The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

The Sound and the Fury

2012-02-23T15:16:00.002-07:00

If you've been keeping up on this week's happenings (WHAT??? YOU HAVEN'T??? MY BLOG IS NOT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN YOUR LIFE???) you'd know that Brock and I are holding down the fort while my parents are away this week. Because she's awesome, my mother prepared dinner menus ahead of time for every night except the last one (Saturday).

On Monday, my sweet grandma invited us to her house for pizza and root beer. Great! I thought. I'll just push all the other dinners back one night, and that'll take care of Saturday.

Unfortunately, the nightly plans are posted in the kitchen for all to see. So all day on Tuesday, Caden--unaware of my push-back plans--was looking forward to that night's slated dinner: Spaghetti. His favorite. (Even though he eats it with no sauce...)

I'm fairly certain that all four ventricles of Caden's heart came to a stop on Tuesday evening upon his realization that I'd prepared chicken casserole, not spaghetti. In a nanosecond, I saw his little blue eyes dart to-and-fro with confusion. His mouth hung open slightly as he tried to process his feelings. Cue sound. Cue fury.

Tears started flowing like the justice of Amos. He collapsed--no, melted--into an inconsolable heap on the floor. I tried not to laugh.

After a little "healthy ways to deal with disappointment " chitchat from Brock, Caden came to the table and everything was fine. I have to constantly remind myself of how small Caden and Connor's world is, and that there's no problem with that. Little worlds are okay for little boys.

When you think about it, we all live in little worlds where little things matter to us disproportionately. Caden's reaction to a spaghetti-less night was about on par with how I reacted when my camera was stolen last year--with all 200+ pictures that I'd painstakingly taken of my family's trip to Ecuador. We're so quick to judge people for sweating the small stuff when we all do the same thing. Just with different stuffs.

In other news . . .

Caden and Connor discovered Febreeze and Old Spice body spray this week. They think a Febreezed room means a clean room, and an Old Spiced body means a clean body. The result is a dirty room that smells like passionfruit, and dirty bodies that smell like the halls of a middle school.

We're teaching Colby (17) the tricks of the cleaning trade. Like how when you wash dishes in the sink, you use water and soap.

I tried taking a bath a couple days ago and failed miserably. Bath fails are common for me, but usually because of their bubbleless-ness. This time, I had the opposite problem. I found a packet of eucalyptus aromatherapy salts in the bathroom and dumped them in the jet tub as it was filling up. After five minutes of awkward, naked ooh-ahh-ooh-ahh-OW!-ooh-ahh toe-dipping to find the perfect temperature, I slipped into the water and turned on the jets. It wasn't long before I was up to my EYEBALLS in bubbles. Guess I should've read the directions on the back of the packet: "Due to the foaming nature of these salts, use sparingly in whirlpool tubs." Since when do you need to read the DIRECTIONS for bath salts??!?!

We're teaching Caden and Connor English phrases. After Connor won a game of "Race to the Roof" the other night, we tried to coerce him into one more round, but he wasn't budging. "You need to defend your title!" we prodded. He stared at us blankly and said, "Yeah. And if I don't play, I am defending it." Touche, mon frere. How very Swiss of him.

A Plan

2012-02-21T08:37:00.002-07:00

For the past two months, we've been in limbo. Where are we going to live? Where are we going to work? What are we going to do? What's the next step? I've written previously about how thrilling, yet terrifying, this situation is.

February marks the tenth month we've been living out of suitcases. Since ending our time in DC and Amman, we've been zipping back and forth between family in California, Colorado, and Utah. It's been so fun and we've really enjoyed having extended time with loved ones, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't getting old. We're both very independent--bumming around has started to grate on us.

Countless people have asked what our plans are, and we've truly had no answer for them. Fishing around for responses was awkward and embarrassing at first, but we're so used to it by this point that "We're homeless and unemployed college grads living at home with mom/dad/grandma/grandpa!" doesn't carry the sting that it once did. (We're so lucky that both our families can do that for us--the thought of collecting unemployment checks or living off the government in any way never even crossed our minds.)

Our goal was to have all this wrapped up by Valentine's Day, but February 14th came and went. We knew that a month-and-a-half was a tight deadline, so we didn't beat ourselves up too much over it.

Six days later: We have a plan. Brock got an official offer of employment from Goldman Sachs this morning and--provided that he passes his background check--it looks like we'll be moving out to Salt Lake City in the next couple weeks.

I would say that Brock's success in the job hunt is a result of eight months of his selfless support of my personal and academic endeavors, but viewing it as a reward seems to take away from how hard he's worked to earn it. In any case, it is a blessing and we are thankful. God is good. The position at Goldman is perfectly tailored to Brock's interests and strengths, and the fact that we're relatively close to family, friends, and mountains is icing on the cake. (Sorry Ryan and Tiffany--we tried to make DC work! Maybe someday.)

Brock, congratulations. Although this job is great, it does not define you. I love you just as much now as I did yesterday (more, actually, but GS had nothing to do with it). You're a good man, a great lover (IN THE DEVOTION SENSE OF THE WORD--but yeah, I meant it the other way, too), a college grad, a supportive husband, and sometimes you're kind of funny.

Oh, and you have Disney-prince hair.

What more could a girl ask for?

P.S. If you could avoid insider trading, that would be great. Wouldn't bode well for my political prospects if I was married to Rajat Gupta 2.0. Peace and bah-lessinnnnnngss.

In Which I Compare Child-Rearing To Enhanced Interrogation And Tag-Team Wrestling

2012-02-19T22:42:00.003-07:00

I have two younger brothers, Caden (9) and Connor (7). Yes, I know sixteen years is a large spread between children, but--in answer to the lady at Sam's Club--no they are not from a second marriage and no, Kiana (15) is not my daughter.

My folks are away at a conference that my dad "has" to go to which is conveniently located in Cancun. This time it's not just me on babysitting duty--Brock is here, too. Making the job easier is the fact that my saintly mother prepared all the dinners ahead of time (no more lunch-lady dinner fiascos!).

Last night, Brock heated up shepherd's pie in the oven and we all sat down to eat. It was clear that my sweet mother catered to the whims of her picky eaters: Half of the pie was topped with cheese, the other wasn't (Caden doesn't like cheese). Half the pie had green beans in it, the other half corn (Caden and Connor don't like green beans). Despite my mother's good intentions, we dished out the meal in horror: The non-cheese half had green beans inside. Caden's eyes bulged wide with dread.

Oh, the humanity.

It bears repeating that Caden is NINE YEARS OLD. Not four. Not five. Nine. (Connor has a little bit more of an excuse for being picky, but not much.) In either case, Hitler Sister thinks it's high time they grew up and ate their damn food.

When I say that there was weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, I am speaking literally. I let Brock take over after five minutes--it'd been a long day and my patience was about as long as a carpet strand. Brock spent the next half-hour in the Great Green Bean Standoff.

You know how in spy movies when the CIA interrogator enters a dark room all covert-like? And there's a bruised and bloodied foreign man strapped to a chair with a spotlight on him? And the interrogator is all "WHO IS DR. PRAVOCCI? WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT DR. PRAVOCCI???" and the foreign man is like"GO TO HELL YOU SON OF A $@#%#!!!!"

Parenthood is surprisingly applicable to that situation. Only the foreign man is your kid, Dr. Pravocci is green beans, and you are the $@#%#.

The boys' resistance tactics were predictable. First came indignation. "But I don't like green beans!" Then despair. Then holy-hell-he's-really-not-going-to-let-me-leave-the-table-till-I-eat-these-freaking-beans. Then gimmicks.

Connor doused his green beans in ketchup. Caden tried smashing them with his fork accompanied with a "DIE BEANS, DIE!!!!!!!!!!" But in the end, it was the threats that got them. (Isn't it always?) As soon as they heard "Say goodbye to your Pokemon", all of a sudden those green beans didn't seem so bad after all. (I suggested breaking out the chair with the mesh seat cut out, but Brock vetoed.)

Later, reflecting on the situation, Brock said "It was so interesting to see Caden realize that crying wouldn't take the problem away. What a smart kid."

"Pfffffff," I said. "If he was that smart, he would've eaten the beans at the beginning. It would've taken thirty seconds and he'd-a saved himself a whoooooole lot of grief."

"Someone's angry tonight, eh?!"

"Nope. Just not in the mood to give credit where none is deserved."

The ice woman cometh.

***

SO WHAT if I'm the Ice Woman sometimes? At least I'm self-aware. I know what I like and I like discipline, responsibility, and order. I will run my household like a freaking Marines platoon and my kids are gonna LIKE IT. I don't like green beans? What is this place, America? Sorry, little ones. Welcome to the People's Republic of I Own You.

Thank goodness for Brock. Call me Machiavellian, but I'm already thinking of ways to manipulate my kids using him as a pawn. What's that, Jimmy? Dad just delegated putting away the dishes to you? Well guess who delegated the delegating, sucker....

You see, Brock's got the sense of humor needed to raise kids that don't hate you, and I've got the Tiger Mom needed to raise kids that don't resent you when they're 23 and living in your basement. Oh, wait...

There are some nights where I would've lasted a half-hour in the Beans Ring, but last night was not one of them. Oh, well. Tagging-in is what husbands are for, right?

In this picture: Brock, Me, Caden, and Connor. You decide who's who.

A Balanchine Valentine's

2012-02-15T14:24:00.000-07:00

Don't ask me how I know who George Balanchine is, I just do. And I'm pret-ty proud of that clever title up there because I'm pret-ty sure it means that the next step in my life involves polo, cigars, and Scotch.

We had a great Valentine's yesterday, even if it didn't exactly go off without a hitch. Brock surprised me with tickets to Ballet West's performance of Don Quixote at the beautiful Capitol Theatre in Salt Lake! I'd never been to a ballet and had always expressed my desire to go. Next on my list is an opera, and then probably a WWF match.

The evening began with dinner at a Greek restaurant in Salt Lake called Aristo's (short for Aristotle). We hadn't eaten good Greek food since Chicago, so this was a special treat. Starting the meal off was some saganaki--pan-seared Kefalograviera cheese flambéed in a Greek brandy. (Calories don't count on Valentine's Day.) Our waiter--a lovely older man named Mark--recommended this to us and oooooh baby was it good! Moving on the the main courses, Brock decided on yemista (tomato, bell pepper, and zucchini stuffed with rice, potato, mint, and crushed tomatoes--all cooked together in a clay pot). I went for brizola, which I guess is just the Greek way of saying "12-oz. ribeye steak."

In retrospect, it might've been a little strange that the man at the table was ordering the healthy vegetarian dish and the lady was intent on downing some cow, but no matter. My steak was cooked to perfection--I couldn't believe how flavorful it was given that it was only seasoned with sea salt and pepper. I guess simplicity is best :) I was slightly embarrassed when the waiter came by later and discovered that I'd eaten the whole thing and nothing more--my tabbouleh salad and rice pilaf sat completely untouched on the plate. "I like a girl with a healthy appetite," he said. Welp, YOU'RE WAITING ON THE RIGHT TABLE, KIND SIR.

We topped the meal off with a shared piece of karidopita (a Greek spice cake with walnuts) and then headed off to the Capitol Theatre. We had awesome seats on the ground floor, about ten rows back, and right smack-dab in the center! The ballet was fantastic--aside from the dancing, I couldn't take my eyes off the sets and costumes. So beautiful. Far from being the stuffy performance you might be imagining, Don Quixote was actually quite funny! There were two characters in particular that had me cracking up the whole time: Quixote's sidekick named Sancho, and Gamache--a puffed-up nobleman seeking the beautful Kitri's affections.

Naturally, the dancing was exquisite. It kills me how they make it look so effortless! I was also surprised to see how sturdy the male dancers were built. I mean, I suppose they have to be in order to do all the partner work, but for some reason I associated "male ballet dancer" with scrawny, wirey guys.

Seeing a ballet in Utah really makes me want to see a ballet in New York City. I'd be interested to see if the quality of dancing in noticeably better, and if the audience is noticeably less, I don't know, down-to-earth? Normally that adjective has positive connotations, but for those of you unfamiliar with Utah/Mormon culture, allow me to enlighten you. There are people here who don't know the difference between a peewee football game and a ballet. As such, when at the ballet in Salt Lake, expect hoopin', hollerin', and wooooooo!!!s after every triple pirouette.

Also, many Mormons believe that the only events they need to dress up for are church-related. Moving a step up from that, most people will dress up for things like a ballet--but in church clothes. I'm not saying you need an expensive gown to go to these things (heck, I found my dress on sale for $35 at a JCPenney), but there should be a difference between churchwear and going-out-wear. For your husband's sake, if anything. Here's a quick guide for all you ladies. If you answer "yes" to any of following questions, step it up gurrrrrl!

Are you wearing a wrap dress? (NOTE: In general, wrap dresses are made of clingy synthetic material that does nothing for a girl's figure. However, the existence of Kate Middleton is proof that wrap dresses be chic--but c'mon, even she doesn't wear them out on date night.)
Do your shoes give off a plasticy sheen?
Are your heels less than two inches high?
Are you wearing a North Face jacket?
Is your hair in a ponytail?
Are your lips bare?

After the ballet, we grabbed some banana cream pie at Dodo's in Sugarhouse, and then headed back to our hotel room at the Little America for, well, y'know.

I never anticipated sharing my Valentine's night hotel room with a man named Dick Buck, but life is funny that way.

Upon completion of the y'know, Brock and I settled in for sleep. Unfortunately, the heater in our room was giving off a gurgling sound that made this entirely impossible. It was an old-school steam heater, and the water inside was having issues. I think it ateTaco Bell for lunch. Anyway, after a good forty-five minutes of trying to sleep in spite of it, we called up the front desk for solutions. Enter Dick Buck.

Dick Buck was the name of the maintenance man that knocked on our door at 1:00am. I am not making this up. He was a short, bald guy in his late-sixties with white scruff and he sounded like a lumberjack. His solutions included turning off the heater (already did that an hour and a half ago, thanks) and entering the problem in his logbook the next morning.

