At this time of year, about 4 years ago, I had just finished college and was doing the same thing I am doing now—living unemployed.

I also had just discovered the Food Network and such personalities as Rachel Ray (before she became annoying, Tyler Florence (what a babe), and Alton Brown (my favorite). As much as they could teach me for about 3-4 hours everyday, I was learning to master the culinary arts.

I begun to feel so confident about my newfound knowledge of the kitchen that I decided to test my skills and take on Thanksgiving—for my first time.

For weeks I researched turkey-cooking theories and recipes to prepare my fabulous feast. I would take no shortcuts—everything would be from scratch.

On the day of the meal, I woke up at 5:00 a.m., and after 7 hours of nonstop chopping, stirring, tasting, baking, it was mealtime. I presented a buffet of tasty dishes, which filled the room with aromatics never before smelled on Thanksgiving. I was exhausted.

I christened the meal with “dinner is served” and everyone dove in. After the crowd departed and everyone was eating their meals at the table, I noticed my cranberry-apple-sage stuffing, green beans with orange essence and toasted maple pecans, and mashed sweet potatoes with ginger and brown sugar were left unscathed. Plates were instead filled with turkey, gravy, and stuffing. They wouldn’t even try it.

And to add insult to injury, everyone was done in 10 minutes. After slaving for 7 hours, and not to mention the weeks leading up to it and my emotional investment, this glorious Thanksgiving meal—a meal I imagined would blow away all my family’s previous Thanksgiving meals—was over in 10 minutes. I was heartbroken.

Well, time tends to make you forget things, and this year, being unemployed and once again watching a couple hours of the Food Network, I thought I’d take on Thanksgiving again.

So today I was up early washing, chopping, and peeling vegetables. But by about 10:00 am, with many hours of work still before me, I remembered my family’s no-risk approach to food and realized all my work would be in vain. A wave of apathy crashed over me, and I did not want cook this meal. I thought, “No one will eat my butternut squash soup with cinnamon-sugar croutons or my stuffed cremini mushrooms with parmesan and thyme.” So I cancelled all my fancy dishes, threw in the turkey and Stovetop and went back to bed.

Well, I didn’t really pay attention to the time when I put in the turkey (Alton would have been very disappointed). A few hours later we were all gathered around ready to eat. My father stood over a golden bird, sharpening his knife for the ceremonial carving. But about 5 slices in, he hit pinky raw flesh.

Nothing is more disappointing than to see your entire family on Thanksgiving, standing around with plates in hand, while potatoes and stuffing warm and ready, only to have the bird declared “unfit for serving.” All heads turned to me and my mom said, “Jen, you said were in charge of dinner.” I had decided to go watch a movie instead. “Oops,” I replied. “My bad.”

Fortunately, we had a back-up. Last night someone gave my dad a deep-fried turkey. We were skeptical of a deep-fried turkey (are we rednecks or something?), but we went ahead warmed it up while we cooked a normal one. But when the first bird didn’t pan out, low and behold, we opened the second oven and waiting for us was a dark, crispy, finger-lickin’ deep-fried turkey to save us. My dreams as a Food Network star came true—I just pretended to cook a meal then pulled out a ready-to-eat meal out of a magic oven.

When my dad started to carve the new bird I yelled, “turkey…scene one…take two!” and Thanksgiving was back on track.

For next year, we’ve decided to take a break and go out to eat.

**So Jenny is tired and can’t think of any dating advice for this post other than it would be cool if you cooked for her. 

They say you marry the family. I’ve had a handful of friends discover that they really didn’t know their in-laws before the nuptials. We single people need to learn from this.  So, in all fairness to my suitors, I have to disclose something I just discovered about my family: I think we’re closet rednecks.

I realized this as I was driving home last night from the movies. I went to see Forever Strong with Little Bro Chris, and as we pulled into my parent’s house, I noticed we had our Christmas lights still on. I turned to Chris and asked,

“We still have our Christmas lights on?”

“Yup. A lot of my friends think it’s cool. Mom says it’s okay to have them up year round if they’re white lights.”

