A Newsy Letter to my Fans. By Syl Boyd.

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:

1. Frequent opportunities to buy Phil and I dinner, lunch, and/or breakfast.
2. 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.
3. 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



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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Naked Truth. By Joy.

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” a husky female voice queried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Syl looked at me. I looked at the neighbor.

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

I, of course, lied and said “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hunchback of Lawrenceville. By Jemina.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joy Joy Ma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jemina: Joy! Joy! Joy!

Me, to Jemina: What?!?

Jemina: Do you LOVE your violin?

Me, barely audible: Shut. Up.

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

The Wall of Shame: Week Two

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


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

The Wall of Shame: Week One

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

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

Awkward Stage Photos Needed!

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

Email your awesome pics to: frozensandwiches@gmail.com

2009-2010 Boyd Newsletter, By Syl Boyd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Syl (and Phil)

Drumroll, please.......

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

XOXO, Joy and Jemina!

P.S. Photo by BBC Sport News

Papa Don't Teach. By Jemina

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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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