother under the bus and claim the true English word for woo-woo thereby sparing myself any future embarrassment?!? Here’s how the rest of that exchange went down:
James, to Josh: woo-woo’s?
Friend, to James: Those are sirens.
James, to Josh, with a sarcastic and knowing look to my newfound friend: Yeah dummy, those are sirens!!!
Josh and I never spoke of the incident but we both learned some valuable lessons that day. First, if you want to know the word for something that makes a sound, don’t ask your deaf parents—ask a trusted friend with hearing parents. Second, if you’re going to make a word up, don’t use it in public. Lastly, you must assume your brother will not think twice about throwing you under the bus if he has an opportunity to avoid humiliation at your expense.

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Cans For Cash! By Joy.

2009-05-08T09:08:00.005-05:00

The Boyd Family’s socio-economic status can best be explained in the form of a simple math equation: Phil (preacher) + Syl (housewife) + 4 kids = negative money. Some parents tell their kids they’re not made of money, but they don’t mean it and their kids know it. When Phil and Syl told us they weren’t made of money, we believed them (see equation, above). For those of you who read about my quest to become Mrs. Davy Crockett, you must have wondered how a family that tap danced on the poverty line swung a trip to the happiest place on earth. Sit back, dear reader, and prepare to be amazed.

As a nerdy kid growing up in a steadily declining neighborhood in downtown Rochester, New York, I learned quickly about the value of a pop can* (*To all my Southern friends: “pop” = yankee-speak for Coke). In New York, each pop can was worth 5¢--a paltry sum, unless it was combined with hundreds, nay thousands, of other pop cans. This simple principle was the impetus for Syl’s plan to get the Boyd Family to Disney World. Ever the dreamer, Syl was convinced that we could collect enough pop cans to pay for our family to go to Disney World. Many scoffed at her idea (ahem, Phil), but I, in my childlike naïveté, thought it was a brilliant idea! I had no idea how many pop cans it would take to get our family to Disney World, but I was certain we would make it. And thus the journey began.

While a family of six is certainly a good start in terms of a labor force, Syl knew that Operation Disney World would require many more hands. We were, after all, on a time crunch. The Deaf Baptist Bible Conference in Orlando was only four (4) months away! Plus, our family of six wasn’t exactly the ideal worker pool. Jemina was three at the time and, let’s face it, essentially useless. James, Josh and I were 11, 9, and 7 respectively, and, though we were energetic and motivated, we were constrained by school, homework, and early bed times. Enter the Deaf Ministry. At this point in my childhood, Phil was a deaf pastor who had his own deaf ministry. I still don’t know how Syl managed it, but she somehow convinced the congregation to join her cause. Maybe the parishioners viewed the Boyd children (and perhaps me in particular) as a homely lot and they took pity on us. Or maybe Syl took some liberties with the Word and insinuated that their place in heaven might be jeopardized if they didn’t do “God’s Work.”

According to the gospel of Syl, God’s work meant following her to local schools, community colleges and universities in search of the holy trinity of pop cans: Coke, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper products. Twice a week, I would go to bed as Phil and Syl gathered a group of volunteers in our living room and mapped out the locations to be hit that night. Week after week I begged to be allowed to join them. My motive was twofold: one, to collect tons of pop cans and thereby get to Disney World that much sooner; and two, to escape my ridiculously early bedtime of 7:30 p.m. After weeks of nagging Phil and Syl, they finally let me accompany them on a late night excursion. On a school night. A double victory! On this particular night, the target was Rochester Institute of Technology, a huge university with hundreds of trash cans and receptacles with untold numbers of shiny cans inside.