Fast forward one hour: We'd checked out of the hotel, gotten our money back, packed up, driven home, and were sleeping on my grandparents' couch.

It may not have been the sexiest Valentine's night ever, but one thing's for sure: Nobody heading south last night on 1-15 at 1:30am looked better than we did.

It's A Sign

2012-02-13T15:57:00.003-07:00

No, really.

In general, I am not a superstitious person. I don't have lucky this-es or lucky thats. I try not to read too much into things unless I have a gut feeling about them (in which case I would classify that more as intuition, not superstition). But when I drove by this sign in American Fork today (where I'm currently visiting my paternal grandparents), I couldn't help but pause because I am making excuses.

I've had two big ideas floating around in my head recently. Two really good ideas that I'm passionate about. But I'm scared to make them happen because, well, that's the hard part. There are so many logistics and fears and insecurities that you run into during the process of making ideas reality.

And yet I keep coming across various things that seem to be pushing me in that direction--in the direction of doing. One of those was a brilliant TED presentation by Nancy Duarte called "The Secret Structure of Great Talks." Her talk (unsurprisingly) was amazing, but what really got to me was not the actual content. Rather, it was how she built up that content in her intro:

You have the power to change the world. I'm not saying that to be cliche, you really have the power to change the world. Deep inside of you, every single one of you has the most powerful device known to man, and that's an idea. A single idea from the human mind can start a groundswell, it can be a flashpoint for a movement, and it can actually rewrite our future. But an idea is powerless if it stays inside of you. If you never pull that idea out for others to contend with, it will die with you.

Isn't that chilling? How sad would that be to have your best ideas die with you? How many wonderful ideas have already died with those who never brought them to fruition? On a happier note, how greatly have our lives been bettered by people who had the courage to do the opposite?

Anyway, having a literal sign thrown in my way has given me the impetus to go for it. Which is why, by the end of 2012, "Kristi Boyce" will be a name that corresponds with two more adjectives:

1. "Race director." I want to put on a small 5K and donate all the proceeds to Syrian refugees who are fleeing al-Assad's regime. Even if I fail miserably at this, I'll still have a one-up on Russia and China and their soulless, self-serving, disgusting display at the UN.

2. "Writer." C'mon, it was only a matter of time before I wrote a book, people. I've got this idea in my head for a non-fiction book about the U.S. political system, but I've been hesitating on it. How on earth could I ever come up with enough content to actually fill 200-300 pages? And even if I were able to, who would listen to me? This punk 23-year old college grad with no credibility whatsoever?

Well, doubts be damned. Maybe seeing that sign was . . .

For real. I found BOTH these signs in American Fork, less than a mile from where I'm staying.
Pinterest-worthy? I say yes.

I May Or May Not Be Having A Love Affair

2012-02-07T17:00:00.000-07:00

With my leather boots and leopard skinnies.

Let me tell you a story about these boots. These boots have been a looooong time coming. You see, I know boots. I know boots because I don't skimp on boots, and when I don't skimp on something, I research the begeebies out of it. Along with strapless or spaghetti-strap dresses worn with a T-shirt underneath, cheap-looking boots are one of my biggest fashion peeves.

Because of how long it takes me to decide on boots, I rarely buy them. In the course of my lifetime, I have acquired two pairs. Brock surprised me with the first for Christmas 2009--the Cole Haan Air Nicole's that I had fallen in love with. It's a lasting love. They've held up beautifully since then and I'm still obsessed with them. Suede perfection and so comfortable.

The next year for Christmas, I was on the prowl for a second pair. I wanted a more casual boot in leather, and--despite the NO, don't do its of my heart--settled on the Steven Madden Intyce in black. They became Brock's Christmas present to me that year.

BYU ladies, you probably see about 40 of these on campus every day. I swear, every girl who's ever been inside a Nordstrom has these suckers. That was one of my beefs against them--I hated how blah their ubiquity made them. Why pay $170 for something that elicits the same emotional response as a pair of chucks? My other beef was the manufacturer's defect they came with--the right shoe was extremely odd-fitting. I returned them shortly after they arrived in the mail.

I should've known better. Steve Madden is an extremely overrated brand--as one Nordstrom salesman once described them to me, "They're like glorified Skechers."

2010 will forever be known as the year that Brock technically didn't get me a Christmas present. It's okay, I'm pretty sure I bought him blueberries that year for Christmas. WE WERE REALLY POOR AND HE REALLY LIKES THEM, OKAY????

Then, this year, finally, FINALLY!, after years of searching for the perfect leather boot, I found it.

Enzo Angiolini's Zayra. Ain't she a beaut?! On sale at Nordstrom for $110--I could hardly believe it (and I had a $100 gift card there, so really, they were ONLY TEN DOLLARS!!!!!!). The first time Kiana saw them (she's my fifteen-year old fashion-savvy sister) she said "It looks like you're going to go out after lunch and ride your horse through a meadow." FIST PUMP IN THE SKY!!!! That had been exactly the look I was going for. Move over, Kate Middleton!

Seriously, these boots are to die for. The leather is beautiful, they break in easily, and you can comfortably tuck skinny jeans into them (even girls without stick-legs, like me!). I've never seen another pair of them on anybody else, and the price is more than right.

That brings me to the other item I'm obsessed with. My leopard print skinnies. I've searched all over the internetz for a link/picture of them to no avail. All I know is that I got them at Target for $22, and they're made by some teeny bopper juniors brand called Vanilla Sky.

You know how some pieces of clothing find you? Like a weird magnetism brings you together all serendipitous-like? That's like what happened when I saw these babies. I'm pretty sure they called out to me saying "Hi. We belong on your body." And they do.

I think every girl should have a few items in her closet, that, if paired together, would make her look like a total streetwalker. Combined with my black platform pumps, deep purple lipstick, and cropped cheetah-print blazer, me and my leopard pants could make a killing on Colfax Avenue.

Also, while we're on the subject of jeans, I would like to introduce to you something:

They don't look like much in this picture, but they're wonderful. Meet Old Navy's Rockstar Jeans--$35. They're the perfect length, just a little stretchy, great pocket placement, thin enough so that they don't feel bulky in your boots, and they come up high enough to keep your crack where it belongs: BELOW THE WAISTBAND.

After buying my Enzo boots, I found myself falling into the habit of (gulp) wearing them with leggings. I know! I know! The horror. And no matter how I tried to justify it--well, it's okay as long as my shirt covers my butt!--there's was just no way for me to reconcile what I knew was right with what I was doing. I'm totally cool for leggings-as-pants at home. Shoot, I'm totally cool for no pants at home. But as soon as you step outside? Nnnnnn nnnnnnn, sista.

So meet the Old Navy Rockstar Jeans in black. You officially have a new best friend, and no excuse to wear leggings (or jeggings!) as pants. EVER.

Such A Woman

2012-02-04T12:44:00.003-07:00

Last night I was talking to a friend about how some of the best and most important decisions of our lives require a little bit of irrationality, to which he responded "Haha such a woman." It wasn't worth starting a fight over so I blew it off, but dang did that get my blood boiling.

I am so over hearing the stereotypes--even in jest--of women as irrational, silly, weak, needy, or, my personal favorite, psycho. (For excellent commentary on these things--written by a man, no less!--read here and here.) People, they're not funny. They're not cute. They're offensive. And if you think I'm being hyper-sensitive, congratulations! You've just devalued my feelings about stereotypes by using another stereotype! Wow!

This morning, my fifteen-year old sister put away the dishes in the dishwasher and hand-washed a sink full of dirty ones. She then went on to clean the disgusting bathroom which she shares with three brothers. Fifteen years old and she did all of this on her own volition. She saw something that needed to be done, and she took care of it. Such a woman, indeed.

Meanwhile, I spent an hour shoveling two feet of snow out of the driveway. I saw that our cul-de-sac was in dire need of snow removal (the city never plows it since we live outside of city limits), so I took our Excursion and spent twenty minutes doing donuts in the snow until it was sufficiently cleared away or at least patted down. I noticed that my truck and my dad's Prius were still stuck in snow, so I spent another half-hour shoveling around them. I did all of this in a bathrobe and on an empty stomach. Such a woman, indeed.

I came in from outside--sweaty and with calluses forming on my hands--to discover my three brothers watching TV downstairs.

We were all raised by the same parents, in the same place, with the same values. What excuse do they have for their inability to look outside themselves? (Granted, two of them are young, but I wouldn't be saying this if I hadn't noticed the issue with my two older younger brothers.) I don't have an answer for that, and a good one may very well exist, but it sure would be nice if they acted and thought more like the women in this house.

So ladies, the next time a man throws a woman-jab at you, take it as a compliment. Or smack him in the face--whichever you feel is more appropriate. You can also kindly remind him that you are the reason why his penis isn't one inch long.

At primate level, the male penis is an unimpressive organ. So far from terrorizing any female, the average King Kong can only provoke sympathy for his meager endowment in relation to his vast bulk. Man, however, developed something disproportionately large in this line, and can truly afford to feel himself lord of creation in the penile particular. And he owes it to woman. Quite simply, when femina aspiring to be erecta hoisted herself onto her hind legs and walked, the angle of the vagina swung forward and down, and the vagina itself moved deeper into the body. The male penis then echoed the vagina's steady progress, following the same evolutionary principle as the giraffe's neck: it grew in order to get something it could not otherwise reach (Miles, 24).

For further reading on this subject, see Nigel Calder's Timescale (1984), Desmond Morris' The Naked Ape (1967), Rosalind Miles' The Women's History of the World (2001), and Elaine Morgan's The Descent of Woman (1972).

So men, the next time you feel the need to brag about the size of your member, please locate the nearest woman to you and thank her for her cavernous vagina.

It's the sole reason why you've got a pickle, not a gherkin.

UPDATE: In a further testament to women's awesomeness, my brother's girlfriend did the sweetest thing today. After reading yesterday's blog post about my disastrous dinner attempt, she surprised me tonight by having dinner on the table when I got home from the movies with the kids! She said she wanted to "give me a break"--ummmmm gem, much?! She made homemade gnocchi and cheesy garlic bread for us all. And, to my brother's credit, he did help her make dinner. Looks like my brothers are capable of doing thoughtful things after all . . . with just a little help from a lady ;)

What To Do With A Dead Chicken (And Other Issues You Run Into Whilst Babysitting My Brothers)

2012-02-03T23:04:00.002-07:00

12:34pm: Connor (age 7) walks into the kitchen, crying. "Pikachu diiiiiiiied!" he whimpers. Pikachu is (was) one of the three chickens my mom is raising. The others are Bolt and Combustion. A blizzard came in last night and poor Pikachu (who was already sick) didn't make it. He lies on a baking sheet in the garage, (which is rather funny now that I think of it) until I unceremoniously chuck him off the side of the house and down into a ravine. Bon appetit, foxes.

12:38pm: I discover that Combustion has laid his first egg! Connor excitedly retrieves it from the coop and washes the poop off it. I do not eat this egg.

1:13pm: More poop. I walk into the downstairs bathroom and see an explosion in the toilet. No, really. It looks like someone took a dump and threw a cherry bomb in there. Naturally, nooooooobody has any idea how it happened, but I am told that said explosion has not precluded Caden, Connor, nor their friend Brenden from CONTINUING TO USE THE TOILET.

1:40pm: I'm sitting in the basement when I hear a large thud just outside the window. A small child, Connor, has fallen into the window well, cushioned by two feet of snow. "THAT WAS AWESOOOOME!!!!" he exclaims. Two more small children proceed to jump into the window well.

4:00pm: It's time for Brenden to go home because we have some chores to do. I announce that we are going to clean the basement together (which reeks of three sweaty little boys and all their snow gear), and that afterwards the time for computer games, TV, and Nintendo DS has ended. We are reading books until dinner, and then hitting up the dollar theater for The Muppets.

4:15pm: Basement clean. Everybody reading. This mom stuff is easy.

4:20pm: Connor's cold worsens. I give him some Dimetap and he curls up for a nap.

4:21pm: Caden (age 9) has abandoned his reading post on the stairs. A book lies open on a step.

4:22pm: I catch Caden cowering behind the bunkbed in his room, playing his DS. "Hand it over." "But I'm so boooorrrreeeeed." "READ."

4:45pm: I've showered. I go downstairs to get my lotion and, while in the bathroom, I see Caden come down the stairs as well. I spy on him using the bathroom mirror. He can't see me. I watch him as he lifts up couch cushions, looking for his DS.

4:46pm: "You're never going to find it." Caden turns on the TV. "HEY! That's not allowed either, remember?" Caden whines. "Caden! Don't you see how sad it is that you can't be entertained without the computer, TV, or your DS? You're a really smart kid. You should be able to find ways to be entertained without technology." A glimmer of self-realization flickers in Caden's eyes. He comes up with an excuse. "Well, I kind of have a headache." "No you don't. Go draw something or play the piano." "I don't know how to play the piano." "Then learn."

5:02pm: Caden falls asleep on the couch.

6:16pm: Dinner done. It's an easy casserole that I found a recipe for on the back of a Stovetop box.

6:18pm: Ewww, this is nasty. But if I admit it, that'll give Caden and Connor an excuse to snub it. Be strong. Just. keep. eating.

6:20pm: Seriously, what is wrong with this stuff?! It's ground beef, kidney beans, salsa, Stovetop, and cheese--sounds good in theory. Why is it so watery? I drained the fat from the beef.

6:21pm: I bet it was the fact that I used that weird CANNED GROUND BEEF that my mom buys.

6:22pm: Kiana speaks up. "Thanks, Kristi. This is good." What a sweet girl. "Really?" I reply. "I think it's kind of . . . mushy." Colby: "I wasn't going to say anything." Kiana: "Neither was I. But it's the thought that counts!" Connor: "Yeah, this is like lunch lady stuff." Everybody proceeds to pick up the mush with their spoons and plop it onto their plates, lunch-lady-style.

6:23pm: "Who wants cereal?"

