The City

'Bout time I started blogging about our recent jaunt to my favorite place! Brock had to fly out to NY for work training earlier this month and I was able to nab a cheap last-minute plane ticket. Paid hotel and a daily expense account for food? You don't say no to that, people.

I flew out a couple days early and crashed with my cousin Joy and her boyfriend Matt, who live in Bensonhurst. They've been living there for almost a year now and it was so wonderful to spend quality time with them (more on that later). My red-eye flight arrived bright and early at 5AM, but there ain't no rest for the wicked--I accepted the fact that I'd be running on two-ish hours of sleep and made my way over to Manhattan to meet up with my friend Alex.

In a serendipitous turn of events, Alex--a BYU friend who I hadn't seen since 2011--was in the city for just a couple days before flying out to London, where he now works (permission to hate him: GRANTED). We met up in Times Square and walked to Hell's Kitchen for grub. Can I just say that I have the best  friends? Alex and I picked up right where we left off in 2011, not missing a beat. Love that!

We ate Dominican food at Lali and thus began my self-directed NY eating tour ;) I had a simple plate of chicken with yellow rice and beans, but man was it good. Homemade comfort food, Latin style. Just what we needed after coming in from the drizzling rain. The ladies running the place were so warm and friendly. They let me wash up in their restroom which was LITERALLY the tiniest room I've ever been inside--rest- or otherwise!

Alex and I decided to work off those rice and beans with a long walk. We started at 10th Ave and 46th and wound our way to about Park and 70th.  Gave us lots of time to catch up! Alex had been studying at the London School of Economics for the past year-ish so I was woefully out of touch with him. He not so much with me, given my propensity for overshare on Facebook and his expert lurking skills ;) We capped off the day with hot chocolate and I made the trek back to Bensonhurst. Slept like a baby that night, tell you what.

The start of something beautiful.

These two stopped me in my tracks. I could've sworn I as them at about this exactly same time last year strolling in Gramercy Park.
Check out the grainy photo below (from last year). In retrospect, it doesn't look like the, but you can see why my heart skipped a beat!

En route to catch the looong subway ride home.

Four Ten

Four hours and nine minutes is a long time to run

Especially when nobody's chasing you

Which is probably the reason why people ask runners

Are you crazy?

What's the point of "digging deep" when you know you won’t win?

And as a runner myself I think I can say that

We just like knowing we have it in us

Four hours and nine minutes is a long time to run

And what a release when you see the finish

And what a relief just when you think your lungs will explode

And then something does—-and it’s not your lungs

And what a shock when screams of joy become screams of fear

And the blood that’s pumping in your ears runs cold

This is not how you planned on finishing

Because four hours and nine minutes ago you stood at the start

Nervous, anxious, restless

Maybe even terrified

And now some terrorist is at the top of the list of

America’s Most Wanted and the moment that you most wanted

Was stolen from you

Then the clock hits 04:10

And firemen policemen countrymen and women

Embrace the terror

In a race where digging deep isn't just for runners anymore

And as if that marathon wasn’t enough

People run to give blood

Hoping that what sustained them in their journeys

Could help sustain others in hospital gurneys

That tired veins are not too strained

To be drained

For the sake of patriots

“Blood, sweat, and tears” figuratively becomes

“Blood, sweat, and tears” literally

Patriot blood shared in spirit now shared in body

And I am sure that blood runs thick like a river--

Justice running down as dirty water
(Don't we love that dirty water?)