When we arrived on campus, we split up into groups of three to five people and fanned out. I was in Syl’s group. Up and down the dimly lit halls we marched in search of our treasure. When a garbage can full of loot was spotted, furious hands movements, flickering light switches, and unmistakable shrieks of delight ensued. Unfortunately, most of the cans were not situated at the top of the garbage can, awaiting our arrival. Rather, the cans were usually buried under a pile of crumpled paper, discarded food, empty water bottles, and the like. For reasons unclear to me now, I always volunteered to burrow deep into the garbage can and go after the cans located in the receptacle’s deepest recesses. Although I was of above-average height even then, I required a little assistance in this regard. Said assistance came in the form of two volunteers hoisting me up and lowering me into the can, by the ankles while I rummaged around, grabbing three or four cans, then wiggling my legs to request an extraction (I couldn’t ask to be lifted out; these are deaf people, remember?). And so this process continued in the empty classrooms and break rooms, the lavatories and the common areas, me being lowered into each garbage can, rummaging, releasing, and repeating, until I was fully satisfied that I had fully excavated the last aluminum nickel and emerged, glasses smudged, she-mullet matted, satisfied, syrupy and sticky up to the elbows.

Slowly but surely, each passing week, we grew steadily closer to our goal. Each week Syl would announce our monetary take for the week, along with the total amount collected thus far. After four long months, Syl announced that we had finally reached our magic number: $3,000.00. To save you some needless mental exercise, $3,000.00 equals 60,000 pop cans. Impressive, eh? Luckily, my brothers and I were too young to realize that we and our parents looked like homeless vagabonds every time we passed a trash can and one of us rooted through its contents. Unfortunately, Syl’s crusade forever imprinted the idea that cans = cash in my brain. At this very second, I have a trash bag pregnant with cans in a kitchen cabinet. I tell myself that I am being responsible, that I am going to recycle them. Soon. I know that I can’t get 5¢ apiece for them because Alabama doesn’t care enough about the environment to bribe her citizens to recycle. Still, I think I subconsciously resent that fact and I continue to hoard my cans for no apparent reason. Thanks for nothing, Syl! The End.

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An Insincere Apology. By Jemina, On Behalf of Joy.

2009-05-02T10:34:00.002-05:00

Dear Readers,

This week's blog was to be provided by Joy, but as her 1980's wooden computer crashed while an impending trial sucks the life out of her, there will be no blog this week. You may voice your complaints in the comments section below to encourage her to get a new computer that doesn't include a trial version of AOL.

I look forward to your comments!

All Dogs Go To Heaven...Eventually. By Jemina.

2009-04-24T10:10:00.003-05:00

Dear readers, by now you have heard a little about our mother, Syl (see “Frozen Sandwiches,” below), but not much about our father, Phil. This is a story that will help you get to know Phil a little better. If you haven’t figured it out already, the Boyd household was one that would have thrived in Spartan times. In addition to Phil and Syl’s unending quest to maintain the highest order of discipline and frugality in our household, those of you who know us personally would probably agree that we could benefit from some empathy training, as well. While Syl could muster a few words of comfort in particularly stressful times, Phil was more of the stoic type. If you don’t believe me, just ask Phil why he made me wait until halftime of a high school football game to take me to the emergency room for a near-ruptured appendix.

Phil’s lack of sensitivity aside, he did manage to show a little enthusiasm (and, dare I say, love?) for our family’s beloved German Shepherd, Hershey. In the words of Jerry Maguire, Hershey completed us. She had the bravery of Rin Tin Tin and the heroism of Lassie. In fact, my siblings and I speculated Hershey was Rin Tin Tin and Lassie’s love child, the result of one perfect night of passion on a studio lot in Hollywood. She was, simply put, the perfect dog. She responded to Sign Language commands and rescued women and children from burning buildings. Most importantly, however, she protected us pasty Boyd children from the ruffians and ne’er do wells that often bullied other kids on our local playground. Hershey was, in essence, the Mr. T to our A Team, the Jem to our Holograms, the Uncle Jesse to our Full House.