6:26pm: Caden happily discovers leftover spaghetti in the fridge (it's his favorite). I tell everyone that they at least have to have some applesauce with whatever they're eating, so they kind of get a fruit in to make it kind of a meal.

6:34pm: Caden has not eaten his applesauce. He tries to sneak away. "CADEN. Applesauce, bro." "But I'm not hungryyyyyy." "Yeah, right. I just saw you snarf down a bowl of spaghetti like it was nothing. Get over here." "But I don't like that kind of applesauce." "I've seen you eat it before. You want me to spoon-feed you like a baby? C'mon. Let's do it." I drag him to the kitchen table. He starts to whine and cry. "I don't like this applesauce!" "Okay, well you have to eat a fruit. We've got blueberries in the fridge, strawberries, bananas, what do you want?" "Ummm . . . can I have a PB&J with strawberry jam?" I try not to laugh. "No, that's not a fruit. That's sugar. Tell you what, let's compromise. You eat four bites of this applesauce, and you can be done." Caden reluctantly agrees and starts to eat. He eats half-spoonfuls and I call him out for it. He chuckles and admits that two spoonfuls for him counts as one bite. He does this mostly to show off his math skills--he knows that two halves equal one whole. Four spoonfuls later, he prepares to take bite #2.5. He looks down at his applesauce cup.

6:41pm: "Heeeeeey. By the time I take four bites, all the applesauce will be gone." I smirk. "Yeah, you think you're the only smart one in this house, buddy?"

6:50pm: We cancel our plans to go see The Muppets at the dollar theater because of Connor's unrelenting cough. (I know it's just the dollar theater, but nobody deserves to have their night out at the movies ruined by Mr. Hackasaurus.) Caden and Connor are more than happy with this decision, as it frees up their night to play the computer games which I so diabolically forbade them from earlier.

10:25pm: My sister's friend's sister's car (got that?) gets stuck in our cul-de-sac, which is covered in deep snow. We spend a half hour trying to set it free, but to no avail. Eventually her dad comes to tow it out with his truck.

11:03pm: I sit here at the computer wondering how I'm going to survive two more days of this.

RIP Pikachu.

Arts Wrap: January 2012

2012-02-01T23:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know I've said I'm going to start during recurring posts on various topics numerous times ("That's America to Me", politics, feminism, etc) but for real, let's do this. I've been a spotty blogger for the past four months or so and I'm tired of it. Even though so few people read what I write, it's a way of helping me feel productive and it's a small, small way for me to leave a mark on the world.

Forgive me while I get all sad on you, but unless history books write about you, history will only remember you by what you've written. Even if what I jot down is inconsequential, I like to think of my writing as bread crumbs left along the path of . . . well, who knows, but they're there.

One thing I'd like to start doing is a monthly post dedicated to the arts. Mormons are taught to seek after things that are "virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy." And I figure seeking doesn't amount to much unless it turns into sharing, right? :) So here we go, the best of the best of January 2012.

***

Book--Fiction: Beatrice and Virgil

The world went beserk for Life of Pi and waited achingly for Martel's next book. The wait was long--nearly a decade. Beatrice and Virgil was not what people were expecting.

It has been maligned as the worst book of the decade and praised as a masterpiece. (It's hard to write about the Holocaust and not have the critical response be polarizing.) In my opinion, the latter is true. Beatrice and Virgil was one of the most haunting, creative, and beautiful books I have ever read.

At just over 200 pages long, it's more of a novella than a novel, but it's the only book in my life where--upon turning the final page--I went back to the first and started again.

***

Book--Non-Fiction: Who Cooked the Last Supper? The Women's History of the World

The biology of woman in fact holds the key to the story of the human race. Although generally unsung, female monthly menstruation was the evolutionary adaptation that preserved the human species from extinction and ensure its survival and success.

Female oestrus in the higher primates is a highly inefficient mechanism. Chimpanzees, gorillas, and orangutans come on heat rarely, and produce one infant every five or six years. This puts the whole species dangerously at risk of extinction, and the great apes today survived only in small numbers and in the most favorable environments. With twelve chances of conceiving in every year, instead of one every five years, the human female has a reproductive capacity sixty times higher than that of her primate sisters. Menstruation, not hunting, was the great evolutionary leap forward. It was through a female adaptation, not a male one, that "man" throve, multiplied, and conquered the globe.

Moral of the story? Quit hating on your period and read this book. Describing it as simply fascinating sounds trite, but that's what it is. And, having been written by a British woman, you can expect all sorts of dry, subtle, dirty humor along the way to pepper things up (including a chapter entitled "The Rise of the Phallus"--seriously, you gotta read this).

***

Television: Alcatraz and New Girl

New Girl is proof that you don't need a laugh track for laughs (for the love, television producers, CAN WE BE OVER THAT????) In a television world where mockumentaries reign supreme (The Office, Modern Family, etc), New Girl is a breath of fresh air. Or maybe that's just Ms. Deschanel. Hard to tell.

Alcatraz is proof that J.J. Abrams still has it goin' on. Like Stacy's mom, only creepier.

***

Film: The Artist and Five Broken Cameras

If you're one of those people who makes a Calvin blech face at the thought of a silent, black-and-white movie, get over yourself and see The Artist. You're not too cool for it, I promise.

As for Five Broken Cameras:

I will forever be grateful to the Sundance Film Festival for screening Slingshot Hip Hop in 2008. Seeing that documentary is what first got me interested in the Israeli-Palestinian issue. It was then that I first started thinking about studying Arabic.

Who would've thought that I'd return to the Festival four years later to watch another documentary on the same issue? Only this time, I didn't need the subtitles.

***

Music: Walk off the Earth's cover of Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know"

Five people, one guitar, magic. (Check out the original video of the song, too--it's very, very cool.)

***

Dance: The Great Chinese Circus' performance of Swan Lake

***

Comedy: Utah drivers; Kristen Bell's sloth story

***

Journalism

"Where Are The Romney Republicans?" by Nick Kristof for the New York Times

“Much of the current conservative movement is characterized by this sort of historical amnesia and symbolic parricide, which seeks to undo key aspects of the Republican legacy such as Reagan’s elimination of corporate tax loopholes, Nixon’s environmental and labor safety programs, and a variety of G.O.P. achievements in civil rights, civil liberties, and good government reforms,” Kabaservice writes. “In the long view of history, it is really today’s conservatives who are ‘Republicans in name only.’”

"Gingrich Is Wrong; Palestinians Are Not 'Invented'" by Daniel C. Peterson for the Deseret News

There are, I think, relatively few politically conservative American Arabists. But I'm one, and I reject Mr. Gingrich's declaration that Palestinians are merely an "invented people." His claim is not only needlessly provocative and inflammatory (in a region that scarcely needs inflaming) but false.

"The GM Genocide: Thousands Of Indian Farmers Are Committing Suicide After Using Genetically Modified Crops" by Andrew Malone for the Daily Mail

In one small village I visited, 18 farmers had committed suicide after being sucked into GM debts. In some cases, women have taken over farms from their dead husbands - only to kill themselves as well.

Latta Ramesh, 38, drank insecticide after her crops failed - two years after her husband disappeared when the GM debts became too much. She left her ten-year-old son, Rashan, in the care of relatives. 'He cries when he thinks of his mother,' said the dead woman's aunt, sitting listlessly in shade near the fields.

Village after village, families told how they had fallen into debt after being persuaded to buy GM seeds instead of traditional cotton seeds. The price difference is staggering: £10 for 100 grams of GM seed, compared with less than £10 for 1,000 times more traditional seeds.

But GM salesmen and government officials had promised farmers that these were 'magic seeds' - with better crops that would be free from parasites and insects. Indeed, in a bid to promote the uptake of GM seeds, traditional varieties were banned from many government seed banks.

The authorities had a vested interest in promoting this new biotechnology. Desperate to escape the grinding poverty of the post-independence years, the Indian government had agreed to allow new bio-tech giants, such as the U.S. market-leader Monsanto, to sell their new seed creations.

***

That's enough for this month! If you're a-hankerin' for more, spend some time perusing a website I recently came across called Artswrap. StumbleUpon is also a great way to find wonderful things if you use it right (I prefer it to Pinterest). If you find anything great ever, please share!

Mrs. Lonely

2012-01-31T16:10:00.000-07:00

Brock and I are spending the week apart. He's got job interviews in Utah this week, and I'm home in Colorado to tend the wee ones while my dad goes off to run a 100-miler in Texas this weekend (with my mom crewing him).

How is it that I can't spend one day apart from the one person who singlehandedly drives me insane without bursting into tears???

Marriage is funny like that.

Heart-shaped rock that B found for me at Petra :)

Brock, you're such a good man.

Let The Record Show

2012-01-19T20:46:00.008-07:00

That Brock and I do not have a perfect marriage.

Got it?

It's been brought to my attention several times during the last few months that some people think this. And it frustrates me because I actively try not to portray things that way. (One of my biggest pet peeves is "mommy bloggers" and the like whose social media escapades give off the appearance of them having it all together. Who does?! Certainly not me, I can tell you that.)

It's hard, though, because you don't want to broadcast the negative--not just for the bad vibes it sends out, but rough patches should be a personal matter between you and your spouse. Even so, I do write about hard times that Brock and I are having, insecurities I have as a wife, the mundane, and spats that we get into. Usually with a dose of humor, since that makes everything easier to swallow.

Don't get me wrong: Brock and I are really happy together. But the interesting thing about marriage is that just because you're happy doesn't mean it's easy. Please believe me when I say that fiery arguments are far from uncommon between us. It's a little embarrassing to admit that, but we're working on it. It's a constant struggle to fix the things you need to improve upon as a couple and as an individual. What's more, we're both very headstrong and opinionated (imagine Newt Gingrich marrying himself), so when we come to blows, we come to blows.

Thankfully, we're quick to forgive and Brock is very patient (WORKIN' ON IT, OKAY???????). More importantly, we're committed. Watch out ya'll, because I'm about to quote "The Bachelor" all up in hurrr: I remember watching the season premiere a few weeks ago, and Nikki was talking about her first marriage and why it failed. She said something to the extent of "After a few years, it just wasn't the same. There was no spark, we weren't the same couple." I wanted to yell at the television saying WTF GIRRRRRRL WHAT DO YOU THINK MARRIAGE IS??? YOU SHOULDN'T BE THE SAME COUPLE THE WHOLE TIME. YOU GROW AND ADJUST AND DEVELOP TOGETHER, IDJIT. (Yes, I said "idjit" in my brain. No, I am not thirteen years old.)

The wonderful (and sometimes scary) aspect of Mormon marriages is that we believe the covenants we make to each other are eternal. None of this til-death-do-us-part business. So you'd freaking better learn to like the one you love because they're gonna be around for a loooooong time.

Something I've learned along the way is that you can never think your marriage is "safe." What I mean by that is the mentality of Oh! We reached the 1/2/3/4/5/20-year mark! If we can make it this far, we can do anything! We're going to be together forever! As soon as you start thinking like that, you're screwed. Marriage isn't a game, it's a process. Whether you've been married for four months or forty years, your chance of success is just as good as everyone else's: 50/50.

I had a professor at BYU who put things perfectly:

"Every couple comes to a point in their marriage--usually five years down the road, sometimes sooner, sometimes later--when they look at each other and think WHY ARE WE TOGETHER???? ARE WE CRAZY???? Any couple who tells you that they never got to that point is lying. Rest assured, everyone does. And the marriages that work are the ones where, in that moment, the guy and the gal remember their covenants."

In closing, I want to reiterate that Brock is a wonderful man (despite the occasional proliferation of "that's what she said" jokes) and that I don't take him for granted. It takes a real man to put up with a real woman, and boy does he. We haven't got it all together, but we manage to keep it together.

Our marriage is rocky sometimes just like everyone else's, promise.

And sometimes it's ROCKY!!!!!!!!

Bookmarks Bar

2012-01-12T15:43:00.005-07:00

I was just thinking, you can probably tell a lot about a person by their bookmarks bar. Here's mine (minus the obvious ones like Gmail, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter).

NYTimes--My main source for domestic news and opinion pieces. I always read Kristof and Brooks, Krugman occasionally (I replace him with Nate Silver).

Al Jazeera--Where I go to get news from every continent, but especially for the Middle East. The layout of their website is so great.

Haaretz Opinion--A left-leaning (in Israeli politics, that means "reasonable" or "non-Zionist") newspaper with excellent opinion pieces. Gideon Levy always writes excellent pieces that ruffle the establishment's feathers.

Google Translate--Even though I don't use this baby anywhere near as much as I did in Jordan, I just can't bring myself to take it off my bookmarks bar! So many memories.

Penzu--The site that I use for journaling. Oh, you think I lay it alllll out on the table here for you? People, I've got SECRETS. Deep, dark, ones. Like, I killed a man. Just kidding (OR AM I????). I use Penzu to jot down everything from the personal to the mundane. Being a perfectionist can make blogging a chore--every piece has to 1) Be free of grammatical/formatting errors and 2) Not be dumb. With Penzu, I can just fart out (do I mean that literally? YOU'LL NEVER KNOW) whatever's in my mind that day and be done with it. No pressure.

McSweeney's--Y'know the website called Thought Catalog? I read it from time to time. I remember reading a couple really good pieces when I first discovered it sometime last summer and I was like "WOW! Insightful, great writing from my contemporaries! This is awesome!" (The best piece I've ever read on their is "You Should Date an Illiterate Girl.")Yeah, well turns out that 85% of the content on that site is pretty dumb. (Note to the world: Just because you move to New York City after college doesn't mean you're a good writer.) McSweeneys is an American publishing house, and, in my opinion, its website is the site Thought Catalog wishes it could be. One of my favorite all time pieces from there is "Look, We Can Either Study for Our Law School Finals, Or We Can Bring About the Violent Dissolution of the American Legal System."

Intrade--I'm not a gambling gal, but that doesn't make this site any less fun to look at.

The Arabist--Great commentary on Middle Eastern affairs.

The Khan Academy--What YouTube wishes it could be.

MIT Open Courseware--Free courses from MIT on any subject you want. Ridiculous.