“But half of them are out!”

I then had a small epiphany: we are middle-class rednecks. Like a domino effect of sudden realization, my mind was inundated with all these signs and symptoms of…gasp…WT (white trashness). The following symptoms don’t mean much alone, but when put together, it starts to add up.

• Half my family wears sweats—daily.
• Our dog doesn’t have a tail and has the only diagnosed case of fleas in Utah.
• The garbage man says our family produces the most garbage that he’s ever seen. (We’ve gotten better at this. My mom just likes to throw things away, which thankfully isn’t very WT.)
• We have a family membership to the Heber Gun Club.
• Last year my dad and Chris followed the Daytona 500. For a week all I heard about was Juan Pablo. (They currently deny this, but my dad likes to go to the Larry Miller track and pretend he’s a racecar driver.)
• Andrew joined the army.
• A homecooked meal is Panda Express.
• Chris constantly walks around with his shirt off. Troy did the same when he was younger but now that he’s “not his high school self” he has matured into sweat pants.
• Kelsey used to wear thick black eyeliner every day. This symptom of WT has thankfully gone away as she is very naturally pretty. But I often catch her in sweats.
• Chris is hoping for an offer to play for LSU.
• Half-broken Christmas lights are on all year long.

This realization has been hard for my family–as we are proud of our liberal roots in the bay area. My parents are both registered democrats. We listen to NPR and love John Stewart. But is this just all a facade of the true Badgers? I don’t know. This is just a disclaimer that our family is…well…our own.

**We don’t know if the symptoms are contagious. So if you date Jenny, you may find yourself at the gun rage or watching Nascar in sweats. She is, however, looking for a cure via recycling and making friends with minorities.

I had to leave my vacation early so my dad wouldn’t miss my brother Chris’s HS football game. You see, my family is obsessed with sport, and Chris is finally a Badger athlete with a possible future in it. He plays free safety for the best HS football program in the state. He has two older brothers who played football and tried playing college ball, but either due to injury or the army, neither got very far.

So the family has put our last hopes into Chris—especially our brother Troy.

Troy was born with amazing athletic ability, except for one fatal flaw—his height. Whether he stunted his growth drinking too much Dr. Pepper as a teenager, or whether karma caught up to him for practicing WWF moves on me as a kid, Troy never made it despite his potential. But, with everything in his power, he’s making sure Chris will.

For the past two years, Troy has been raising/farming/breeding Chris to become a D1 football player by literally monitoring every hour of Chris’s life. He transformed 1/2 of our garage into a home gym, even building a custom squat rack (Well, he didn’t personally build it. See Handyman post). Like clockwork, he calls Chris every 2 hours and tells him what to eat.

This behavior has gone to the extent where I believe Chris slightly fears Troy. For example, when my dad, Troy, and Chris were playing golf last summer, my dad asked the kid, “Hey, Chris! Wanna hot dog?” Without hesitation, Chris instinctually turned and looked at Troy for permission.

(I’m a actually little worried about the kid. Last week Chris came up to hang and relax in Park City. I came home to find him passed out on the couch—chocolate all over his face—and my secret stash of candy wrappers all over the floor. When I woke him, he didn’t know where he was.)

But Troy doesn’t stop there. Using various aliases, Troy comments on popular football blogs in order to hype up Chris for recruiters. In addition, Troy personally accompanies Chris last summer to football camps across the country. Even when his wife was due in one week to deliver their first child, Troy went with Chris to the UCLA camp. He also tried to skip his med school graduation for another camp, but his wife wouldn’t allow it.

I, on the other hand, personally attribute Chris’s athletic success to the year he and I lived together. About 3 years ago, Chris raced for the Park City Ski Team. To be closer to the mountain for training, he moved in with me (and my roommates!) in Park city. My roommates moved out–leaving just Chris and me. Chris wasn’t really used to maternal authority, as the first four kids in our family wore our actual mom out. So I was a substitute parent for the year. He didn’t like how I made him take the bus, and we had some pretty intense shouting matches over eating peas and carrots. Nevertheless, I fed Chris like a horse, and he subsequently put on 30 pounds that year—significantly increasing his strength and size right before high school.