On Hershey's eleventh year on this earth, we noticed a cyst which we later learned was widespread cancer. The vet delivered the crushing news: Hershey had to be put to sleep the next morning. Since I was the only Boyd child left at home, I felt obligated to give our beloved pet the last rites befitting of a cherished family member: brushing her thick coat to a shine, petting her for hours, and sleeping by her side for the night. In what turned out to be a grievous lapse in judgment, Syl put Phil in charge of taking Hershey to the Vet O' Death the next day. Though Syl gave me the option to stay home from school, I mustered up the courage to attend classes, partially because I did not want to accompany Hershey on her death march, and partially because I wanted my last memory of Hershey to be of her at peace in our home, and not taking her final walk towards the light. All day I wandered the halls of my high school in a melancholy daze, reluctantly sharing the painful story of my beloved dog’s impending doom with my friends. As I drove home from school that day, I played a montage of my favorite moments with Hershey in my head: fleeing from thugs at the playground, chasing the ice cream truck, feeding her scraps from the table, and so on. I walked into the house still pondering these bittersweet memories when I rounded the corner and saw Hershey. Lying in her bed. Still alive. I was overcome by a typhoon-size wave of emotions--was Hershey ok? Did her cancer miraculously disappear? I ran through the house until I found Phil in the home office steadily typing away on the computer and rapidly signed my questions in an effort to ascertain the truth. Phil, in an indifferent, blasé tone that I detected immediately, signed:

“Oh. I didn't have time to take her today. I guess I'll take her tomorrow.”

My mind reeled. I retorted, “You didn't have time to kill my childhood pet today?!”

At this point Phil's brain must have registered two things: a) he screwed up, and b) Syl was NOT going to be happy with him when she found out that he had purposely delayed Hershey’s agony. If there was one person in our house that loved Hershey more than I, it was Syl. It was the one time that I was able to tell him “Wait until Mom gets home,” and sheer terror appeared on his face.

I can’t tell you what exactly Syl said to Phil when she got home (this is, after all, a family blog), but I can tell you that she was livid. All I remember seeing was a flurry of violent-looking hand gestures, finger pointing, clenched jaws and bulging eyes. In his defense, Phil was remorseful. He did take Hershey to the vet the next day, and the best dog that ever lived was finally laid to rest.

I wish I could say that Phil turned over a newer, more delicate leaf after this unfortunate incident, but that would be a lie. While you may be able to chastise an old dog for its insensitivity, you can't teach it new tricks.

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Mrs. Joy Crockett

2009-04-17T10:15:00.008-05:00

It’s no secret that I was a wee bit tomboyish growing up. Okay, that’s a lie. I was a HUGE tomboy. Less than four years separated my two older brothers and I and, from an early age, I was the odd girl out. My brothers had each other and their friends; they had no use for a stupid girl like me. Sometimes Syl would force James and Josh to let me tag along when they played Cowboys and Indians with the other kids (read: boys) in the neighborhood. By the way, if you’ve ever tried to play Cowboys and Indians (or is it now “Native Americans?”) without a gun or a bow and arrow set, you’re pretty much a sitting duck. As an unarmed girl, I was forced to play the part of the damsel in distress, which I hated. I wanted to kick Cowboy (or Native American, depending on the day) butt, too!

Every year for their birthdays and Christmas, my brothers received a fabulous assortment of toy weapons: guns, swords, knives, nunchucks, etc. Because I had no weapons of my own, my brothers were doubly disinterested in letting me tag along: they did not want to let me borrow a gun from their cache of weapons and they could not be bothered to explain the rules of engagement to a girl. Of course, as a tomboy, and not an actual boy, I never got cool weapons on my birthday or Christmas (not for want of asking on my part, mind you). Every birthday I eagerly opened my gifts, hoping in vain for just one fake machete or machine gun. Instead, I was consistently rewarded with useless girly garbage: a macramé kit, an Easy-Bake Oven, or, worst of all, a doll.