And righteousness as a mighty stream

Because see, here's the thing

Cowardice is obvious in a place

Where people don’t fire till they see the whites of your eyes

So go ahead

Hate

Detonate

But if you want us to feel terror then you're going about it the wrong way 
Because the Sons and Daughters of Liberty in this city 
Don’t put up with Coercive Acts 
So maybe read some history before you try making it

Because the only thing you're making us feel
is pity for you

We don’t know who did this yet

Yet--

We don’t need to know who did this

Because 04:10 said it all

And as a patriot myself I think I can say that

We just like showing we have it in us

We may be runners but we will not run

Some of us may not have legs now but we will stand together

And those trying to divide us
Will just have to go back to the damn drawing board

You see, we're still here
Singing "Sweet Caroline" because after the ashes
Good times never seemed so good

Macklemeezy in St. Geezy

A few months ago I found out that Macklemore was playing a concert at a rinky dink college in St. George. (I think he must've booked this before "Thrift Shop" hit #1 on iTunes, ha.) It took about 2.7 nanoseconds for me to buy tickets, and it wasn't much longer before my brother Colby, my bestie Jessica, and little sister Kiana had joined the party.

We were expecting a fun getaway in sunny St. George, but Murphy's law held true. It rained the entire time! (Did I mention this was an outdoor  concert?) We had a great time anyway!

The concert was held on the practice field of Dixie State's football team. Everyone jammed in together on the grass and basically moshed the whole time. Since it was standing room only, anyone under 5'5'' was screwed. Brock was sweet and held up Kiana for most of the concert so she could see!

Photobombed with Jess. Going to a rap concert made me feel old and crotchety.
I got so annoyed with  HOODLUM KIDS PUSHING AND SHOVING ME.

After crashing at the luxurious  Super 8 motel (frozen Eggos for breakfast mmmm), we visited my friend's parents.
They live in a 55+ community just on the outskirts of town and we had a great time meeting them!
 We ate lunch with them at the community center and were slowed down by an old lady cruising around in a golf cart....awesome.

No trip to St. George is complete without a stop at Nielsen' Frozen Custard.

We zipped back to Provo on Saturday to watch Brock's brother in the BYU men's volleyball game.
See Kiana's shirt? My friend Tom spray painted the image for that! So sick. Everybody was obsessed with them. We're going to sell them at the next home game!
Oh, and Kiana was very impressed with the general level of attractiveness of men's volleyball players. We tweeted this picture to the team's resident hottie Erik Mayer ;) ;) ;)

I woke up earlllly  to drive Kiana to the airport on Sunday morning, and then came back and crashed with these two.
Later in the day we went to a family dinner at my Aunt Cindy's house in Orem--we just love those!

Sunset on Timp. Great cap to the weekend.

Let's Be Honest: I Exploited A Fight With Brock To Go Get A Taco

I've had a long day. I woke up at 6:15, worked for an hour at my morning job, drove Mojo to the groomer's, went to work at my regular job, rushed to pick Mojo up  from the groomer's at lunch, finished work, grabbed dinner at the grocery store, stopped by the post office...

So you might  understand  my frustration when, at 6pm, I tried calling my husband only to find out that--despite multiple reminders from yours truly--he had not yet set up the voicemail on his new phone.

Carrying three bulging grocery bags up the stairs, I see him at the back door.

"SET UP YOUR FREAKING VOICEMAIL."

"Where have you been?! I've been locked out for twenty minutes!"

"I tried calling you!"

"My phone died!"

"You said you were 'walking now' when you called!"

"I said I was 'locked out'!"

Ah ha. The swallowed "ah" sound. The dipthongs. A simple misunderstanding . . . BUT NO. I'M JAVERTING THIS ISH. I WILL NEVER YIEEEELD. THIS I SWEAR BY THE STAAAAARS.

"It's not my fault that YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO TALK . . . What are you doing? Why are you eating a cheese quesadilla?"

"I want a snack!"

"I just  went to to grocery store for dinner! You can't wait twenty minutes?!"

"I WANT A SNACK."

"FINE. MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN DINNER."

Every spousal fight needs a pièce de résistance, and mine is usually the E.L.E. (Expletive-Laced Exit). Weaker expletives (you know what they are) are used when I'm not really  mad, but fully committed to a fleeting sense of umbrage. Stronger expletives (you know what it is) are used when Brock has royally messed up. Which--let's be honest--is never, but sometimes you gotta shake things up, y'know?