Currently Obsessed: Atlantic-Pacific--Where I go to stalk the must-haves of my style icon and favorite fashion blogger, Blair Eadie.

The Sartorialist--Or maybe this is my favorite fashion blog. I can never decide!

Uncommon Goods--Haven't bought anything from here yet, but it's a fun site to look at!

Sevenly--Such a great idea for a charity!

TippingBucket--My favorite charity on the internet--you can donate as little as a dollar! It was started up by a BYU grad a fear years ago.

If you have any great sites that you check out regularly, I'd love to hear about them!

Jordanian Politics

2012-01-12T11:03:00.004-07:00

Before I proceed to blog the last month of living in Jordan, I want toshare with you some insights into the its political system I may do the same for Israeli politics, because Israeli politics are cray-cray. If you don't understand the political system of Israel, it really is impossible to fully understand the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

The political system in Jordan is a faux democracy. Everybody says they love King Abdullah II and his wife Queen Rania, but in reality people don't talk smack because they're afraid al-mukhabarat might be within earshot--secret police that'll nab you for talking badly about the royal family. Brock remembers talking to one of his friends and asking "Do you think you have free speech here?" His friend responded "Yes, absolutely!"

"Oh, so you can say whatever you want about the King or government?"

"What?! No! But other than that, we have free speech."

For a general overview, here are snippets of the Wikipedia article on the basic outline of the Jordanian government. I'll insert bolded commentary along the way.
________________________________________________________________________________

Executive Branch

Executive authority is vested in the king and his cabinet. The king signs, executes, and vetoes all laws. The king may also suspend or dissolve parliament, and shorten or lengthen the term of session. Get that? He can dissolve parliament. If you think our government is inept, can you imagine how completely ineffective it would be if President Obama could just get rid of Congress as he saw necessary?! Usually what happens in Jordan is that whenever parliament makes a decision that appears populist or, y'know, actually democratic, the King dissolves parliament. This has happened three times in the past two years (nine times in King Abdullah II's twelve-year rule!). It actually happened while Brock and I lived there. In October 2011, the King dissolved parliament and replaced the prime minister in response to widespread public dissatisfaction with government performance (which the King promised to improve in a major televised speech in June, in the midst of the Arab Spring uprisings) and escalating criticism of the premier because of public concerns over his reported involvement in corruption. A veto by the king may be overridden by a two-thirds vote of both houses of parliament at his discretion, most recently in November 2009.

He appoints and may dismiss all judges by decree, approves amendments to the constitution, declares war, and commands the armed forces. Can you see how unilateral his power is? Absolutely no checks or balances. Cabinet decisions, court judgments, and the national currency are issued in his name. The Cabinet, led by a prime minister, was formerly appointed by the king, but following the 2011 Jordanian protests, King Abdullah agreed to an elected cabinet. Oh, how nice of him. The prime minister is responsible for choosing all the other ministers in the cabinet (with the King's approval). You would not believe how many ministries there are. There has to be plenty of room for nepotism and playing favorites in Jordan's government, so the more ministries the better! The cabinet is responsible to the Chamber of Deputies on matters of general policy and can be forced to resign by a two-thirds vote of "no confidence" by that body.

There was a fantastic opinion piece in the New York Times last month titled "Jordan's Club of Has-Beens." I highly recommend it. Here's a pull-quote:

In political terms they are, quite literally, the quick and the dead. They are the rapidly expanding club of former ministers of King Abdullah II — several hundred, by some estimates — who came to the well, drank as best they could and were then sent home to think about what they’d done wrong.

They sign on for a limited season, aware that they are scapegoats in suits, cloned to take the rap whenever another palace policy bites the dust and the public demands fresh blood.

“You appoint governments and then you change them like knickers,” says a once important official. “A new team arrives and spends a few months blaming its predecessors and then the same thing happens all over again. There’s no policy, no vision. It’s just a way to buy time.”

So there are currently few incentives for climbing Jordan’s political tree. The average career expectancy of a prime minister has fallen to around eight months — hardly long enough to give birth to a cogent thought, let alone an innovative policy.

Imagine the hapless head of government, all but dead on arrival in his office, staring disconsolately day after day at his telephone, wondering only when someone will be instructed to call him a cab.

Legislative Branch

Legislative power rests in the bicameral National Assembly. The National Assembly (Majlis al-Umma) has two chambers. The Chamber of Deputies (Majlis al-Nuwaab) has 120 members, elected for a four-year terms in single-seat constituencies with 12 seats reserved for women by a special electoral college. This is the Jordanian equivalent of the House of Representatives. I think its 120-member composition may be based off the Knesset in Israel, which also has 120 members. For Israel, there's special meaning in this number: 120 members is symbolic of 12 tribes of Israel. Also, considering that women in Saudi Arabia just barely got the right to vote, Jordan is pretty forward-thinking in terms of women in politics. In addition 9 seats are reserved for Christians and 3 for Chechens/Circassians. While the Chamber of Deputies is elected by the people, its main legislative abilities are limited to approving, rejecting, or amending legislation with little power to initiate laws. "Little power to initiate laws?!" That's the point of our House of Representatives! Also, can you imagine what our House might look like if there were quotas to meet regarding its composition like there is in Jordan? The Assembly of Senators (Majlis al-Aayan) has 60 members appointed by the King for a four-year term. These guys are basically all the King's buddies. The Assembly of Senators is responsible to the Chamber of Deputies and can be removed by a "vote of no confidence".

Judicial Branch

The judiciary is completely independent from the other two branches of the government. The constitution provides for three categories of courts--civil (in this case meaning 'regular'), religious, and special. Regular courts consist of both civil and criminal varieties at the first level – First Instance or Conciliation Courts, second level – Appelette or Appeals Courts – and the Cassation Court which is the highest judicial authority in the kingdom. There are two types of religious courts: Sharia courts which enforce the provisions of Islamic law and civil status, and tribunals of other religious communities officially recognized in Jordan. The court system is interesting because it rarely interferes with tribal matters in Jordan. Tribal culture is definitely still strong in the country, which adds a complex dynamic to the government. I'll write more on this later.

Political Conditions

King Hussein ruled Jordan from 1953 to 1999, surviving a number of challenges to his rule, drawing on the loyalty of his military, and serving as a symbol of unity and stability for both the East Bank and Palestinian communities in Jordan. One of the main reasons Jordanians espouse love for King Abdullah II (the current King of Jordan) is because they ADORED his father. He made sure to not only please the West Bankers (who primarily live in Amman), but the East Bankers who are thinly spread throughout rural regions of the country. King Hussein ended martial law in 1991 and legalized political parties in 1992. In 1989 and 1993, Jordan held free and fair parliamentary elections. Controversial changes in the election law led Islamist parties to boycott the 1997 elections.

King Abdullah II succeeded his father Hussein following the latter's death in February 1999. Abdullah moved quickly to reaffirm Jordan's peace treaty with Israel and its relations with the United States. Abdullah, during the first year in power, refocused the government's agenda on economic reform.

Jordan's continuing structural economic difficulties, burgeoning population, and more open political environment led to the emergence of a variety of political parties. Moving toward greater independence, Jordan's parliament has investigated corruption charges against several regime figures and has become the major forum in which differing political views, including those of political Islamists, are expressed.

On February 1st 2011, it was announced that King Abdullah had dismissed his government. This has been interpreted as a pre-emptive move in the context of the Tunisian Jasmine Revolution and unfolding events in nearby Egypt.

Decentralization

King Abdullah II and the Jordanian Government began the process of decentralization, with the Madaba governate as the pilot project, on the regional level dividing the nation into three regions: North, Central, and South. The Greater Amman Municipality will be excluded from the plan but it will set up a similar decentralization process. Each region will have an elected council that will handle the political, social, legal, and economic affairs of its area. This decentralization process is part of Jordan's Democratization Program. Sounds interesting. We'll see how this ends up working...

Corruption

According to Transparency International, Jordan is one of the least corrupt countries in the Middle East. Woo hoo! What a badge of honor! Jordan ranked 47th out of 180 nations in the Corruption Perceptions Index. The Constitution of Jordan states that no member of Parliament can have any financial or business dealings with the government and no member of the royal family can be in the government. However, corruption remains a problem in Jordan despite progress. Corruption cases are examined by the Anti-Corruption Commission which is likely corrupt itself... and then referred to the judiciary for legal action. Corruption takes the form of nepotism, favoritism, and bribery.
________________________________________________________________________________

Whew! Wasn't that fun? :) Jordan is in a precarious position for several reasons. One of them has to do with its reputation as a peaceful Middle Eastern country--it has friendly relationships with both the United States and Israel. Jordan feels intense pressure to keep up that image as it is heavily reliant on foreign aid. This is something that its citizens are all too aware of. That's not to say, however, that Jordanians are mindless robots who keep opinions to themselves. I was so impressed with a recent Facebook posting of one of my Jordanian friends:

The first incident to which my friend refers has to do with a Jordanian man's self-immolation this past Monday--something that has never happened before in the country. From the linked article:

Ahmad Humoud al-Matarna reportedly torched himself on Monday after he failed to find a solution to pressing financial difficulties. According to Jordanian media, the man, who was also a father, had been unable to pay moutning bills, especially after he was made redundant and had a limited retirement income.

The second incident refers to a young man's burning a picture of the King yesterday in Madaba just yesterday. Here is the AP story:

AMMAN, Jordan — A military prosecutor says a young Jordanian activist has been charged with harming the king’s dignity for burning a street portrait of the monarch.

The prosecutor says Odai Abu-Issa, 18, has been detained for two weeks for interrogation. He faces up to three years in jail.

The prosecution says Abu-Issa burned a portrait of Jordan's King Abduallh II in front of a government office in the western city of Madaba on Wednesday.

He belongs to a small group of young Jordanians who have taken to the streets to demand that the king's powers be curbed. Abdullah is an absolute ruler who has the final say on all matters.

The prosecutor spoke Thursday on condition of anonymity because he is not allowed to make public statements.

Free speech, indeed. But intelligent Jordanians are becoming less and less afraid to speak out, as demonstrated by my friend's gutsy Facebook post above (also, notice how 10 people "liked" it). Sadly, however, there will always be idiots who have no sense of morality:

I'm so proud of my friend for not putting up with this bullcrap. And you know what? He's not the only one. I met many young, hyperintelligent Jordanians while living in Amman. They work hard at their studies, speak amazing English ("You sordid microbe"--gotta learn how to say that in Arabic!), think progressively, and often study complex subjects in English-speaking universities. Can you imagine majoring in computer science or biology in your non-native language? Unreal.

Unfortunately, most of these people want to leave Jordan.

Anyway, I doubt anybody is still reading at this point, so I'll quit blathering on. I'll close by saying that it was so eye-opening to learn about and live in a foreign government. It gave me an appreciation for the functionality of my own country's political system (hate it all you want--it works) and for the fact that I enjoy real freedoms instead of quasi ones. It'll be interesting to see what the future of Jordan holds, and I pray for its well-being.

"We are all Jordan."

Why I Should Be A Politician

2012-01-09T14:17:00.001-07:00

"MOMOMOMOMOMOMOMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

That's what I screamed about an hour ago upon seeing a huge wave of suds splash out of the dishwasher.

"Kristi! What did you put in it?!"

"The liquid in the huge container under the kitchen sink!"

"That dish soap!"

"What?! Where's the dishwasher detergent?"

"There!"

. . . . "In a random side cupboard in tiny packets!? Why can't you be normal and put your dishwasher detergent under the sink like everybody else?!"

"CLEAN!!!!!!!"

"I will but I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

To Brock: "Y'know, it isn't my fault that I mistook that for detergent. It's Obama's fault."

Home Stinky Home

2012-01-07T09:33:00.000-07:00

We're back in Fort Collins and settled in! Our clothes are hanging in a closet, our belongings are in drawers, and our dog remembered us! I love that little sweet thing, but he's definitely been spoiled by everyone here. Eating people food, lounging on couches and beds--stuff that never would have flown when we lived in Provo! But he's a well-behaved dog so I can't complain too much. Brock and I joke that we're going to name our first son Mojo Jr. JOKE'S ON YOU, EVERYBODY! WE'RE SERIOUS.

I do have one complaint about living in the basement, however. You see, the basement is Caden and Connor's domain (my nine- and seven-year old brothers). It always looks like someone threw a grenade in the toy closet, but I don't mind that because to me it's a sign that they're engaged in creative play--puzzles, Legos, forts, Pokemon drawings, crafts, you name it. I'd much rather live in a messy basement like this than in a clean basement with the TV on 24/7. (Plus, Caden and Connor are good about cleaning up when you ask them to.)

The thing about them ruling the basement is they also rule the basement's bathroom. Now, a little splatter on the toilet seat is to be expected from any member of the male species, be he seven years old or twenty-seven years old. What shouldn't be expected--ever--are unflushed TURDS in the toilet.

Bless Connor's heart: He's apparently so anxious to get back to creative play that he neglects to send his bodily deposits--fluid or otherwise--on their merry way down the septic tank. It might be a cute idiosyncrasy if it didn't happen two or three times a day.

But it does.

***

Brock once reminded his mother of what a rough upbringing he had in her household: "You always called us little shits and told us to shut up!"

To which she responded: "I never told you to shut up!"

Living in the basement now, it's not a terrible stretch of the imagination for me to think of where she came up with the former.

Connor's poo: "HAHA YOUR SISTER'S MAD AGAIN!"