It was with this mindset that I headed down to Disney World with the rest of the Boyd Family during the summer of 1989 (you’ll learn how Phil and Syl pulled this off financially in a future blog post). At the outset of the trip, Syl informed my siblings and me that we could pick one (1) souvenir from any of the parks we visited. As we traveled from park to park, Syl would periodically step inside the souvenir shops and hold up dolls, Minnie Mouse makeup sets, frilly dresses, and other female-friendly items for me to look at, hoping that one would strike my fancy. But I was single-minded in my souvenir quest; I would not be swayed. I was on a mission to find a weapon of my own: something noisy and shiny and far better than anything in James and Josh’s arsenal. I needed something I could barter with to gain entry into the boys’ club. After days of fruitless searching, I entered Frontierland, a.k.a., The Promised Land. I entered a souvenir shack with a western store front and immediately spotted my prize: a lever action wooden rifle with a painted gold finish. I clutched the rifle to my chest and indicated to Syl that I’d be cashing in my souvenir ticket. Syl furrowed her brow signaling her disapproval, but I didn’t care. On the way to the cash register, I spotted something that would complement my rifle nicely—a Davy Crockett coonskin cap. YES! I grabbed the cap and pulled it down over my bowl cut until it grazed the top of my glasses. I then shook my head back and forth, swinging the raccoon tail around like a luxurious ponytail, and grinning mischievously. At this point I think Syl realized the battle had been lost and washed her hands of me and she motioned for me to put my furry prize on the counter along with my rifle.

I’d like to tie this story up in a neat little bow by saying that my Davy Crockett coon skin cap and western rifle were my tickets into the boys’ club, but I’m sad to report that Josh ripped the raccoon tail off of my precious cap in a fit of jealousy shortly after we arrived home. My beautiful rifle, too, met an untimely end after James shoved the business end of the gun into Josh’s stomach and Phil seized it as contraband. Nevertheless, I have to give Syl props for letting me live the dream and buying my frontier contraband even though she really, really, really did not want to. So this story’s for you, Syl! Thanks for allowing me to be a weirdo!

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School Bus Education Series, Part 2: The Bus, The Birds, and The Bees. By Jemina.

2009-04-10T10:47:00.005-05:00

Now that every one is familiar with the perils of public transportation, namely rectangular, yellow machines of mayhem also referred to as school buses, I will share my tale of carnal knowledge. Every kid had that friend growing up who knew just a little too much about the adult world and its dark underbelly. Think back to that kid in your class who never showered, already had a stint at juvie under his or her belt, and started smoking cigarettes by second grade. This is usually the same person who shattered your childhood hopes and dreams with a conversation that went a little something like this:

You, as a child: “I can't wait for Christmas, Santa's going to bring me so many presents!”
Friend: “You know that Santa isn't real, right?
You, the sound of your heart audibly shattering: “Wha-, what?”
Friend: “Yeah, and neither is the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, or Cinderella. And your parents will probably get divorced soon. Got a light?”

No matter how many times this friend crushed your spirit, he or she provided an invaluable service—the kid had no qualms about answering questions that you were too scared to ask your parents, most of which revolved around sex. When the topic of sex came up in my family, it was explained as something that a man and woman did only within the strict confines of marriage, and only to perpetuate the species. Or, it was mentioned in the Bible as something that a man did to a family member (although sneakily referred to as some verb tense of “know,” as in, “Adam knew Eve,”). Said man usually realized he made a mistake and ended up gouging out his eyeballs in penance (I may have mixed some Oedipal issues in there).

In any event, at some point during elementary school, I realized my knowledge of the birds and the bees was sub par. You see, up until 3rd or 4th grade, I believed everything my sister, Joy, said was true. This delicate foundation of trust was steadily chipped away as I realized: a) Joy was an inordinately manipulative child, b) shiny pennies were not worth more than crusty dollars and should not be traded with anyone, and c) it was not normal to pay your older sister a dollar an hour to play Barbies with you. Prior to my rude awakening, Joy, in her infinite eleven-year-old knowledge, casually informed me that women could get pregnant from kissing men. You can imagine my shock and awe as I saw men kissing, nay impregnating, women everywhere! I naturally wondered why people would engage in such risky behavior…publicly! Why were people not more careful when it came to family planning? No wonder Phil and Syl had 4 kids so haphazardly!

