Family Pictures

The whole family went down to Denver yesterday for our annual hajj--a trip to Sandy Puc's studio for family portraits. (Quick plug for Sandy: She's a miracle worker. Figuratively and literally.) If you've ever been to my parents' home in Fort Collins, you probably know that family pictures are a big freaking deal around here. Our house is pretty much a shrine. To ourselves.

Half the time we take family photos, it's so impossible to get a decent one (you try making nine people look good simultaneously) that we just end up buying the print of our goofy picture.

There is a reason why most families only have two, maybe three professional portraits taken, ever. BECAUSE THEY ARETORTURE. It is a pain to waste a Saturday with a photographer, find a location, shop for coordinating outfits, make sure everybody looks perfect, endure awkward, uncomfortable poses and countless "SHUT UP AND SMILE"s (sometimes from your mother, sometimes from the photographer) for a solid forty-five minutes, only to have none of the pictures turn out. Why would any reasonable person want to do this to themselves? To their children? 

But if family pictures are torture, then sign my mom up for al-Qaeda. For as long as I can remember, she's been insistent on taking a yearly professional family portrait. If anything, these make for great stories. Like that one time before family pictures when my mom was getting ready and accidentally put super glue in her eye (thinking it was a small bottle of eye drops). Or when I didn't take a shower before family pictures and had greasy hair in almost ALL of them (for the record: I was 17...old enough to know better). And then, of course, there was the fiasco of 1999--wherein my dad relinquished his mancard for eternity.

(Luckily, you don't need a mancard to be an angel in heaven.)

Our Little Secret

I have packed no less than 14 pairs of shoes for D.C.

Twelve of which are heels.

To be fair, that is literally all the shoes I own after purging my closet during moving (my heels are rounded off with one pair of flats and a pair of running shoes). I just couldn't decide which ones to leave behind. I've packed them all away nicely in a suitcase that Brock thinks is filled with clothes.

I wonder how he'll react when he actually opens it.

A New Adventure

WARNING: Long post. 

Thursday: Got up early to crank out some work on my capstone paper and to start packing up the house a little. Then went to commencement in the Marriott Center, where Brock made an entrance like a rockstar, pointing at everybody in the audience and doing Jersey Shore fistpumps. Elder Scott gave the commencement address--"10 Ways to Be Happy." I may or may not have slept through 1-8. Then we (Brock, me, Gary, Tammie, Allie, Ryan, Tara, and Allie's friend Emily) went to The Pie in SLC. No, the irony of going to a classic Ute hangout to celebrate a Cougar's graduation is not lost on us. But seriously--have you tasted that pizza? Went home and continued working on my capstone paper until about 3:30am.

Friday: Woke up at 6:30 to get ready for Brock's convocation at 8:00 in the Wilk ballroom. I went to take a picture of him as he walked across the stage, but MISSED IT. Yes. I MISSED IT. 200+ credits, six years, one internship, a double major and one minor later . . . AND I MISSED THE DAMN FIVE-SECOND MOMENT THAT SYMBOLIZES THE PAYOFF. I went down a few minutes early to get some practice shots in to make sure I had the right settings, but accidentally switched the camera to self-timer right before Brock walked across the stage. By the time I'd fixed it, he was gone. Luckily there was still a professional photographer there getting pictures of everyone, but I still felt like such an idiot and this thoroughly ruined my day. On top of that, my cheeks were still a little puffy from getting my wisdom teeth out and I looked ridiculous in ALL the pictures we took. And my Grandma Thomas starting crying at the thought of Brock leaving, which made me cry. And then Gary kept asking "Hey Kristi, how's the paper coming? Hey Kristi, how's the paper coming?" which made me cry even more. So took my crying eyes and chipmunk cheeks to the library and cranked out my capstone paper from 10am-5pm. My dear mother saw what an emotional wreck I was that day and booked me a massage that night, which I desperately needed. Oh, and I came home to a dozen roses from my lovey--how is it that I got treated better on his graduation day than he did?!

Saturday: Packing, packing, packing. But first, Brock and I went out to breakfast at Guru's with Heidi and Chad--so fun! Then I went to Thanksgiving Point with my family, where there was a massive Easter egg hunt going on. Except the funniest thing happened--the hunt happened in this big, wide open field, and the egg hunt volunteer workers were riding around on golf carts dumping out huge boxes of plastic eggs everywhere. Well, before they had a chance to finish, three or four over-eager toddlers started running out to grab eggs and then--in classic mob mentality--HUNDREDS OF KIDS followed! Of course, since they weren't finished putting out the eggs a lot of kids came back empty-handed and crying . . . kinda of sad . . . kinda of funny.

