Pardon My Dust

Two months ago, I ran up 3,450 vertical feet over six miles with a spunky girl named Courtney Abbott. As soon as I saw her at the pre-race briefing--with her bright smile and platinum-blonde pixie cut--I knew we could be friends. Lo and behold, our paths crossed within the first twenty minutes of the race, when a voice from behind me said "Hey! You ran Boston this year? So did I!" Thank goodness I wore the running tights I bought at Boston's race expo, otherwise Courtney and I might never have met.

For six miles, we talked about our lives. She travels the world teaching sex education via comedy theater--which is perhaps the best job I have ever heard of (she's currently on her way home from a "quick" two-week trip to Cambodia). I loved Courtney because, aside from her vibrant personality and the occasional swear word (kindred spirits!), she was genuine, poised, and wise beyond her years.

I visited her blog today and came across a post that was just what I needed to hear. It so captures a lot of the emotions I have been feeling recently, and helped me make a little more sense out of my twenty-something years.

I echo Courtney's plea: Everyone, please pardon my dust. Especially Brock.

Thank you, lovey, for putting up with my "endless demolition and construction." For loving me even though I didn't say "I love you" back at first. For sticking around when I broke up with you for three days (haha). For standing by me when I changed my major during my senior year of college. And when I added a minor that would cost us $10,000 and four months in a dirty, crowded city in the Middle East. And for being willing to come with me to that city and, in doing so, postpone law school for a full year. Thank you for giving up your Summer 2011 to allow me to intern in DC. Thank you being patient with me when I wanted to be a Foreign Service Officer. And for being excited for me when I passed the FSOT, even though I knew you were secretly praying that I wouldn't make it through the QEPs (turns out your prayers are potent!). Thanks for not throwing me out a window when I told you that I wanted to go to grad school in Azerbaijan, and then again when I suggested we join the Peace Corps (I still think we'd be great at it). Thanks for going vegetarian with me last year, even though we only lasted a few months. Thank you for putting your foot down when I wanted to spend $3,000 on a three-day trip to Florence for us to model wedding clothes in a Jasmine Star photoshoot. Thank you for pretending you liked my purple hair. Thank you for dreaming with me, and for helping me make a detailed month-by-month itinerary of our yet-to-be-realized 14-month trip around the world. Thanks for driving me all over the mountains throughout the summer as I trained for my ultra. And although I'm still a little bitter that you won't let me join the Marines, I have a feeling that I'll thank you for that one day, too.

Dang. That's a lot of dust.

***

If you're still reading: Congrats. That probably classifies you as either my mom or dad.

Today I called to cancel an appointment with a Marine Corps recruiter. I told him that I wasn't going to waste his time because no matter what I said or did, my husband would never concede.

"Oh, I see. Husband keepin' you from fulfilling your dreams, eh?"

His response really bothered me. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that there is a fine line between tying a person down and holding a person down. Brock is my anchor, but not in the sense that he keeps me from going wherever or doing whatever I want; rather, he keeps me grounded in a good place.

He is the good place. He will always be the good place.

Smug, Much?

A professor said today that we should relish our college years because our adult lives will NEVER be less busy.

First: I wanted to know what college he went to.

Then: I wanted to roundhouse kick his smug face.

PROBLEM: I don't know how to roundhouse kick.

Maybe if I wasn't so busy, I could learn how.

Homeland Security

I recently read an excellent article on how Israel's Ben Gurion Airport deals with security. Parking lot to airport lounge in twenty-five minutes tops. I repeat: IN ISRAEL.

And then tonight with my visiting teachers, we were talking about the extreme intrusiveness of naked body scanners and pat-downs. Now, I consider myself just about as dyed-in-the-wool American as they come, and I will willingly submit to just about anything to keep my country safe, but I should not have to expose my naked body in order to do so nor should my private parts be touched "for the cause." 

I was talking to Brock about this tonight, balking at the mere thought that a scan of my naked body is necessary for me to fly 90 minutes to Denver.

To this Brock replied, "If I knew you were coming to Denver and I was TSA, I would make you take that naked body scan thing. Like four times. From different angles. In color."

Thank goodness my husband is not the Secretary for Homeland Security.

Feelin' The Love: Part Deux

I love Brock because we were playing the age-old "Smack your spouse's bum as he's going up the stairs to the beat of a particular song and have him guess what it is" game and BROCK GUESSED WHAT IT WAS ON THE FIRST TRY.

(Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.)

Feelin' The Love

Have I told any of ya'll how much I love my husband lately?

BECAUSE I DO.

I love him because he makes grocery shopping at SuperTarget on a Friday night really fun.

I love him because he was willing to go all the way to West Valley (aka Utah Compton) with me to visit a mosque on Saturday. And when we arrived late and had to wait two hours until the next prayer, he didn't mind.

I love him because he even makes wandering around in a Rite Aid fun. (Seriously, there is nothing to do in WV.)

I love him because he is fearless and will strike up a conversation with anybody. A Pakistani cab driver, a Somalian, a Sikh, the teenager taking our order at Wendy's, whoever.