Journey To My Thoughts: January 2, 2012

2012-01-03T11:53:00.003-07:00

11:48am: do do do, must go to target and buy lots of things, do do do
12:03: colored skinny jeans?! get in my cart.
12:05: how do i always pick the nastiest fitting room??
12:06: long black hairs on the floor. my favorite.
12:07: my, these skinnies are awfully skinny....
12:11: SCREW YOU, SKINNIES.
12:12: hmmm what else to try on, what else....
12:13: chambray tunic, be kind to me.
12:14 cuuuuuuuute! this goes on the "to keep" hanger.
12:15: nothing like looking at your naked body under fluorescent lights.
12:16: i could totally be in one of those old paintings of a naked fat lady lounging on a velvet chaise.
12:17: WAIT. IS THAT BACK FAT?!?!?!
12:18: omg, my first roll of back fat. NOT OKAY.
12:19: i'm buying new workout clothes.
12:25: ooooh and maybe some shoes.
12:56: brock is SO gonna kill me when he sees this receipt.
8:24: i WOULD go on a run....but the bachelor is on.
8:26: these girls are annoying. i'm going on a run.
8:30: or mayyyyyybe i'll finish watching the crazies.
9:14: PSSSSYYYCHO!!!!!!
9:58: okay, it's go time.
10:25: move over deena kastor! i'm a machine. i wonder how far i went?
10:26: HA! my weight on runkeeper is still listed as 141. precious.
10:28: plot this here on the map, this turn here, down this road....
10:30: TWO AND A HALF MILES?!?!?!!?
10:31: at least i looked cute doing it.

2011 (Part Two)

2012-01-02T20:42:00.001-07:00

SEPTEMBER

Moved to Amman! Gosh, September was so chock full of experiences that I don't even know where to begin. I'll just be lame and list them: Mt. Nebo, Jesus' baptism site, Madaba, the Dead Sea, Jordan vs. China soccer game, Iraq al-Amir and Wadi Seer, Wadi Mujib, al-Balad, picnic with Abu Muhammad's familiy, dinner in Zarqa with Hussein's family, BBQ at Weston and Kami's, and Jerash!

Jordan vs. China at Sports City! We won!

Picnic with Abu Muhammad and his family (he's the one taking the picture). I've never eaten so much food in my life! Jordanians have perfected the art of picnicking, lemme tell ya.

Roman cardo at Jerash. Hands down the second most amazing ruins in Jordan (next to Petra!).

OCTOBER

Brock's volleyball games at the University of Jordan, Ajloun, Umm Qais, George's baptism, carving watermelons instead of pumpkins for Halloween, and a fun Halloween party at our church.

Only in Jordan would Brock play outside hitter.

Beautiful Ajloun!

Is he fine or is he fine? And by fine I mean fiiiiiiiiine.

Umm Qais chat overlooking the Sea of Galilee.

Happy Halloween!

NOVEMBER

Karak, Petra, and Wadi Rum! Karoke and BBQ with friends, Iraq al-Amir again with Fareed, Weston, and Kami, Madaba again, horse "riding" and witch doctor with Fareed, Saturday morning football games with the study abroad gang, dinner in Zarqa with Hussein's family again, started hanging out with Hana and Israa, Ma'in hot water springs outside of Amman, the Citadel, and an amazing Thanksgiving potluck dinner with everyone on the study abroad!

Karak.

The Monastery at Petra.

The Treasury at Petra.

Desert cruisin'!

Camel rides in Wadi Rum.

No better way to start a Saturday!

Fun times with Hussein and his family!

DECEMBER

Learned how to cook mansaf in As-Salt with my friend Noor, outings to Abdoun Circle, final goodbyes to friends, visiting (and sometimes teaching....) my friend Hana's phonetics class, Jericho, Masada, Akko, Haifa, Nazareth, Ein Gev, Tiberias, Capernum, Jerusalem, Mt. of Olives, Gethsemane, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Western Wall (ringing in shabbat!), the Old City, Bethlehem, Cesearea, the Temple Mount, Dead Sea scrolls at the Israel Museum, Bethany and the tomb of Lazarus, the Separation Wall, the West Bank, Hezekiah's Tunnel, Sderot, Yad Vashem, Jaffa.

Saying goodbye to Hana and my friends from her phonetics class!

Brock and Fareed.

Overlooking the Mediterranean in Akko.

An evening in the Galilee with Weston and Kami.

In front of the Western Wall.

The Old City.

The Dome of the Rock.

The Separation Wall between Jerusalem and the West Bank.

In Sderot--a city about a mile and a half away from Gaza that absorbs a lot of rocket fire.

Sunset over the Mediterranean in Jaffa.

A game of backgammon in downtown Jaffa.

And finally . . . AMERICA! We've had a wonderful time spending Christmas with the Boyces in Huntington Beach and are excited for new beginnings!

2011 (Part One)

2012-01-01T17:27:00.001-07:00

I got this idea from my beautiful friend Sadie, and in return I am paying her back with these:

Oh yes girl, you BEST believe that I saw these in J-Town and totally thought of you! And that I carried them on the plane so that they wouldn't get smushed. Message me with your address!

JANUARY

Brock and I went to Ecuador with my family. This was such an amazing experience, but unfortunately I lost my camera on the last day of the trip. I may or may not be over it by now. OKAY SO I'M NOT.

Nevertheless, it was incredible (obviously). My family was able to volunteer in an orphanage in Quito for a few days, and then we traveled via motorized canoe up the Amazon River to a remote community along the Napo estuary. We ate grubs, visited the local shaman, hiked in the rainforest, learned how to hunt with blow dart guns and spears, and played in the river with the local children every day (I have literally never laughed so hard in my life as I did when playing with them).

Me playing a made-up game called "La Cocodrilla" with the kids.
I was a crocodile who tried to gobble them up as they swung past me.
You would not BELIEVE the acrobatics they were capable of!

Don't let Ofelia's sweet smile deceive you...she's a firecracker!

My brother, Caden, hanging out with some of his new friends.
Check out the muscles of the kid in the foreground! Unreal.

FEBRUARY

Went to a taping of the Conan O'Brien show in Burbank, CA! The guests were Marisa Tomei and Harland Williams (of "Rocket Man" fame...so funny). Fitz and the Tantrums performed "Moneymaker" at the end of the show--I'd never heard of them before, but they were awesome!

Where the magic happens, baby.

Our spot in line and our tickets!

MARCH

The entire campus was swept up in Jimmermania, and we were no exception!

We went to the last home game he played at BYU.

GOOOOOOOOOO COUGARS!

Conference champs! Now on to the Sweet 16!

APRIL

Brock finally graduated from BYU! HALLELUJAH! He left with a B.S. in Mathematics, a B.A. in Communications, and a minor in business management.

A long time coming!

I got SO lucky in the in-law department.

MAY

Moved to DC for internships. I interned on the Hill for Rep. Jason Chaffetz (UT-3) and Brock worked for the Brookings Institution.

The first weekend we were there, President Obama announced that Osama bin Laden had been assassinated. We were living at 2600 Pennsylvania Avenue, so we ran down with a bunch of friends to the White House (on 1600 Penn, about a mile away) to celebrate with the masses!

Watching the news with all our Washington Seminar friends.

MADNESS!!

Flags of the US and Pakistan. Yeah, thanks for the help, Zardari...

Says it all.

We also had the opportunity to watch the President give an address on Memorial Day at Arlington Cemetery. It was an extremely hot day, but an extremely cool experience :)

JUNE

Celebrated our fourth anniversary in Baltimore. (Brock stayed for an extra day to take the LSAT. HA! Remember when he was gonna do law school???) I ate my beloved corn cakes at the Cheesecake Factory, and Brock saw his beloved Vladimir Guerrero play for the Orioles at Camden Yards.

JULY

My dear momma came to visit me us in DC! She arrived the same weekend that my cousin Phillip was inducted into the A-100 class for the State Department's foreign service officers. He's headed to Djibouti, Djibouti, so we had a fun dinner together at an Ethiopian restaurant (since there is obviously no difference between Ethiopia and Djibouti . . . hey, it was as close as we could get!).

We also took everyone on an EPIC night tour of the Mall using bikes from Capital Bikeshare. Brock may or may not have gotten in a fight with a guy at the Washington Monument. Okay, so he didn't.

A hilarious show that we saw at the Kennedy Center!

Goofing off in the Library of Congress :)

Crazy Ethiopian bread called injera.

Beautiful night for a bike tour!

AUGUST

We had a great month visiting family before heading off to Amman. We spent a couple weeks with my family in Fort Collins and a couple with Brock's family in Huntington Beach. Summer perfection!

Chicken fights at the watering hole with the fam!

Wakeboarding at Horsetooth.

Tubing in the creek.

Beachin' it in Huntington.

Californian Mexican food...nothing beats it. Not even Mexican Mexican food.

We bid adieu to Allie as she drove off into the sunset (for BYU!) and then drove back to Utah ourselves (with fun pit stops in Vegas and at our favorite B&B in Ogden).

Lemme smang it guuuuuuurl.

We got a great deal on a room at the Stratosphere.

I left Vegas a winner! I won a whole whopping dollar on the Deal or No Deal game.
In the black, baby!

The Alaskan Inn--our favorite little B&B in the mountains!

Whew! When I started this post I had no intention of it getting this long (story of my blogging life).

To be continued!

Limbo

2011-12-30T01:11:00.003-07:00

I've been a bad wife this week. No, not in the sexy naughty way. Like in the unfun bitchy way. I don't know what's gotten into me. Maybe it's a combination of PMS and just general life stress? I feel so dumb even calling it that. Yeah, life stress from the girl who's bumming around in Southern California (75 degress today) and needs to do a couple returns at Nordstrom tomorrow while her iPad 2 is being repaired. Ugggghhhh I suck I suck I suck.

I've been a bad wife this week, and it's because we're in limbo. That lovely graduated-but-jobless limbo. It would be a lot less daunting if we had any leads or connections, but we don't. We're going about things the old-fashioned way. None of this graduate-and-work-for-your-dad-slash-spouse's-dad business. If I have this conversation one more time, I'm going to go postal:

"You just came back from . . . Israel, right?"

"Well, we were only there for twelve days. We spent four months in Jordan."

"Oh! That must have been a great experience. Were you ever scared being there?"

"No."

"Oh, good. I've heard all those Muslims just want to kill you. Did you pick up a little bit of the language or anything?"

"Um, that's why I went there."

"Wow! Can you like read and write in Arabic, too?"

"Yeah." [In my head: I sure hope so! I only learned how to do that two years ago.]

"That's great, great. Sooooo what's your next step?"

"Not a clue."

"Huh?"

"We don't know."

"What do you mean?"

[In my head: Right now Plan A is to bum around at my parents' house in Colorado until we find something somewhere. Scratch that: Anything, anywhere. Because despite 6+ years of college each, we have NO IDEA WHAT WE WANT. Plan B is to get on "The Amazing Race" and kick adult responsibilities down the road even further. There is no Plan C. We'd love to spend more time in school waiting out this recession with Master's degrees, but neither of us know what we'd want to study in the first place. And you know what's making all this even better? Getting asked this question for the 300th time. So thank you, person, for reminding me that in spite of all the hard work my husband and I did in college to NOT have the job prospects of art history majors, we have the job prospects of art history majors. Now, please excuse me while I go drown my sorrows in the pint of Baskin Robbins ice cream that my mother-in-law bought for me today after I accidentally snarfed down half of Brock's double-double at In-N-Out before realizing the extra patty in there. Which, of course, will only add to the eight pounds I gained in the Middle East eating !#$*&% falafel and lamb 24/7 in an effort to hone language skills that would set me apart in a workforce that BLOWS because your generation bought mortgages they couldn't afford. Maybe if they hadn't, I wouldn't have felt inclined to drag my husband across two continents over the course of eight months to improve my job now-non-existent job prospects. So yeah, I've got a bigger ass, a smaller bank account, and a guest bedroom at my parents' house. Any other questions, Curious George?]

You know what all this feels like? It feels like a Mormon wedding night. You've been so good and followed all the rules, so the payoff should come easy and be awesome. But in reality, you finally get to the hotel room and are confused as hell.

We speak foreign languages. We did internships. We were involved in extra-curricular activities. We are both good writers. We're gregarious. We're honest. We carefully crafted our time in college--majors, minors, everything--to make us competitive in the work force. We did everything right.

Didn't we?

The worst thing about having no idea what you want is worrying that you're missing opportunities. Brock comes at me with all these great ideas of what to do with his life and I just shoot them down because, for some reason, they don't fall in line with what I think he should be doing. And don't ask me what that is, because I don't know. Remember that episode of Modern Family when Phil accuses Claire of crushing his creativity and squandering his life's potential as a result? I'm so worried that I am that wife. I'm worried because sometimes I look at myself and all that Brock has to deal with and I legitimately think that he would be better off without me. DANG IT whyyyy does that have to sound so melodramatic when I mean it so much???? (Not like quadruple y's and !'s helped my cause there.)

The hard thing about marriage--or at least a marriage where neither partner has a defined career path--is that you're not just worrying about yourself finding work. You're not just worrying about your spouse finding work. You worry about how your actions, choices, and behaviors are affecting two destinies.

Why can't somebody just give me the answers so I can go back to being a nice wife again? So we can figure out where to move and I can end my eight-month streak of living out of a suitcase? So I can buy a gym membership? So we can actually think about when to start having kids instead of it being some amorphous box on a future to-do list? So we can know which church ward to cut our tithing checks to? So we can be us again?

Jet Lag

2011-12-28T09:13:00.000-07:00

Wide awake at 4am. Too early and dark to go for a run, so I figure now is as good a time as any to catch up on blogging! I have so many posts planned out for the next couple weeks-- I'll probably end up doing two per day: one for Jordan/Israel, one for current Huntington Beach holiday happenings. And then I figure that it's been about a year since we went to Ecuador, and I still haven't written anything about that--maybe that'll be next up on my blogging list. Along with plenty of political and social commentary, as the Iowa caucuses are just around the corner.

...is it obvious that I'm desperately trying to find things to write about to occupy my time now that I have NO SCHOOL and NO JOB and NO BABIES??? :)

Since I am jet-lagged, I dedicate this post to the jets who got me here. After a day in Sderot and Jaffa (more on that in a future post!), we arrived at Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv at around 8pm. We were SO excited to be heading home!