Currently, Chris has two offers from BYU and Utah, with more expected to come after this year. Below is a highlight film from his games thus far this season. He’s number 7, and it shouldn’t surprise you to know that was Troy’s number as well.

**So if you want to date Jenny, it’s important to understand these family dynamics and their obsession with sport. Currently, about 90% of family conversations are  focused around Chris and his football career.

I’m traveling right now with my dad. We’re great travel partners and enjoy each other’s company as most of the time we prefer reading our books to talking. It’s great.

While waiting for our flight to take off, we discovered something new about each other—Germaphobia. Yes, we discussed the particular challenge germaphobes face when traveling, such as how airplane bathrooms require some pretty good technique.

I’m a closet Germaphobe. I try to avoid announcing it to the world, but I fight a secret battle against the world everyday—the world of germs. My mind is constantly plagued about what I’m touching or who has touched that.

Below are some symptoms of my case of Germaphobia.

I use my knuckle to push elevator buttons.

I’ll wait by a door for someone else to open it so I don’t have to touch the handle.And if I have to touch the door, I deftly try to touch the part of the handle that is the least likely touched.

I ride subways and trains like I’m surfing a wave. (I’ve gotten pretty good at this, btw.)

When there’s a bowl of lemons next to the drink station, I look over my shoulder so nobody sees me pick up a lemon with my hand to avoid touching the tongs. Why would I touch a piece of metal every other dirty hand has touched and then use my hand to squeeze the lemon into my drink. But don’t worry. I always make sure I touch only MY lemon.

Now I recognize that germ awareness is a slippery slope. I’m not bad. I don’t have OCD. I don’t use Purell as often as you think.

But as a doctor’s daughter, I’m inherently aware of the disease all around us. After our conversation about Germaphobia, I’m coming to the conclusion that it’s genetic.

For example, after I told my dad about how I handle lemon tongs, he told me the story about how he tried to politely explain to the Spanish-speaking lunch lady in the hospital cafeteria that the spoons in the utensil cup should be positioned with the handles up. She puts them in with scoop-end up so when someone grabs a spoon, they can’t help touching the other scoop-ends of the spoons. He wasn’t sure she understood his strange request.

But my dad’s Germaphobia runs even deeper—especially when it comes to hotels. He won’t stay at a hotel unless they have a washable duvet. And if they don’t, he asks for extra sheets so he can make his own duvet out of the bed. He also grabs the complimentary plastic bags at the TSA checkpoint and puts the hotel channel changer in it so he doesn’t have to touch the buttons. On the trip we’re on now, he bought Clorox wipes to wipe down all the handles, light switches, and sink faucets. Now I’m not THAT bad, but I can’t deny I didn’t applaud his actions either.

Above all, I don’t want to be rude to others. I put a stop to it there, even if I internally suffer. I will always shake someone’s hand even though my mind thinks, “Where has this thing been?”

At times I do voice up. I try to inform others of the proper way to sneeze, which is into your elbow and not your hand. I don’t know if people always appreciate my polite rebuke. For example, after the third time I got after my good friend Adam about sneezing into his hand, we got into a little riff.

“Dude, Adam. Listen! I’ve told you a gazillion times. Sneeze into your elbow!”

“No, Jenny, you listen. You’re the reason why society has created an army of Supergerms that are immune to our medicine and antibiotics. You and your stupid Purell. It’s actually healthy for your body to be exposed to bacteria so it can build up an immunity.”

Whether I’m creating Supergerms or protecting myself from inconsiderate individuals who don’t wash their hands after using the bathrooms, I don’t know. But my advice to my readers: Don’t think about it. Once you open your eyes to the world of germs that are all around us, there’s no going back.

**So if you want to date Jenny, for goodness’ sake sneeze into your elbow! Who knows what other bad habits would scare her away.