I love him because he told me I look cute in a hijab.

I love him because he took me out to The Pie.

I love him because he plays guitar and sings for my grandma.

I love him because he hates Sunday School.

I love him because he didn't get mad at me when he could totally tell I was fibbing about that new bag I bought this week. "Oh, this? I've had it forever..."

I love him because he laughed when guilt overtook me and I confessed that I'd bought it online a week ago.

I love him because he brought me a mug of Swiss Miss to help me start studying.

I love him because he's the one downstairs studying right now, and I'm...blogging.

I love him because he always finds something about me to love, even on days when I'm not that lovable.

I love him because he's quite the auctioneer.

I love him because he buys Western Family single-blade razors ("It was 20 razors for a DOLLAR!") and expects not to nick himself. (For the record, he did. Like eleven times.)

I love him because he throws me the most random compliments. "I really like your nose! You have cute arms!"

I love him because he lets Mojo snuggle with him.

I love him because this weekend was wonderful.

Seriously?? You might as well shave with a butter knife.

Presh.

I Don't Know Why I'm Posting This On The Internet

I am fully aware that picture I am about to post of myself will most definitely come back to haunt me when I'm running for the Senate in 2018. Consider yourselves warned: It's hilarious in the most repulsive way possible. In fact, it may cause your retinas to spontaneously combust. Or implode.

It's not news to anyone that I'm a master of self-deprecation. (I do it with the hopes that I can score back the points God will take away from me for being ridiculously prideful. Because seriously--I'm the shiz.) I really do think there is something wrong with me. Most girls in their early 20s are still suffering from the body-image and self-esteem issues that plagued their teenage years. I'm not. 

My self-esteem might be little too healthy in that I am not embarrassed by the following picture AT ALL. I really should be--once you see it, you'll agree--but it is just too funny not to share with the world. Plus, we've all been 12. I KNOW I am not the only one with disgusting pictures from my "transition years" (age 5-present).

I would, however, like to take a quick minute to write to my future constituents:

Dear Constituency, 

Some of the most influential actors in the Senate are those who know how to make and take a joke. It's a charismatic skill that serves a person well in the political arena. Few things are more difficult or, frankly, more annoying, than dealing with a person who takes himself too seriously. And no group is more guilty of that than politicians. 

You have met me at city halls, local schools, churches, and public parks. Others have seen me quoted in the newspaper, heard sound bites on the local news, or read all sorts of lovely things about me on the internet. I've talked about "the issues" incessantly for months. But now, as I write this, there is only one issue on my mind:

WHY
DIDN'T
MY
MOTHER
TELL
ME
TO
CLOSE
MY
LEGS.

Celebrity Look-Alikes

I don't have the best luck in this department. A couple years ago, a guy in a class asked me "Hey, has anyone ever told you that you look like a celebrity?" Flattered, I said, "Well, a couple times here and there. Why?"

"Because I think you kind of look like Heath Ledger."

A few years prior to that experience, I was talking about the subject with my dad. Some people at school had told me that I looked like Julia Stiles. I asked him if he knew who she was.

"Oh, isn't she that ugly girl from Save the Last Dance?"

NOTE: MY OWN FATHER INDIRECTLY CALLED ME UGLY.

My fate, apparently, hasn't changed much. The other day as I was showing Brock some old pictures from the dreaded 2001-2005 period, he made the comment that I looked like Steven Seagal. If you don't know who that is, you're not the only one.

Steven's a B-list actor who appears in low-grossing wannabe Michael Bay movies. Here is a sampling of his repertoire which, as you might infer from the titles, transcends both genres and time:

• 2001 Exit Wounds, Ticker
• 2002 Half Past Dead
• 2003 The Foreigner, Out for a Kill, Belly of the Beast
• 2004 Out of Reach, Clementine
• 2005 Into the Sun, Submerged, Today You Die, Black Dawn
• 2006 Mercenary for Justice, Shadow Man, Attack Force
• 2007 Flight of Fury, Urban Justice
• 2008 Pistol Whipped, Kill Switch
• 2009 Against the Dark, Driven to Kill
• 2010 A Dangerous Man, Machete, Born to Raise Hell

It's a sad day when the celebrity your husband says you used to look like is:

• Not of your gender
• Nowhere to be found on Blockbuster shelves
• STEVEN SEAGAL

On the flip side, Steven Seagal is a BADASS. Movie star, policeman, singer-songwriter (you haven't bought his albums??), aikido expert, energy drink maker, PETA activist, Buddhist, owns a dude ranch in Colorado. But you just wanna know what he looks like. Behold:

The Week in Pictures...And Words

Brock registered for his FINAL SEMESTER OF CLASSES this week!

Here he is, up at 12:01am on his priority registration date.

DEMOCRATIC PROCESS FTW! Up bright and early voting at a nearby elementary school...

...whose motivational posters offered us a few sobering reminders of what really matters.