Our flight didn't leave until 5:30am the next day, but we got there at 8pm because everybody's flights left at different times (and it was just logistically easier for us all to dropped off at once). Right from the get-go, we decided to pull an all-nighter so as to ease jet-lag upon arrival in the States. Luckily, that isn't hard to do when you're surrounded by dozens of friends! We stayed up late making up superlatives ("Best Hair", "Best Laugh", etc) for every person on the study abroad--over 60 people. Brock and I won the "Old Married Couple Award."

Some may say that was based on our bickering, I say it was based on love.

That took a good two hours, and in the process we made friends with the female Israeli IDF soldier sitting next to us. After high school, every Israeli citizen must complete mandatory military service. I think it's generally two years for girls, three for guys, but it varies depending on the job you do in the military. The girl we met was 20 years old and worked for the Israeli public radio station. Apparently, an Israeli had just won the world surfing championship, so she was at the airport welcoming celebration to get a sound bite.

We all got to talking and it wasn't long before she was whooping our butts in Texas Hold 'Em. Little did she know that one of the players at the table--a guy from the study abroad named Sami--was a Palestinian! Sami said it was surreal to be playing a round of poker with an IDF soldier. That'll make for a great story to tell his kids.

We had such a fun conversation with her that ranged from politics (she was a socialist) to nature (she was an environmentalist) to cows (she was a vegetarian) to how--and I quote--"every source of evil in the world can be traced back to McDonalds." She spoke good English and even taught us a little Hebrew and Yiddish. When we told her we spoke Arabic, she informed us that despite four years of the language in high school, the only Arabic phrase she knew was "Stop! Stop or I'm going to shoot you!" And people wonder why there's so little understanding between these two groups!

At 2am Brock and I left the group to go check-in for our flight. It was interesting to get a taste for Israeli airport security--it's way more mentally intrusive than physically intrusive. (Then again, we were lucky with how easily we got through it. Some members of our group--just regular causcasian American kids--took a full THREE HOURS with security and one even missed their flight because of it!) Instead of naked body scanners, Israeli security focuses on what is essentially racial profiling. They ask you a lot of questions--where are you going? who are you with? did you buy gifts for people? what gifts? are you carrying an item in your suitcase that you accepted from someone you didn't know? They do this to both hear your answers and watch your reactions.

What I thought was interesting was their scanning of every carry-on item and every checked bag. Your checked bags are scanned before you get to the check-in counter, and your carry-ons after. There's also probably about six or seven different checkpoints en route to the terminal where they ask to see your passport and boarding ticket.

Prior to my trip to Israel, I had read so much about how amazing and efficient Israeli airport security was. But in general, I would say that it's as time-consuming (or more so) than American airport security. Where they do have a one-up is with the people who run security. TSA in America doesn't exactly have a reputation for hiring the cream of the crop, but the security personnel in Ben Gurion was comprised of mostly young people who were bright, personable, courteous, and respectful.

Anyway, we finally boarded our flight to Zurich and slept the entire way despite the annoying group of hungover "Birthright Kids" sitting around us. Israel offers each young non-Israeli Jews around the world an all-expense paid trip--a "Birthright Tour"--to Israel in order for them to get in touch their "roots." Some may call this an opportunity to promote Zionism and imbue life-long, blind pro-Israel fervor in young Jews worldwide.

From the looks of it, it seems to be a two-week vacation/bar-hopping extravaganza that young Jews around the world feel entitled to.

Brock and I were not impressed at all with the Birthright kids we interacted with. It was easy to see why local Israelis view them as a necessary inconvenience. They have a reputation for being immature, disrespectul, and of just not "getting it." Most of them aren't religious or interested in politics--they're just looking for a free vacation and stamp in their passport.

Then again, if the government of some country--any country--offered me a free vacation, I'd be loyal to them for life, too. So even if Birthright Tours do little to connect Jews with their heritage (as they claim is their primary objective), they do help garner life-long devotees to the Israeli cause. In that light, these tours are a good investment for the government.

Despite their hangovers ("OMG, I need some drugs. I'm going to take soooo many pills on this plane so I can sleep. Adderal, Oxycotin, I don't even know what I have in my bag. But I'm going to take it allllllll.") and Zionist blabbering ("Jamie, giiiiiirl, did you know like, like some study has been done and Jews literally have better brains than other people?") we managed to get some shut-eye all the way to Zurich.

Our four-hour layover in Zurich made us want to move there. Every Swiss employee we talked to was so nice and went out of their way to see if we could be helped--it felt like we were at a hotel, not an aiport! They always left with a smille and a "Merry Christmas!" Merry Christmas! I don't know what it was, but there was some about hearing that rather than "Happy Holidays" that made gave me warm fuzzies :) I read a book once called The Geography of Happiness that had a whole chapter dealing with Swiss culture--how they like things (airports, cities, service, etc) clean, efficient, and flawless. I saw much of this manifested in just the little time we were there--from an advertisement for Swiss Air reading "Perfection is not relative" to the modern, minimalistic, and spotless terminal we waited in.

At that point, the only thing standing between us and home was a 12-hour flight to LAX. Yeah, that sucker was long. But it was less tortuous thanks to the awesome entertainment system (a huge selection of on-demand movies, TV shows, music, and games) and little luxuries like Movenpick ice cream, Swiss chocolate, and warm towels :)

It feels so good to be back in the States--the first thing we did was grab some Mexican food at Chronic Taco :) And my sweet Brock even arranged for family to surprise me with a huge box of oatmeal creme pies! With Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and a box of 48 Fruit Roll-Ups waiting for me in the pantry when we got home.

I wish I was pregnant so I could have an excuse for that last paragraph, but I've got nothin'.

Haters Gonna Hate

2011-12-21T12:11:00.004-07:00

Adventure Mom in action.

It all started at Wadi Rum, when Gregg Lines told me "Kristi, if I were to name your outfit today, it would be called Adventure Mom."

Easy for the guys to criticize when they didn't have to change their wardrobe AT ALL for this trip. There's only so much a gal can do with mom pants, long-sleeved shirts, and crew neck tees!

I can't tell you how many times somebody has asked me--with a slight squint of the left eye--"OMG, where did you get that??? Goodwill??"

"YUP."

And I didn't even buy it because I was desperate for halal clothes. I BOUGHT IT 'CAUSE I LIKED IT.

So while I only slightly resent the fact that my ensembles were relentlessly made fun of for the past few months (and I am the first to admit that I erred on grandma side of grandma chic!) I can't say that I didn't have fun with it all. I'll proudly rock the mom look any day because y'know what? I work that ish.

And for the record, I'm definitely celebrating my leaving the Middle East by wearing a low-cut shirt (read: below the collar bone) in Ben Gurion International Airport. AMMMEEEERICA!!!!!!!!!!

***

For your viewing pleasure, here is a gallery of my classmates' favorite ensembles:

The look that started it all: Adventure Mom.

Retirement Mom.

European Coffee Shop Mom.

Safari Mom.

Tea-and-Crumpits Mom.

60's Mom.

Roman Holiday/Sightseeing Mom.

***

And the icing on the cake . . .

I'm here at the airport in Tel Aviv writing this with Tom Nance sitting next to me. The following conversation actually happened.

"Kristi, you blogging over there?"

"Mmmm hmmm."

"You're such a Blogger Mom."

Wow

2011-12-13T22:09:00.002-07:00

After having visited Jericho, Nazareth, Haifa, Akko, and Galilee, it's no wonder Palestinians are so ardent on the right of return. (And we haven't even been to Jerusalem yet.)

I wish I could post pictures so badly, but our internent connection here in Ein Gev is really weak. Just trust me when I say that this land is gorgeous and we've already learned so much while here (for a tidbit, check out Brock's blog). What an amazing cap to our time in the Middle East. We feel very blessed.

It's doubtful that our internet in Jerusalem will be much better, so forgive the lack of pictures and posts. Rest assured that I'll spend plenty of time catching up when I get home! :)

The Way to Qasid

2011-12-08T01:16:00.001-07:00

Notes/Corrections:

(because it would've taken too long to re-record the voice track)

Sabaah al-kheir and massa al-kheir are how you say "good morning" and "good evening." Translated literally, they mean "morning/evening of goodness."
Queen Rania street isn't one of the major byways in Jordan (that would be an exaggeration), but it is one of the bigger roads in Amman.
Our issues and presentation classes weren't at 9:00 and 10:00, but 10:00 and 11:00.
Fadi doesn't sing the Qur'an for us, he recites it. Although the recitation is beautiful and has an amazing cadence that sounds musical (I'll post a sound file of it sometime), a Muslim would never refer to it as a song. Qur'an literally means "recitation.
These past few weeks, we haven't been translating ten intensive articles every day like I said--I meant ten extensive articles (alhamdulillah!).

So...What's Brock Been Doing This Whole Time?

2011-12-07T08:29:00.001-07:00

False Summits

2011-12-05T06:27:00.001-07:00

I just took the test that essentially concludes my academic journey into Arabic.

I still have other finals to take this week (writing, reading, and the dreaded OPI), but this translation test was the big kahuna: Four hours of deciphering newspaper articles that I'd never seen before. I so vividly remember my very first day of Arabic classes when Ustaaz Doug taught us the words for "he," she," "you," and "hi."

You know what it feels like? It feels like I've been climbing in the Himalayas this whole time, and I've been going and going and going and working like crazy to bag this sucker.

And here I am. Looking out over everything below me thinking I DID that?!? And although I'm proud of myself, I'm also very humbled because now, from this vantage point, I realize that the goal I'd been reaching for this whole time was a false summit.

Standing where I am now, I see the real peak. And it might as well be in another galaxy.

The thing is though, I get a buzz off this. I love false summits. I am the World's Most Annoying Hiker (ask Brock) because I never want to turn back. Just one more corner! There might be something really cool around there! Just this one last hill! What if it opens up into a sweeping valley with deer eating wildflowers and scratching their antlers on aspen trees?!?

I enjoy false summits because they psyche me out. They make me push past the exhaustion and dig deep so I can finally get where I'm gettin'. And digging deep has a way of teaching you about life and God and all the uglies and pretties about yourself.

This is a good gauge of whether you studied the right thing in college (learning about the uglies and pretties of yourself, I mean) It's important to not confuse a good major with a difficult major--just because a major challenged you doesn't mean it challenged you. Did your major make you re-evaluate yourself? Not your opinions or interests. You. You as a soul. Studying what you love is important, and I did that with political science. But I'm grateful for my Arabic minor because the lessons I've learned from it--particularly this last semester--have been life-altering. Between political science and Arabic, I feel like I got the perfect mix of learning about my interests and learning about my character.

It's been the year of false summits for me. I left BYU behind for good in April, but still had more credits to finish.Then came August, when I completed my internship in DC (and a B.A. in Political Science along with it). But again, there was still more to do. And now here I am in December: wrapping up my two-and-a-half year journey into Arabic and my entire college experience in general. It feels like I've finally reached the top, but I've been on the trail long enough to know that's not true.

The only thing that's weird now is not seeing the next summit--false or otherwise--in the distance. It's a white-out and I can barely see three feet in front of me, let alone three years. (Or hell, even three weeks!) Come January, I'll hit the trail again toward whatever and wherever it is, but it's nerve-wracking not knowing which direction to take to get to . . . someplace.

The call to prayer is happening outside my window right now.

Maybe I should start there.

Google Translate

2011-12-04T06:15:00.001-07:00

Google Translate: simultaneously the bane of my existence and the reason for my living. I can't tell you how many times I've turned to it to plug in that one word I can't figure out in a sentence from the newspaper. Sadly, G-Tizzle is far from accurate. I really only use it to help remind myself of words I've forgotten--not words that I want to know.

For this reason, I've started cheating on G-Tizzle with Hans Wehr (pronounced vehr...sexy, right?). Even though turning to H-Dub is slower (flipping through pages UGGGGH), I always know the translation is legit and it gives me verb prepositions and IPA pronunciation.

In that sense, GT is like the One Ring: A powerful tool if you're aware of its limitations, but complete reliance on it will consume your life and turn you (or at least your translations) into this nasty little half-naked quasi-human with a raspy voice and patchy hair and bulbous eyes.

A perfect example of said peril is highlighted in the following email, sent to me by my professor today:

***

A student brought me a menu today he had lifted from a restaurant. It had the whole thing in Arabic on one side and in English on the other. Some of the dishes listed in English are:

Power Hot Hot
Park Cheese (4 beads)
Fried Kubba (pill)
Pope Ghannouj
Turkish Authority Lane
The Authority of Watercress
Arab Authority
The Authority of Rough
Baltahinah Authority
The option of milk
Feathers (1 kg)
Arais meat, Municipal
Blades with potatoes and tomatoes

We have a special section The day before Toasi Ozzie pleased concerts in your home BBQ

We were racking our brains trying to figure out how they could have come up with this stuff. There were a couple of Arabic words we didn't know so I looked them up on Google Translate, and the translation was too close, so we typed everything in, and found that the entire thing was simply mindlessly lifted from Google Translate.

There are too many funny misinterpretations to list them all, but here are some:

Baba means Father or Pope, so baba ghannoush (the name of traditional dish made with eggplants) got translated Pope Ghannoush.
The word salata (salad) is spelled with the same letters as the word sulta (power, authority) even though they are completely different words, since Arabic is written without short vowels. So all the "power" and "authority" entries are types of salad.
The word for spicy, harra, is spelled the same in Arabic as the word for alley or lane: haara. So Turkish Authority Lane is Spicy Turkish Salad.
Additionally, harra can refer to "hot" as in temperature. So "Spicy Hot Salad" becomes "Power Hot Hot."
The word for "cucumber", khijaar, is the same as the word for "choice." And the word for "milk" in standard Arabic is used for "yoghurt" in colloquial Arabic, so "option of milk" is really "cucumbers and yoghurt."
Ozzie is from ouzy, a rice dish, which was part of a former sentence.
The word for "party" is also used for "concert", so that last sentence means they can cater parties in your home.

Anyway, I'm going to be using this in class to demonstrate the dangers of relying on Google Translate, or any dictionary, for writing or translating exercises, if you don't pay attention to the context.

***

See what I've had to deal with all semester???