I hate sweat. And I hate other people’s sweat (or any other bodily fluids for that matter). In my Saturday yoga class, there is a particular man who sweats—a lot. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but he sweats enough to fill a kiddie swimming pool. I see him across the room just dripping puddles all around him. He’s across the room for a reason—I purposely place my mat as far away from him as possible. I can’t sympathize; I’m not a Sweater. Sure, if it’s a hot day or I’m working out, I’ll perspire. But that’s it. I’m not a human sprinkler.

One Saturday as I was waiting for class to start, the owner of the studio tapped me on the shoulder. I needed to move over to make way for HIM. Crap. What do I do? Would it be too obvious if I picked up and completely moved? Yeah it would, so I reluctantly stayed put.

About 15 minutes into class, I saw the beads start to form on his skin. “Oh no,” I thought, “Here it comes.” And like a dam breaking, sweat fell all around his mat—and mine. I watched those drops incessantly, mindfully aware where each one fell.My sweat stays on MY mat

The worst part was the guy wasn’t even trying to contain his perspiration to his area. He’d wipe his body with a towel, and then throw it to the side, which landed on my mat half the time. C’mon! Show some consideration on my behalf. The blood must have been rushing to my head in Down Dog, because a drop of sweat 2 inches away actually started mocking me!

“Ooooo…I’m coming closer. And don’t think I’m alone; there’s more where I came from.”

All right. By then I was done. I skipped the final pose and angrily tiptoed around the drops out the door.

But my contempt for Sweaters completely changed when I took my little brother Chris—my favorite person in the world—with me to a class this past Saturday. We soon found out that Chris…is (gasp) a Sweater. Within 15 minutes the poor kid was just dripping. Shocked and somewhat embarrassed, Chris looked at me and said, “What’s happening to me?” as if he was morphing into Teen Wolf or something. Chris didn’t know he was a Sweater, nor did I.

In all fairness to Chris, the class was extremely full, so the air quickly became hot and stuffy. Even I excreted past my normal volume. But watching my poor little Chris suffer, I knew it wasn’t his fault. Chris told me after class that he thought to himself, “Ya know, this isn’t going to stop. So rather than be embarrassed, I’m going to embrace it.” And then he didn’t care. Maybe that’s how the other Sweater thought ( the one I try to avoid). He can’t help it, so he’s not going to worry about it (thus the careless towel tossing) so everyone else should just get over it. Fine. I won’t hold sweating against you, but I’ll still set up my mat as far away from you as possible.

**So if you date Jenny, you WILL be joining her for yoga. And if you are a Sweater, don’t worry. She’s getting over it and starting to accept Sweaters. If her brother is one of them (who she loves very much), then she can love other Sweaters too.

I had a birthday not too long ago. I turned 27. I had a harder time with this one because I’ve officially entered my “late twenties.” When I was 26, I was still considered in my “mid-twenties,” but once you enter your “late twenties” as a single LDS woman, people start writing you off.

This was confirmed one day last March when I realized nobody had called me for the last 3 days—no friends, no family, no one. As I sat there and looked at my lifeless phone I thought, “is this the beginning of the end? Had I reached that moment when singles in their late 20s fall off the radar and are forever lost and forgotten?”

Well, I told my dad that the next day that no one loves me anymore, he sent the word out for people to call me. I then get a call from my brother Troy the next day, Thursday, March 28, wishing me a “Happy Birthday.” After a moment of confusion, and I realized my dad must have said something to my family. I told Troy thanks but to save it for another couple months: my birthday is May 28.

That evening I also received an email from my brother Brandon in California who wished me a happy birthday and asked how I was doing. After I rolled my eyes I emailed back, “I’m doing good, but I’ll be doing better in 2 months when it’s ACTUALLY my birthday.”

Even though Brandon, Troy, and Dad don’t know when my birthday is, it makes me feel a little better that my family comes through with “it’s-so-and-so’s-birthday” text messaged across the Badger family network.

When my birthday did finally come my friends took me golfing and whipped up some homemade strawberry shortcake.

**So if you’re dating Jenny, just know she likes golf and strawberry shortcake, and she now doesn’t like birthdays.