In order to get a straight answer, I met up with my worldly friend, Courtney Parley* on the bus. I knew she would indulge my request for the truth and wouldn't sugarcoat the facts. This information came at a price, however. I would be seen sitting and chatting with a known misfit: someone who was on the first name basis with the school principal, someone who cared little for proper behavior or hygiene (she got sent home from school at least once a month for having lice). In exchange for one of my favorite Barbie dolls (given at arm's length), I was given the answer: sex was not when a boy and girl kissed (stupid Joy), but when said boy and girl hugged each other for a REALLY long time. Finally! Answers! It made complete sense to me. I never saw many people hug for a long time, and when you're married you have all the time in the world to hug someone and make a baby. I wasn't sure if a couple had to hug for hours or months, but I remember coming to the conclusion that honeymoons usually last for a week, so that must be the time it took to make a baby. Long-term hugging seemed exhausting, and I wanted no part of it. When do you sleep? Go to the bathroom? I felt so liberated the day I finally quenched my thirst for information, and I had the added benefit of knowing something that even my older sister was not privy to. I kept that secret for about 2 more years until I realized, once again, I had been slightly misinformed about the baby-making process.

Today’s lesson: tell your children pregnancy occurs after prolonged physical contact with the opposite sex. This is not necessarily a lie. The key is to make it sound like it takes hours, or days, even, to make a baby. Make it sound like a horrible, tedious, and boring process (again, not always a lie). Of course, there will be the Courtney Parleys of the world who will assume that short bursts of sexual interaction are a sufficient means of birth control, but let’s face it: these girls are gonna get knocked up no matter what you say. For the remaining risk-averse kids, this story will keep you from becoming a grandparent for at least two additional years. You’re welcome, parent-readers!

*Name has been changed to protect the guilty, who is currently serving 20-to-life in a women's state penitentiary.

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School Bus Education Sessions, Part 1: (F) Bombs Away!

2009-04-03T09:40:00.005-05:00

I remember clearly the first time I cursed. I don’t mean the first time I thought a cuss word, or muttered it to myself, under my breath. I’m talking about the first time I said a curse word, out loud, for the entire world to hear. The momentous event occurred the morning after a snowstorm blanketed downtown Rochester with nearly a foot of pristine, powdery, crunchy snow. After breakfast, my siblings and I bundled up in our moon boots, snow suits, scarves, mittens/gloves, ear muffs, knit hats and headed outside. After engaging in the usual post-snowfall christening activities (making snow angels, throwing snowballs, eating snow—avoiding, of course, yellow or gray hued patches), Jemina and I attempted to build the best snow fort EVER. After 30 minutes of fruitless digging and packing and re-packing snow while James and Josh continuously kicked in our ill-constructed tunnels and makeshift “igloos,” however, we gave up and an impromptu snowball fight ensued.
At some point during the snowball fight, the impulse control center in my eight-year-old brain completely short circuited and I inexplicably yielded to the overwhelming temptation to push Jemina headfirst into the snow. And to bury her face in it. Until she cried. In the instant I let Jemina up, I felt momentary exultation, then overwhelming guilt, followed by the tightening of my scarf around my neck. Before I could process what was happening, I heard my oldest brother James yell, “Let’s see how you like it!” and felt his hands behind my head, propelling my face toward a giant snowdrift. Then, darkness. Freezing, burning, suffocating darkness. When James finally released his death grip on my scarf, I staggered to my feet, sputtering, spitting, pawing at my face with my wet mittens, trying to get the snow out from between my eyes and giant glasses so I could face James. And KILL him. In the nanoseconds that ensued, I considered and rejected several avenues of revenge, finally deciding to go for the jugular—figuratively speaking, that is. Before I tell you my brilliant idea, I have to briefly explain James’s role in our family. As the eldest child, James was a typical perfectionist, but with a Christian twist. He was always extremely devout, even at a young age. For a long time I thought he was born without the “sin” gene. In light of this information, you can better understand why I chose the following course of action.
I marched over to James, trembling with fear and adrenaline, clenched my fists and, with all the strength my awkward Amazonian body could muster, I shrieked, F------------ (yes, I said the actual word) Youuuuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!!!!!!!! Then, silence. Shock. Neighborhood parents’ and children’s jaws simultaneously dropped.
Now you might be wondering where an eight-year-old raised in a fundamentalist Baptist bubble would have learned such a filthy word. Two words: the bus. Because the Boyd siblings lived in a “transitional” neighborhood (nowadays some might refer to it as the ‘hood) in downtown Rochester, New York, we had to be bussed to our ultra Christian conservative school in the suburbs every day. Unfortunately, we were forced to intermingle with “public school kids” on our route. “Public school kids” were, according to Phil and Syl, heathens whose parents let them watch filthy television shows like The Simpsons, forced minimal church attendance and required little to no scripture memorization. And so, despite Phil and Syl’s concerted effort to shield me and my siblings from all things “worldly,” they unwittingly exposed us to the “real” world in the form of public transportation, where kids fought and cursed and bullied and engaged in a host of other unspeakable acts which I will not go into here.
If there is a moral to this story, it has to be that, when you remove a naïve child from her Baptist bubble and thrust her onto the wheels of iniquity, you cannot expect her to close her eyes and ears to all the seedy activity going on around her. She will hear cooler, older, wiser kids utter naughty words, one of which sounds a lot like “puck” but starts with “f.” While she may deduce that it’s probably a bad word, she will have no idea what it means or how bad, exactly, it is, on the spectrum of curse words. So you mustn’t judge her for filing the word away in the recesses of her brain to be used later should an opportune moment arise. Particularly if that moment involved a buttinski of an older brother who tried to suffocate her. The End.