After the egg hunt, we went back home to pack. Brock told my dad we would need a 5x5 U-haul trailer--that guy has no sense of spatial reasoning :) After my dad had exchanged that for a 6x12, we got crackin'. After most of our stuff was loaded up, we headed to the BYU/UCSB volleyball playoff game . . . aka the choke of all chokes. Brock even painted his face Braveheart-style, but his enthusiasm apparently wasn't enough to prevent our team from 17 service errors. Embarrassing. Gary, Brock, Ryan, Tara, and I ate our sorrows away at Texas Roadhouse that night.

Sunday: Woke up and finished packing everything into Brock's truck. You know the sleigh the Grinch rides up to Mt. Crumpit? Yeah, it ended up kinda looking like that. We stopped by my Uncle Dan's house for a quick minute to say goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa Thomas, and then hit the open road. Did not shed a single tear as we drove away from Provo . . . .

Monday: Went to Home Depot to get some fresh moving boxes. Argued about the quantity of our boxes in the checkout line and made the lady behind us laugh. Found a great deal on a 10x10 storage unit at family-owned storage facility way out in the boonies. Loaded everything in, celebrated with some Taco Bell.

***

It's a weird feeling, starting this new chapter in our lives. BYU has been all we've known for the past five years together. Granted, I'm still in school till December, but as we drove away from Provo I still couldn't help but feel free.

I just absolutely love this. I love feeling nervous for the upcoming weeks and months. I love the uncertainty of not knowing where we'll be come January. I love being somewhat of a gypsy, tearing up my roots completely and transplanting them in fresh soil.

My soul has been antsy for a long time. For the better part of the last two years, I have had a constant, almost aching craving for a change of pace. I can't tell you how many times I've cried to Brock over being sick of school, sick of Provo, sick of freaking construction on I-15, you name it. I truly believe that there are places where your heart belongs, and when you're living in a place where it doesn't, it can really mess with you. 

For a while now, summer in DC and fall in Amman has been this distant set of events to look forward to. But now that it's actually materializing right before us--wow! I can't tell you how invigorating that is. I feel like a sprinter who's just burst out of the blocks, with the wind blowing in my hair and my lungs pumping sweet, sweet oxygen as fast as they can.

It's apropos that we drove away from Utah on Easter, a holiday that symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings. As Brock and I begin this next chapter of our lives, I know we'll be relying on the Savior more than ever.

These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace.

In the world ye shall have tribulation but be of good cheer; 

I have overcome the world.

[John 16:33]

Ueli Steck

I have watched this video about seven times today.

Is it weird that this makes me cry? I always lose it at 2:25.

I love it when Ueli says, in his broken English, "You're progressing on something . . . and that's, that's all about . . . you wanna keep, keep moving. Having a progress in your life."

The reason why I think this video really got to me is because, during finals week, it was refreshing to be reminded me of much school means to me: NOTHING.

I already find myself thinking about when I'm going to get my Master's degree . . . but when I watch Ueli, all I can think of is why? So I can feel better about myself? Because I don't know what else to do? So I can get a better job? So I can tell people I have a Master's degree in blah-blah-blah and watch their eyebrows raise as they say "Oooh, really?" So I can earn an extra $20K a year and die in the rat race just like everybody else? So I can learn more and more about less and less?

***

P.S. Watch this. It's Gnarly McGnarleson.

UPDATE 4/22/11: Ueli's record is officially broken! By a whopping 20 minutes...I'm waiting for Ueli to announce an attempt to reclaim it, but he's a little busy right now.

Avoiding My Capstone Paper

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Today I . . .

• Woke up.
• Went to the dentist.
• Had the stitches from my wisdom teeth removed.
• "Sorry, usually I don't have to tug at the sutures so much."
• Got my six-month dental cleaning.
• Exerted all my faculties not to gag on the fluoride treatment.
• Found out I have two cavities.
• Made an appointment to get them filled tomorrow before two finals.
• Went to the DMV to get a duplicate license because my old one got stolen.
• Found out the hard way that yes, my cheeks DO still look a little swollen.
• Literally smiled like a chipmunk in my driver's license picture (can't wait to keep looking at that for the next ten years).
• Picked my dog up from the vet (he had a dentist appointment today, too).
• Almost got my car TOTALED by some ditzy mom in a minivan who didn't think to look and/or signal before changing lanes. She's lucky I have ninja-like reflexes.
• Went to a review session for my Arabic final tomorrow.
• Decided to grab a quick veggie burrito for dinner.
• Waited 20 minutes for my "fast" food because every high schooler in Provo decided to go to Del Taco at 9pm and order seven burritos.
• Got grossed out by the kid in Del Taco who was NOT WEARING ANY SHOES. His soles were black and crusty. And I'm sure his soul was, too.
• Came home.
• Discovered that, apparently, dental anesthesia gives my dog loose bowels.
• Picked up dog crap.