Karak

2011-11-20T09:34:00.001-07:00

On our way down the King's Highway to Petra a couple weeks ago, we made a pit-stop in Karak. Karak is a busy town atop an isolated hill which is still encircled by Crusader walls. Once again, allow me to defer to The Rough Guide to Jordan for a little bit of history (you guys LOVE this, don't you??):

"The huge and well-preserved Crusader castle which occupies the southern tip of the hill is one of the finest in the Middle East, second only to Syria's Krak des Chevaliers for explorability. The hill on which Karak stands--with sheer cliffs on three sides and clear command over the Wadi Karak leading down to the Dead Sea (features which both the Old Testament and Madaba's Byzantine mosaic map mention) is a natural defensive stronghold. The Crusaders began building a fortress on a rocky spur atop the hill in 1142.

The castle's construction was initiated by the knights of the successful First Crusade, but its eventual downfall is inextricably linked with the personalities of those who came later, specifically Reynald of Chatillon. A ruthless warrior who arrived in the Holy Land in 1147 on the Second Crusade, Reynald was both vicious and unscrupulous, and it was specifically to avenge his treachery that the Muslim commander, Salah ad-Din, launched a campaign to expel the foreign invaders.

I would NOT want to be thrown down those walls...

Safely ensconced in Karak, Reynald began a reign characterized by wanton cruelty: one of his more notorious pleasures involved encasing the heads of his prisoners in wooden boxes so that, when he flung them off the castle walls, he could be sure that they hadn't lost consciousness by the time they hit the rocks below. In 1180, he robbed a Mecca-bound caravan on the King's Highway in violation of a truce; Salah ad-Din was forced to swallow his anger until a suitable time for revenge could be found. A prime opportunity presented itself three years later.

In 1183, the wedding of Reynald's heir was celebrated within the walls of Karak castle at the very moment that Salah ad-Din and his army, having already invaded the town, were poised just beyond the north moat ready to attack. Reynald's wife, Lady Stephanie, sent plates of food from the banquet to the Muslim army beyond the walls; in response, while his men were trying to bridge the moat and catapulting rocks against the walls, Salah ad-Din enquired which tower the newlyweds were occupying. In an expression of his impeccable chivalry, he then ordered his army to direct their fire elsewhere.

Statue of Salah ad-Din in downtown Karak.

Karak withstood that siege, but at the Battle of Hattin in 1187, the Crusaders, stymied the strategic ineptitude of Reynald and others, were defeated. The victorious Salah ad-Din characteristically spared the king and the Crusader lords--all apart from Reynald, who he personally decapitated. The besieged Crusader garrison at Karak held out for months; they sold their wives and children in exchange for food, and resorted to eating horses and dogs. But surrender was inevitable. Karak capitulated in November 1188.

Ayyubid and Mamluke occupiers of the castle rebuilt and strengthened its defenses. Under the Ottomans, anarchy was the ruler than than the exceptions. During a rebellion in 1879, Karaki Christians abandoned their town, moving north to settle among the ruins of ancient Madaba. In 1894, troops finally imposed order but Karak's ruling families--among them, the Majali clan--remained restless. In 1908 they rallied a local force and stormed Karak's government buildings, forcing the Ottoman garrison to seek refuge in the castle. After eight days, troops arrived from Damascus, publicly executed the rebel leaders and declared the Majalis outlaws. Even today, Karak retains a reputation for political activism, yet--a little ironically, considering the family history--the Majalis are now at the heart of the Jordanian establishment, boasting government officials and even a prime minister or two among their number."

Probably a lot more than you wanted or cared to know about this castle, but I thought it was interesting :) All pictures from our visit there can be found in photos #26-57 of this album.

Beautiful sunset to end the day. Now on to Petra!

Sex, Boobs, and Cartoons

2011-11-16T14:11:00.001-07:00

It could very well be that my top five most-viewed posts are proof of man's inherent baseness.

Baby-making is mentioned in three of the five. Boobs are the subject of another. And my #1 zinger deals with the timely and culturally relevant topic of. . . animated movies???

There is art on this blog, people! ART. And trash like this is what keeps you creepers coming back for more? (Actually, "Let's Talk About Sex" addressed some important issues and was well-written.)

BUT STILL.

Let's do a little experiment, shall we? I'm going to share this post on Facebook like I normally do. Sex and boobs are in the title, but just for extra effect, here's a random picture of Jessica Rabbit.

This will ensure that the thumbnail associated with said forthcoming Facebook post is, well, interesting. Check back in twenty-four hours and I'll update you with the view count.

AND STOP LOOKING AT HER, BOYS. SHE IS A CARTOON.

***

Just as I suspected.: A mere twenty-four hours later, and this post is officially the second-highest read post of the month, and only forty views shy of cracking my all-time top five.

You guys disgust me.

To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time

2011-11-14T11:17:00.001-07:00

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.

***

This poem was written by a 17th-century English poet named Robert Herrick. Isn't it beautiful? I was reading about him recently on Wikipedia, and was struck with this sentence: "The over-riding message of Herrick’s work is that life is short, the world is beautiful, love is splendid, and we must use the short time we have to make the most of it."

For as much as people poke fun at me for all my random ideas (get my Master's degree in Azerbaijan! No, wait, Rome!), it sure is fun to dream like crazy.

Even though it drives Brock crazy sometimes :)

"Just Because I'm an American Woman Doesn't Mean I Will Have Sex With You" and Other Things I Wish I Could Say to the Shabaab

2011-11-12T14:32:00.001-07:00

Al-shabaab ("young boys") is a term in the Middle East which refers to the seemingly endless throngs of obnoxious teenage boys who hang out on street corners, at malls, and in parks. They gawk at female passers-by, smoke cigarettes, harass stray cats, and generally rouse up all sorts of tomfoolery. While the vast majority of them are harmless (as are most human beings who weigh less than 120 pounds), I have to admit that their antics do get old.

Hence, this list.

***

Get a life.
If every one of your 16 calls today hasn't gotten through, it's because I'M SCREENING THEM.
Hey, Mr. Hanging Out the Passenger Side of His Best Friend's Ride, Tryin' to Holler at Me: Don't.
I'm fully aware that my Arabic pronunciation is imperfect, but is has to sound better than your English cursing. "Folk ewe dome batch!" just doesn't quite deliver the sting you're hoping for.
Deodorant. For the love of Allah.
Even if I was single, I would never be ready to mingle with you.
A Lexus convertible does not blind me to the fact that my grandmother--and I say this literally--has more muscle tone than you do.
I think you'd have a better chance at seducing me if you smoked more cigarettes.
My husband's is bigger.
The reason you're acting out is because you're sexually frustrated? Sad. I wonder how that feels.

Random photo I found online of what a typical group of shabab looks like.
They look harmless enough, right? FALSE.

Is There No Balm in Gilead?

2011-11-09T03:25:00.000-07:00

Hadrian's Arch, one of the two main entrances to the city.

That I can't answer for you, but what I do know is that there's an awesome city called Jerash there.

From my beloved Rough Guide to Jordan: "Set in the fertile hills of Gilead, Jerash was founded around 170 BC. It was around this time that the idea of a Decapolis first emerged. From the time of Alexander the Great, a group of about ten important cities of the Middle East began to be associated together. Bastions of Greek culture in the midst of a Semitic rural population these cities were founded or re-founded during or following Alexander's consolidation of power in the Levant in the last fourth century BC.

Although it is tempting to imagine the Decapolis cities working together in a formal league of cooperation, no records survive of such a pact, and it seems instead that the term was used simply to refer to the geographical area of northern Transjordan and southern Syria.

The Temple of Zeus.

Jerash and its Decapolis neighbors were "liberated" by the Romans under Pompey in 63 BC and granted autonomy under the higher authority of the Province of Syria. The century which followed saw unprecedented growth and stability in Jerash and it was during the first century AD that the basic town plan as it survives today was laid down: a colonnaded north-south axis cut by two colonnaded side-streets, along with a temple to Zeus front by an oval plaza, expansion of the temple to Artemis and the construction of the South Theatre."

Jerash is one of the best-preserved Roman cities in the eastern Mediterranean. There are a lot of ruins in Jordan--I've visited crumbling castles in Iraq al-Amir, Ajloun, Karak, Petra, and Umm Qais (only scratching the surface of all the desert castles there are to see)--and I'd be lying if I said that ruin-hopping wasn't getting old. But even the most jaded of travelers can't help but be impressed by the beauty of this city. The atmosphere there really gives you a sense for what life was like back then. Can't you just imagine walking down that colonnaded street on your way to the theatre, haggling with merchants along the way?

The Oval Plaza (looking down from the Temple of Zeus) and colonnaded cardo leading to the heart of the city.

Our dear friend from church, George, who is an expat here working as a mechanic, shuttled about a dozen of us up to Jerash one morning in a bus that he owns. There is so much history in Jerash, which makes it nearly impossible for tourists to fully appreciate the city, but we had a great time trying! :) For more photos, check out pictures #100-127 in my Facebook album.

Ajloun and Umm Qais

2011-11-08T06:14:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago we took a day tripup north to Ajloun ("adje-loon") and Umm Qais ("oomkeyes")--two of the most beautiful cities in Jordan!

See Kineret Lake right up in the corner of Syria? That lake hasanother name: the Sea of Galilee. Umm Qais is set up on a hill and offers and unbelievable view (alongwith vistas of the Golan Heights and Syria). But more on that later.

Ajloun was our first stop of the day. It's a beautiful citysurrounded by forests of pine, oak, and pistachio trees. Its defining landmarkis an ancient castle that looms on a hill over the city. Here's some funinformation about it taken from my fabulous guidebook, The Rough Guide to Jordan:

"The history of Ajloun isbound up in the story of the castle--in Arabic, the Qal'at ar-Rabadh. A perfect location with a bird's-eye view overthe surrounding countryside and over three major wadis (valleys) leading to theJordan valley. It is said to have formerly been the site of an isolatedChristian monastery, home to a monk named Ajloun. By 1184, in the midst of theCrusades, the monastery had fallen into ruin, and an Arab general and closerelative of Salah- ad-Din, Azz ad-Din Usama, took the opportunity to build a fortresson the ruins, partly to limit expansion of the Crusader kingdoms, partly toprotect the iron mines of the nearby hills, and partly to show a strong hand tothe squabbling clans of the local Bani Auf tribe. Legend has it that,to demonstrate his authority, Usama invited the sheikhs of Bani Auf to abanquet int he newly completed castle, enteratined and fed them, then threwthem all into the dungeons."

Intense, eh?! It was really neat to see andAjloun is beautiful. I have to admit that it wasn't as cool asJerash, but definitely still worth the trip.

Hold on. Have I not blogged about Jerash yet?!!? Welp, guess I know what my next postwill be. You know what I think my problem is? After I come home andedit/upload/write captions for all the pictures I post to Facebook, I mentallycheck off that even has having been documented. But this week is theperfect opportunity to play catch up (it's Eid al-Adha--no classes!),so get ready for lots of posts.

Anyway, where was I? Umm Qais! Our second stop of the day. Themain attraction of this city is exploring the sprawling ruins of the Decapoliscity of Gadara. Since the creation of Israel in 1948, Palestinians who wereexpelled from or fled their homes have come here specifically to savor thespectacular views of their homeland. From the highest point of Gadara, you cansee the lush countryside of Galilee, the choppy lake itself, and the waterfrontcity of Tiberias. The city's primaryclaim to fame comes from the New Testament itself, in Matthew 8:28-34:

28 And when he was come to the other side intothe city of Gadara, there met him two possessedwith devils, coming out of the tombs, exceeding fierce, so that no manmight pass by that way.
29 And behold, they cried out, saying, What have we to do withthee, Jesus, thou Son of God? art thou come hither to torment us before thetime?
30 And there was a good way off from them an herd of many swinefeeding.
31 So the devils besought him, saying, If thou cast us out, sufferus to go away into the herd of swine.
32 And he said unto them, go. And when they were come out, theywent into the herd of the swine: and, behold, the whole herd of swine ranviolently down a steep place into the sea, and perished in the waters.
33 And they that kept them fled, and went their ways into thecity, and told everything, and what was befallen to the possessed ofthe devils.
34 And, behold, the whole city came outto meet Jesus: and when they saw him, they besought him that he would depart out of their coasts.

Pretty amazing! Itgoes without saying how surreal it was to stand where this happened. And to lookout over the Sea of Galilee and think "That's where Jesuswalked on water. That's where He calmed the seas."The more and more I visit Jordan, the happier I am to be here.

The initial plan for this studyabroad was for it to happen in Cairo, but that plan changed when the revolutionbroke out (BYU can't send kids to places on the State Department's travelwarning list). I'll admit that I was kind of bummed at first to be going toJordan. What the heck is inJordan? There's no pyraminds! No hieroglyphs! No Nile River! Nohistory!

But oh how wrong I was. Jordan more than holdsits own against its more famous Middle Eastern counterparts like Egypt orIsrael--I wonder how long it will take before the rest of the world realizeswhat a gem this country is? Don't get me wrong, tourism is big businesshere, but mostly for Europeans (everybody always thinks we're from France,Italy, or Spain). If Americans knew about all that Jordan hadto offer--how dynamic its people are, how beautiful and varied the country is,how deep its history runs--they would be flocking here! And how great wouldthat be?

We need more Americans to visit theMiddle East for two main purposes: To get rid of horrible stereotypes aboutArabs, and to better understand the dynamics of the region (especially theIsraeli-Palestinian conflict). What better place to do that than Jordan? Acountry that not only offers something for everybody (historygeeks, adventurers, etc), but also happens to be the safest and most peacefulplace in the region?

Long story short: Umm Qais is an extremely special place, and I'mso grateful I got the chance to visit it. We couldn't have gone at a bettertime of day! We arrived right as the sun was beginning to set, and my was it a sight to see (checkout myFacebook album for more pictures, photos 166-194).

One of the coolest things about Umm Qais was the full-servicerestaurant that was built right into the ruins of the city. The patio had astunning, once-in-a-lifetime view of the Sea of Galilee, the Golan Heights,everything (not to mention great food!). We sat and chatted over dinner withour friends for the better part of an hour, watching the sun melt across thehorizon.