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Frozen Sandwiches?

2009-03-27T09:13:00.011-05:00

Now that tens and tens of people have read our blog, they may be asking, why name a blog after frozen sandwiches? Simple- it's called branding. “Frozen Sandwiches” just happens to be the name of my and Joy’s forthcoming book (take note publishers and/or agents who may or may not be trolling along this website looking for brilliant yet unrepresented writers!).

As some readers might have guessed already, this blog is based on the concept that the Boyds had a less than normal childhood. Most of the stories you will read about on this blog will center on Phil and Syl’s unending quest to save time and money. This story addresses one of Syl's schemes to turn her kitchen into a Kathie Lee Gifford-style sandwich sweatshop. Some have heard us tell the childhood story about the frozen sandwiches, but for those of you who were not lucky enough to hear it firsthand, you can read about it when you buy our book...once it’s written. But for now, I will give you what we writers in the "biz" call a teaser to keep your literary appetites whetted:

Throughout my Baptist childhood, Sundays were, of course, reserved for church. Our family attended services twice every Sunday- once in the morning and once at night. Apparently one sermon about brimstone and “backsliding” wasn't enough (I started looking at table salt as less like a flavor enhancer and more like human remains when I learned the fate of Lot's wife at the tender age of five). Nevertheless, while the other dedicated Baptist families' children relaxed (or, gasp! played!) in the afternoon respite between memorizing Bible verses and Sword Drills, the Boyd kids had work to do. Often I was invited to a friend's house after morning services, but had to reject the invitation because I had to work in our Sunday sandwich sweatshop.

I imagine that Syl envisioned the sweatshop one day early on in her childbearing years, concluding that, that while making one child's school lunch wasn't overly burdensome, making four lunches every day was an inefficient use of her time. So she outsourced the lunch-making responsibilities to her own brood. Every Sunday afternoon, the four of us arranged a Ford Assembly Line of bread, peanut butter, jelly, pre-packaged meat, government cheese, mayo, and mustard and started slapping together ingredients to make sandwiches. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays were PB&J days (read: cheapest of sandwiches) and Tuesdays and Thursdays were mystery meat days. Every week, we hastily made 20 sandwiches, put them in plastic baggies, shoved them back into the original bread bags, and crammed them in the freezer to be taken out every morning before school.

If you think it's impossible to mess up PB&J, you would be wrong. Freezing PB&J sandwiches is an art form. The ratio of peanut butter to jelly must be perfect. Too little jelly, and the thawed sandwich tasted like the dry husk of a peanut shell. Too much jelly, and the de-frosting process would render the bread a soggy, purple-tinged lump of goo. Creating and freezing pre-packaged meat sandwiches posed another challenge. While James and I maintained a healthy love for any and all sandwich ingredients, Joy was far more picky—only mayo and mystery meat on her sandwich. Absolutely NO cheese or mustard. Josh was no better; only mustard and cheese and mystery meat would do. For a child in a normal family whose mother made individual lunches every day, this would not be an issue. However, as we created all our sandwiches for every child for every lunch for every day of the week, our only solution to the meat madness was to put our initials on our sandwich baggies. This proved troublesome as all of our first names started with “J.” To get around this, we’d take a marker and scribble “J,” followed by our middle initials on the baggies, shove the sandwiches back into the bread bag, and hope that somehow our initials would remain intact in the freezer when we pulled them out in the morning. They never did. Since the sandwiches were frozen solid in breadcicle form, the insides were a mystery by the next day. In fact, we probably wasted more time in the morning arguing about whether the black hieroglyphic on the middle of a baggie was an “A” or a “D” than it would have taken to make a fresh sandwich.