On top of all this, Brock is up spending the night in Midway with his family, and

• I miss him.

I stayed home to crank out a few more hours of Arabic and give my capstone paper a lobotomy.

After today, I could probably use one myself.

BYU Bathrooms

The fact that a month-old blog devoted solely to providing information on various bathrooms around campus (byubathrooms.com) will shortly surpass me in followers. There is truly a market for everything.

This site is done by a guy who bears a striking resemblance to Adrian Brody. That has nothing to do with anything, just thought I'd throw it out there. Anyway, he goes in to bathrooms, takes pictures, and writes reviews based on cleanliness, decor, location, and traffic. (On a side note, wouldn't it be creepy to be doing your business in a stall and hear the click of a camera shutter?) For some reason, I'm surprised that it's a guy making this blog. Don't guys just go in and get out? Girls are the ones who dither around trying to calculate simple probabilities in their head of which toilet is least used--the one closest to the door? Farthest away? Middle? Handicapped stall? This kid even comments on things like lighting (the Kennedy Center bathrooms are just a tad too dim for his tastes).

I would say this guy is totally weird, but there's a mini-documentary that someone made about him (posted on his site) where he's wearing an Oceanic Flight 815 shirt. This makes him cool.

UPDATE 10/2012: I am proud to say that I am now good friends with this blog's owner! His name is Jesse Thomas and we studied Arabic in Amman together. He's pretty much DA BOMB.

INXS

"One Of My Kind" just came on the radio as we were driving to school.

"I love this song," Brock said.

"So do I. Came out in 1988--proof that I was born in the best year of the decade."

"Seriously. Doesn't this song just make you wanna STRIP?????"

[Crickets.]

So slide over here

And give me a moment

Your moves are so raw

I've got to let you know . . .

(If you weren't aware that even married people have awkward moments, now you know.)

"Umm, not really . . . "

"Oh."

There's something about you, girl

That makes me SWEAT

How do you feel?

I'M LONELY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Brock shot me a side glance and a wink. " . . . I'd make a good stripper."

"I'm sure you would, honey."

SO MUCH TO DOOOOOOOOO

No time for a "real" post today. Busy with papers, grading American Heritage essays, Arabic verbs, BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Instead, I bequeath upon you a picture of me poking out my eyeballs over finals-induced stress.

(P.S. Don't worry, I'm not actually poking out my eyeballs in real life.)

Like A Rock

Brock and I were just downstairs sharing a piece of toast. (Poor, much?) As he was getting a glass of water to head up to bed, I gave his bum a little squeeze.

"Honey, stop flexing."

"What?"

"Stop flexing."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are! Stop it!"

"Lovey, that's just how my bum is."

"No, it's not. Stop flexing."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

Don't Fence Me In

Isn't this the best song?

***

I used to love visiting my friend Erica down the street because she'd go creek-exploring with me. There was a creek near her house with cool water, tall reeds, and muskrats. Now that I think of it, it was more of drainage ditch, but we didn't care because we didn't know that. All we knew was how good it felt when we kicked off our shoes and let the brown mud seep up between our toes. And how exciting it was when we saw a muskrat dart off into the reeds--right in front of us! The lure of always wanting to explore further and further down the creek. And the sweet tinge of rebelliousness we felt knowing that our moms would sigh and say "How many times do I have to tell you not to play in that gross ditch?!" when we came home for dinner.

I remember laying down one night in the field behind my grandparents' cabin, looking up at the brightest stars I'd ever seen. Wispy mountain grass tickled my face while crickets played songs without words (people-words, that is). I remember being struck with the majesty of the universe, and with the greatness of God.

My grandpa owned an authentic teepee that we slept in sometimes. With musty fur blankets and everything. I always had the hardest time falling asleep in that teepee. I watched the flap opening intently and listened to every sound outside, just waiting for a bear to come roaming in.

We moved into a new house in the foothills. There was a funny little clump of cottonwood trees out in the middle of the prairie below us--my friend Becky called them the Broccoli Trees, because they really did look like a bunch of broccoli out there. Sometimes I walked all the way out to those trees just to sit.

I used to run on an old dirt road near my house. I don't even know what the name of it was. I ran down the Cathy Fromme Prairie Trail for just a bit, hopped a fence, ran up into a neighborhood, down a hill, past some mailboxes, took a left and then--exhale--the pavement ended and miles of soft dirt stretched out before me. There were a few houses scattered along that road, but not many. Sometimes I'd see a car, sometimes not. Most of the time it was just me, dusk, and the sound of my feet on the earth. I loved this road because its undulating hills wound down into a valley surrounded by rocky cliffs. At the end of the road was a pasture full of horses. Before turning around to run home, I would stand on the pasture's old wooden fence for a while, trying to persuade a horse to come over so I could touch it.