This brings me to the second part of the E.L.E: The exit. As an immature and petty person, I enjoy the drama of putting on my coat, grabbing the keys, walking out the door, and--let's be honest--closing it a little more forcefully than normal. Oh yes, see how easy this is for me to do? I have it in me to leave you WHENEVER I WANT. And who knows? It might be FOR GOOD this time. So you'd better freaking set up your voicemail, because you never know when it might cost you THE BEST THING YOU EVER HAD. Oh, and by the way, I love you. I need you. I would die without you. BUT LOOK AT ME WALK OUT THIS DOOR! YOU'D BETTER WATCH IT, MISTER.

With but a single car between us, I'd effectively trapped Brock in our apartment . . . dinner-less. A coup de grâce  if there ever was one! Cold blood coursed through my veins! A surge of endorphins seized my central nervous system! Devil Kristi on my left shoulder danced a little jig.

There is, however, one unfortunate hiccup to the E.L.E., my friends.

What to do next?

No, really. You've just made this big dramatic exit with your proverbial (or sometimes not-so-proverbial) middle fingers in their air . . . where do you go now? Because--let's be honest--you can't just go back thirty seconds later and say what you want to, which is "HAHA JK I'M NOT REALLY MAD LET'S BE FRIENDS AND WATCH NETFLIX." No. You are mad!  He has to know it!  You have to show it!

This absence must last at least twenty minutes.

Solution? 

Photo Source

A grilled gourmet steak taco at Rubio's, my friends. AKA the best taco in history of ever. Steak, avocado, bacon, tomatillo salsa, toasted cheese, cilantro, onion, cotija, chipotle sauce, lime.  

Thirty minutes later, I returned home with two fish tacos and a half-eaten churro for Brock.

Because--let's be honest--I'm pretty much the best wife ever.

Oh and I ended up eating the last half of that churro.

Reception Rants

I answer a lot of phone calls at work. Like, A LOT. Like, sometimes I get a sudden urge to punch myself in the face lot.

I'm a firm believer that rites of passage into adulthood should include a six-month stint working as a waiter and six-month stint in either cold-call sales or reception. These jobs give you the skills necessary to smile as you deal with idiots, liars, douchebags, and general Neanderthals.

Like today, when a man came into our office, looked around the foyer, and said "Whoops, sorry! Wrong place! Oh hey, can I use your phone?" The best part? He'd done the same thing yesterday. He wasn't freaking lost. He was probably scoping out the place to rob it.

Or yesterday, when I asked a client over the phone what his name was, and he said "John." Oh, that narrows it down! You're our only John!

Or a few days ago, when a person came in and said "I'm here to see my attorney." "Great. Do you have an appointment?" "Nope." Perfect! Because we actually run this law firm just like a Fantastic Sams.

Or every day, when people call and ask for their lawyer, and I say "Sure. Who is your attorney?" "Ummm...I don't know." Understandable. Why would you know the name of someone who has access to your medical bills and records, children's names, Social Security number, address, etc?

My favorite is when I refer people to other firms and they say "OH WAIT OH WAIT OH WAIT I GOTTA GET A PEN WAIT." If procuring a pen only takes a moment or two, fine. But more often than not, it takes much much longer. Like, unexplainably longer.

There are several things usually happen during this time period. They're either endangering other drivers on the road with their distractedness, preventing me from helping other clients, or shouting at their children to shut up. All the while, my neck is craned at a 70-degree angle holding a phone to my shoulder while I'm doing six other things simultaneously.

I am giving them a phone number, not nuclear launch codes. It is seven digits. How much time could possibly elapse between the moment I disclose said digits, hanging up, and their calling that number? Like fifteen seconds? Seven digits. Fifteen seconds.

That is all for today, folks.