The sandwich tribulations on Tuesdays and Thursdays did not end when we each grabbed what we believed was our mystery meat sandwich. The next round of trials began at lunchtime. Although most adults consider “lunchtime” to be some time between 12 and 2 p.m., elementary schools do not. My entire elementary career was plagued by 10:30 a.m. “lunches.” While I am not a scientist, I know for a fact that a frozen sandwich requires a LOT longer than 4 hours to defrost. There's nothing worse than biting into a middle of a soggy sandwich only to discover that the crunching sound you hear is not lettuce, but your tooth cracking on frozen bologna meat. In Joy's case, a close second was when she realized she had gotten (gasp!) a mustard-filled American cheese meat sandwich. Now, dear readers, please picture Joy in her pink culottes with giant glasses and greasy hair tromping across the cafeteria to James and his friends at their wannabe cool table to demand her rightful sandwich only to see its crumbly remains entering James' mouth--a sad occurrence, indeed.

If you’re one of the lucky ones whose mother made your school lunch every day (including your sandwich), you owe her a debt of gratitude. Call her and thank her. To this day, Joy hates sandwiches. Although I still love sandwiches (all kinds!), I don’t dive into one willy-nilly. I still think twice before biting into a sandwich that feels chilled—and, in a tribute to Lot’s wife, I certainly don't put salt on it.

Joy: (joi)

2009-03-18T09:49:00.000-05:00

I'm Joy, the other half of the "Joy & Jem" dynamic duo. We are like the Williams sisters of hilarity. We are both giants among women (literally), diverse in many respects, but our senses of humor are eerily synced. When it comes to humor, we have a twin-like ESP, but without the weirdness often accompanying twin-ness.
By way of caveat, I feel obligated to mention that we are, in all likelihood, more funny in person than we will appear to be on this blog. In posting certain stories from our youth, I ask that people who have not heard us tell these stories in person to imagine the difficulty inherent in distilling our familial anecdotes into words and to settle (however begrudgingly) for the watered down, literary version.
So a little about me: I'm 6 feet tall and, as I already intimated, I'm hilarious (and humble, too!). I'm the second middle child, the third of four Boyd kids, and four years Jemina's senior. I like to think of myself as a "reformed introvert." In my younger (read: homely) days, I was painfully shy (you should understand by this picture), but during my adolescence I really worked on being more of a social butterfly and less of a wallflower. I will admit, however, that there are still times (ok, many times), I'd rather hang out by myself than be out and about.
Although I consider myself to be a private person, I decided to be Jemina's co-blogger because I want everyone to feel good about their childhoods after reading about ours. Seriously, if you think your childhood was weird, buckle up. You're about to be bomBoyded.

Jemina: (juh-mihn-ah)

2009-03-17T14:46:00.000-05:00

So. My name's Jemina. I'm 6 feet tall, my birthday's on 9-11, I'm the youngest of 4 kids and oh yeah, my parents, Phil and Syl, are deaf. I can only assume Phil and Syl named me Jemina because they weren't aware of the audible consequences my name would cause.

My name has been pronounced in every way imaginable except the right way. Jemimah, Jemeeenah, Jemyna (no, my name does not rhyme with vagina), Jemiski, Jumanji, you get the drift. As a result, I usually answer to anyone who attempts a "J" sound.

My life has been colored by many, many stories involving 3 ingredients: embarrassment, legalistic Baptist rules, and deaf people. This blog will be dedicated to those stories as well as current ones that might also involve the holy trinity of story ingredients.

Stay tuned.