Sometimes a horse would come, sometimes not. Sometimes I waited for a long time on that fence.

Coulda-Woulda-Shouldas

Brock and I only have twenty more days left in Happy Valley. Twenty more days!!!! It's weird to think about. We met here, fell in love here, started our marriage here. Aside from a summer in Chicago, it's been the only home we've known for five years. Despite this, there are several items left on my Utah bucket list:

Ragnar relay

Swiss Days at Midway

Timpanogos Storytelling Festival in Orem

Hot pots

Skiing

Holi festival

Jazz game

Timpanogos Cave

Camping on Antelope Island

Sunset on the Salt Flats

Seeing the Great Salt Lake

Boating on Utah Lake

Road-tripping down to Vegas to see a show

Musical at the Tuacahn Theatre

Stadium of Fire

I've been thinking about all these things I have yet to do, and almost wish I had another year to do them. Yet the more I've thought about it, the more I realize that there will always be things left on your bucket list (at least for me). Even though I get a little depressed looking at the unfinished list above, it helps to think of the things I have done. For example, that entire list is worth less to me than the adventure I had on the Cascade saddle. Or backpacking with Brock under the shadow of Timpanogos.

If there's anything Utah has taught me, it's that my best memories come from doing things outdoors--either alone or with people I love. The mountains are where I've had some of the most transcendent moments of my life, which mean so much more to me than a fleeting hour of entertainment here or there. So while that list above is unfinished, I'm proud to have gone off the beaten path a little--having experienced Utah in ways that have changed me, rather than entertained me. For me, that makes all those coulda-woulda-shouldas obsolete.

Pervs

Y'know, the fact that, in twelve hours' time, a short post about BOOBS became--BY FAR--my highest-viewed post EVER really says a lot about you guys.

Also: Two posts about boobs in the Top 5? Seriously, people????

(For the record, "The Boob Job" wasn't even about boobs--it was a metaphor for the mattress pad I'd recently bought. SUCKERS. Your true pervy colors are revealed.)

Not Gonna Lie

I'm pretty excited to get pregnant someday so I can have, well, y'know . . .

***

UPDATE: Brock reads this post and goes:

"So . . . you think you'll have cravings for cantaloupe when you're pregnant?"

"No, honey."

"???"

"BOOBS, BROCK. BOOBS."

"Oooooh, no wonder I didn't get it! Dream a little bigger, whydoncha?? WATERMELON."

Annoying Wife-Bragging--SORRY

There are people in this world who are great, but who don't require any validation of it. My husband is one of them. I, on the other hand, love validation (chelloooooo why do you think I have this blog????) and much prefer flying on the radar than under it.

I fully admit to being somewhat of a narcissist (I can already hear my mom on the other end of the phone: "Somewhat?!?!?!"). I have a natural tendency to put myself in the spotlight, whereas Brock tends to do the opposite. That's why we've recently heard--on several occasions--his being referred to as "Mr. Kristi Boyce" or "Most Likely to Become the First Man".

But you know what?

It's all a farce. I'm enjoying my younger years right now, when I have the freedom and ability to be as headstrong as I am. I'm so blessed to have a husband who's willing to play along and go with me to D.C., go with me to Amman, and put his life on hold for a while I play World Conqueress for a while.

But one of these days, I'll happily shy away from the limelight and become a mother to what will definitely be very headstrong children. And instead of my husband supporting me in my endeavors, I'll support him. The older I get, the more and more I am looking forward to this.

Until that happens, there are a few things about Brock you should know.

***

Recently, Brock finished reading Les Miserables (1463 pages). For fun.

Now he's reading War and Peace (1215 pages). For fun.

In between (while waiting for War and Peace to arrive in the mail) he read The Alchemist.

Yesterday, he found out that he's nominated for Student Employee of the Year. Not just out of all the students who work at BYU Independent Study--out of all students who work at BYU (i.e. 13,000 people).

He consistently gets some of the highest test scores in his butt-kicking game theory class.

Over the course of months of tutoring, he single-handedly helped an older woman pass Math 97 with a C-, helping her fulfill her lifelong dream of becoming a college graduate. A few weeks later, he received a postcard from the Eiffel Tower. She thanked him profusely for his patience, hard work, kindness, and encouragement--because without him she wouldn't have bought herself a trip to France to celebrate her graduation.

I would tell you his most recent LSAT practice test scores, but I got in trouble the last time I did that.

Who is this kid??