Brock surprised me with a stargazer lily while I was hosting a test review for 60+ American Heritage students. The blood rushed to my face and I'm pretty sure I turned about as pink as this flower, but I loved it :)

We finished watching "The West Wing!" Here I am putting the FINAL disc into our DVD player. I'm not quite sure what we're going to do with all the free time we'll have during our evenings now. I can tell you that BROCK certainly has some ideas regarding that matter . . . well, really just one idea, but y'know.

[awkward segue]

In other news, this weekend has been fun. On Friday night Brock went to a volleyball game while I went to Target and got some desperately needed new makeup. And milk.

I ALMOST got brave and bought lipstick. Yes, lipstick. What am I, 25?! If THAT'S not risky enough for you, wait till you hear the colors I was trying one: Mauveolicious and Are You Red-dy? After a half-hour (yes, a half-hour) of dithering, I finally decided that I'm just not woman enough for those colors. Why spend $5.50 on a tube of lipstick if you're only going to look like an underage streetwalker?

On Saturday, Brock and I went out to dinner at a place I've been dying to go to for forever: Communal. It's totally yuppie ("We serve kangen water here, which has been restored to a pH level of 8.5") but totally good. We had fantastic steak and pork, lemon thyme gnocchi, and the best French toast dessert ever. 

After dinner, we went to BYU to check out a Diwali celebration that was going on in the Wilk. Admission was only $3, but we decided to pop our heads real quick to see if it would be "worth it." Hard to believe how entertainment that only cost $3 could not be worth it, but Provo never fails to astound me. We pocketed the cash and headed to JCPenney, where I had a $10 coupon that was about to expire. "Brock! You only have to purchase $10 worth of merchandise to get $10 off--so technically our entire purchase would be FREE!"

Sneaky, eh? We were desperate for entertainment at that point, so off to the mall it was. As soon as we got there I found a purple scarf that I needed . . . for $15. I gave Brock my best puppy-dog eyes and he said that even though it was over budget, he could cough up the $5 because I was just so goshdarn cute.

Then we decided to play a game. Ladies, this is the BEST GAME EVER. Ready? It's called "How Well Do You Know My Style." You take your man into different sections of a department store (bags, shoes, jewelry, dresses, etc) and give him a couple minutes to pick out what single item he thinks you would buy from that department.

As it turns out, Brock is ridiculously good at this game. Like, gay-best-friend good.

The Upside: I am comforted in knowing that he is an extremely competent purchaser of gifts.

The Downside: I NEEDED EVERY SINGLE THING HE BROUGHT ME.

Long story short: We walked out of there with a scarf . . . and a rockin' Indiana-Jones-style messenger bag.

Love him :)

The Ride

I was always nervous to put the bit in. He did it for me.

The bridle jingled softly as we rode alongside a split-rail fence. A velvet breeze rustled the meadow. Prairie grass rose and fell, rose and fell as eight hooves rose and fell, rose and fell. We would talk occasionally, but never for very long. Cowboys don't talk much, but that wasn't the reason why. I didn't know the reason why.

A forest lay at the edge of the meadow, and we soon disappeared inside it. Thousands of delicate aspen leaves blocked the heat of the summer solstice, casting a tapestry of speckled shadows in every direction. Tall, cool grass brushed against my stirrups with a ssshhhhh.

"Why aren't we talking?" I wondered. I was bursting with questions for him, about him. Questions about horses, the wars, atomic bombs, his childhood, his wife, his daughter (my mother). It was the longest day of the year and I had him to myself. Even so, I fidgeted in my saddle, worried that time would run out on my questions--on his answers.

Didn't he know what a mystery he was? I had pieces strewn together from stories here, pictures there, a medal on the wall. But I was impatient. It was the summer I turned fourteen and I desperately wanted to learn not only about him, but about myself. His blood was my blood--there were answers there. But he was not the type of man you pushed for answers.

He was quiet and majestic, with a countenance so gentle and so hard all at once. Warm brown eyes softened the weathered lines running up, down, sideways on his face. I always sensed his mind was burdened with memories of war. Of questioning, maybe? Of where was God in the Second World War? In Korea? But the mountains live and breathe of God. And horses don't care who you are, or what you did, or why things are the way they are or why you don't talk more.

"Look," he said, pointing to the tree branches above.

Two dark eyes were following our movements. A grey owl. I held my breath instinctively as we trespassed through its little world. That simple, beautiful world that feels so natural and yet so foreign sometimes. The forest was a cathedral.

Maybe that was the reason why we weren't talking.

***

The meadow, the forest, the owl: they were before everything. Before he got sick. Before he got better. Before he got sick again. Before he made one final trip to Big Thompson Canyon and this rugged cowboy--this atomic scientist, this Marine, this believer --stood in the pasture and wept softly as he said goodbye to his horses.

I'm certain his horses remember him. That they miss seeing him pull up to the pasture in his old Chevy with two big buckets of oats in the back.

***

Ten years have passed. It was everything to me then; it is everything to me now. So beautiful a memory that I sometimes wonder whether it really happened.