It was, unequivocally, the most amazing dining experienceI've ever had.

Dil

2011-11-02T15:46:00.000-06:00

Let me tell you something about Dr. Dilworth "Grammar is your friend!" Parkinson.

Your average 60-something man is far from intimidating, but Dil is not your average 60-something man. At 6'2'' with broad shoulders and a lean build (courtesy of the laps he swims daily), he seems ages away from qualifying for Social Security--let alone months. He speaks with a deep, cavernous, bone-rattling voice. His sentences are short. He does not wear a tie.

More than a few would-be students of Arabic have been shaken by his curt, no-nonsense unruffability. But behind his apparent Scroogeness (direct quote: "I hate parties.") lies a man who is irrepressibly endearing.

He sings in a baroque choir and goes on walks with his wife each morning. He laughs easily and infectiously. He obsesses over relative clauses ("WHICH!") and often scratches his head when explaining Arabic grammar to students. He enunciates the h in what and where.

Seven years ago, he gave a speech at BYU called "We Have Received, and We Need No More." I read its transcript for the first time a few days ago, and it changed my life. I am so grateful for my professors in the BYU Arabic department--Dil, Kirk, and Ustaaz Doug--who taught me a second language in a way that has jolted me out of years of spiritual passivity.

This speech explains how.

No, I Do NOT Want To Grab Your Butt...on

2011-10-29T06:36:00.000-06:00

Some blogs have "buttons." Basically, it's like a little sticker (usually a photo of the blogger with the blog's name written across it) that you put on your blog to signify that you read that blog.

Who comes up with this stuff?!

"Grab a button!" is just a nice way of saying "Whore my blog out on your blog!" "Re-direct the traffic from your site to mine! This is just further proof of Bloggerdom's inanity. In the in the normal world you would have to pay for these services. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet"--and an ad by any other name is still an AD.

So no. I won't grab your button because I have dignity. This blog is used to whore out one person and one person alone: ME. If I wanted my blog to become a pimp, I would've named it The Lady Doth Charge $300 An Hour.

I've Said It Once Or Twice Before

2011-10-26T16:30:00.003-06:00

You roll up your jeans, take off your shoes, and sit with your toes near the edge of land and sea. The waves slither up, then recoil. Over and over and over. It's predictable. Boring, even. But you sit there every day because the sight and sound and smell of it is enough to bring you peace.

Yet even when you feel nothing, that awesome, incomprehensible power is still churning in the deep. And every so often, a tiny swell will manifest on the surface. Nothing unheard of, unseen before, or even noteworthy. But when you least expect it, the water's metronomic lapping at your feet that you've gotten so, so used to will be interrupted by a sforzando of power that you feel.

You're not soaked--not even close to it--but you're so surprised that you gasp for air and your heart beats faster. In that moment, your mind becomes acutely aware of and your soul reverently in awe of just what exactly is before you.

***

And I'll say it again and again and again:

I never thought that love would be like this. That I could love like this.

Baqa'a

2011-10-24T09:18:00.004-06:00

Alright, I'm way behind on blogging about actual Jordan things. I'm such a procrastinator when it comes to blogging about events. Ideas and other random things are so much more fun to write about! Speaking of which, I think it'd be cool to do a weekly post centering on a certain political issue. See that little poll off to the right there? Vote on it, and then next week I'll write a post that analyzes all four options (and argues for one in particular). AREN'T YOU EXCITED?!?!!?

Also, I still gotta get crackin' on those posts about feminism. If my life wasn't a black hole of Arabic right now, this blog would be a lot more exciting, lemme tell ya.

Moving on. I got a call two Thursdays ago asking me to give a talk in church . . . which started in twelve hours. A little crazy, but I managed to pull something together! I spoke about how developing Christ-like attributes is the key to helping us develop our talents, focusing on five specific traits that I thought were important--patience, humility, courage, faith, and charity. The general outline went a little something like this (I know you guys don't care, but I want to jot this down so I remember):

Patience

Doctrine and Covenants 67:13
Luke 21:19
Example from the life of Christ: His amazing patience with Peter.

Matthew 14: 29-31
Matthew 26: 26-46
John 18:10
Matthew 26: 69-75

Humility

1 Peter 5: 6-7
Example from the life of Christ: John 5:30

Courage

Deuteronomy 31:6
Example from the life of Christ: Matthew 27: 11-24

Faith

Articles of Faith 1:4
Example from the life of Christ:Matthew 27:54

Charity

Ether 12:35
Example from the life of Christ: Mark 10: 46-52

After church on Friday (where our friends' 10-month old baby son took his first steps!) I went to work making my first batch of homemade cinnamon rolls. This was a big thing for me, because I hate using yeast (using yeast...say that five times fast usingyeastusingyeastusingyeastusingyeastusingyeast). Despite my best efforts, I always manage to kill it. There's nothing quite like the feeling of waiting anxiously for dough to rise, only to check on it hours later and see that you've failed. The puny lump of mush just sits there in the bottom of the bowl, cocking its little gelatinous eyebrows at the audacity you had to think that baking like grandma was within your realm of capability.

That's exactly what happened on my first attempt with these cinnamon rolls. I have no idea how the yeast died--the water was tepid and the recipe didn't call for any salt, so my best guess is that the flour and sugar staged a coups d'etat.

Me likey frosting.

Intrepid woman that I am, I gave the recipe another go and whaddaya know! The dough rose. I could've sworn I heard it cheering for me--Yeah, Kristi! You did it! You're a superstar!! You raise me uuuuuup, so I can stand on mooooountains--but I can't say for certain. Even if it had been, the cheers wouldn't have lasted long seeing as how I promptly drowned the entire mixture in two cups of melted butter.

Lemme tell ya, those babies turned out amazing (I got the recipe here, but used the frosting from here). I remember spending hours trying to make homemade cinnamon rolls for Brock during the first Christmas season of our marriage, only to fail miserably. Four years later, and look at me now, son. Look. at. me. now. I am very accomplished homemaking-wise. (Catch that tamyiiz, Arabic grammarians??? What whaaaaaaat, or, for all you Jordanians out there: شو شووووووووووووو)

Brock and a guy from my Arabic program,

BOOM, DAWGY.

Clayton, play volleyball with the University of Jordan team team (see pictures here). One of the guys on the team, Mostafa, invited us all over for dinner on Friday. He lives in a Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Amman called Baqa'a. For context, here's a snippet from the Wikipedia article on Baqa'a:

The Baqa'a refugee camp (Arabic: البقعة‎), first created in 1968, lies 20 km north of the Jordanian capital Amman, and is home to around 80,100 Palestinians who are registered as such with the United Nations, making it the largest camp in Jordan.

Baqa'a was one of six camps set up in Jordan in 1968 to house the Palestinians who left the West Bank and Gaza Strip during the 1967 Arab-Israeli War. Between June 1967 and 1968, residents were housed in temporary camps in the Jordan Valley. When Baqa'a was set up it had 5,000 tents for 26,000 refugees on an area of about 1.4 sqaure kilometers. UNRWA replaced the tents with 8,048 prefabricated shelters between 1969-1971 with contributions from Germany. Most of the residents have since then replaced the original tents and prefabs with concrete shelters.

I love living in Amman because it is so multi-faceted. Amman is arguably the most Westernized city in the Middle East, and by far the most cosmopolitan seeing as how the vast majority of Jordan's population are refugees from somewhere (Palestine, Iraq, etc). A twenty-minute taxi ride can take you from Abdoun circle--buzzing with Mercedes Benz SUVs, posh restaurants, and swanky cafes--to this:

Main street in Baqa'a. (Photo Credit)

On the cab ride over, our driver put in a CD and cranked up the stereo. The bass started bumpin'. Mostafa, sitting in the passenger seat, turned back to look at us and smiled.

"You like this song?"

"Yeah!" we replied, our voices barely audible over the rattling car. "Who sings it?"

"اشر"

That's when I noticed the hook: http://youtu.be/22Uwe3H2oBk

As soon as I recognized the song, we crested over a huge hill down into the Jordan Valley--with the huge settlement of Baqa'a sprawled out before us. It was one of those moments when I asked myself How. did. I. get. here?

I specifically remember shaking my moneymaker to this song at RMHS's back-to-school dance my senior year. Standing on "The Rocks" with hundreds of my sweaty, horny [drunk] teenagers having the time of my life because I was single, with my girlfriends, and--lemme just come out and say it--a damn good dancer. Seriously. Somebody get me on the next Beyonce tour.

Usher's "Yeah!" always brings me back to that moment. And there I was, six years later: Same song, same nostalgia, heading into a Palestinian refugee camp for a dinner-date with a guy that my husband plays with on the University of Jordan volleyball team? Jolting, much?

For whatever reason, this experience was bittersweet. It was sweet because it grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me saying "LOOK AT YOU! YOU ARE LISTENING TO USHER....IN JORDAN! YOU ARE IN JORDAN! YOU ARE FULFILLING A DREAM!"

At the same time, it reminded me of homehome--highlighting that fact that homehome is not Jordan, no matter how comfortable I feel here. Even though I love the States and miss my family, I will be so sad to leave the Middle East because life without Arabs will truly be dimmer.

Bar none, Arabs are the kindest, most welcoming, most generous people I've ever met. They make the Middle East for me. It may sound weird to describe a Muslim-majority group of people as Christ-like, but that's exactly what they are.

Mostafa and his family were no exception. There were so kind to us. Mostafa paid for the cabfare there and back (refusing to take no for an answer!) and his mother prepared so much food! Delicious tabbouleh salad, kubbeh, stuffed grape leaves, roasted chicken, fresh fruit. We brought some cinnamon rolls for dessert, but ended up making somewhat of a cultural faux pas. We knew it was customary to bring a small housewarming gift or dessert, but what we didn't know is that you should never expect to actually eat it there. You need to think of it as a gift that they will enjoy later once you've left--not something that actually adds to the meal itself.

The thing is, there is no such thing as an Arab potluck because by bringing food to share, you are implying that they will not be able to provide enough food for you--either they are too poor, or not generous enough (a greater offense, in their eyes).

Unfortunately, we did not catch this nuance. After dinner was over, we kept asking "Do you want to eat those cinnamon rolls now?" and they refused time and time again. We'd brought plenty for everyone, so we thought the explanation was that they just didn't want to try this foreign American food. Rude! Thinking they didn't want the cinnamon rolls at all, I took them home with me.

Oops.

Live and learn, right? :) It was still a really fun evening. Mostafa isn't very talkative at all, but his older brother, Malik, came up and joined us after a while--and he helped get the conversation rolling. We saw they had a deck of cards in the room, so we taught them how to play slapjack. They loved it! Brock also busted out his one-and-only card trick (which, to his credit, is actually pretty impressive) and just about blew Mostafa's mind with it. He kept yelling out the only exclamatory English phrase he knew: "OH MY, GOD!!!!!!!! OH MY, GOD!!!!!!!!!!"

Speaking of exclamatory phrases, HOW DID THIS POST GET SO FREAKING LONG?!?!?!?!

Why You Will Never See An Ad On This Blog

2011-10-20T11:09:00.001-06:00

1. If I ever want to make money off my writing, I will write a book.

(Earth-shattering concept, I know.)

Film Reviews: "Inside Job" and "No End in Sight"

2011-10-17T16:00:00.001-06:00

Charles H. Ferguson and Audrey Marrs: These are the producers of two documentaries that you must put on your Netflix queue (if you still have one, after they got all lame and separated streaming and DVD rentals).

No End in Sight was their first documentary and it achieved moderate success: a Special Jury Prize at the 2007 Sundance Film Festival and an Academy Award nomination. It focuses on exactly how the war in Iraq devolved into the unprecendented quagmire that it currently is. If you think this is just another anti-Bush documentary with a leftist agenda: Think again.

I remember watching No End in Sight for the first time in early 2010--a few months after I had changed my major from elementary education to political science. It fulfilled a film-watching assignment as part of my national security class, and I went into it thinking I was in for a Michael Moorian hatefest. Not so. In clear and simple terms, this documentary answers the question what went wrong? False information about WMD is only the tip of the iceberg.

Tonight, Brock and I watched Inside Job--Ferguson and Marr's second work which won the 2010 Academy Award for a Feature Documentary Film. It follows the same engaging, well-organized style of No End in Sight to a tee, and doesn't shy away from hard questions (and even harder answers). It addresses the same fundamental question: What went wrong?

Inside Job adds context to the financial meltdown. It delves into the decades of poor government decisions that enabled risky investments, the ineffectiveness of the current administration in dealing with those problems, and the questionable ethics of economists in academia. Decker, I'm looking at you. Scoundrel.

It's too little too late, but Inside Job sets out to hold people accountable. Of course, this documentary--like any form of media--has its own biases. There were some major holes with Inside Job and it by no means provides a comprehensive--or fully accurate--analysis of the global economic crisis. But its subject matter is so timely now what with the Occupy Wall Street movement, and that's why I'm recommending it. It's not the only thing your knowledge of the financial crisis should be based on, but it's a start.

Before watching this documentary, I had a cursory understanding of how collateralized debt obligations, sub-prime mortgages, and credit default swaps tied together. Inside Job did not add to that knowledge, but it did help solidify it, if that makes sense (i.e. now I feel confident in my ability to explain the basics of the housing bubble, whereas before I wouldn't have quite known how to articulate things). If you're looking for in-depth economic analysis, you'll be disappointed. But if the names Henry Paulson and Larry Summers don't ring a bell for you, or if you're like the girl in my 2008 visual arts class (requirement for the elementary education major...) who asked "What's AIG?" then you need to watch this.

Walk of Shame

2011-10-12T12:15:00.002-06:00

I was about fourteen years old, coming home on an international flight in a massive Boeing 747. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I walked up the aisle of the coach section to go to the bathroom. It was there, in the unlikeliest of places, that I learned an invaluable life-lesson: No matter how paranoid you are that you'll get sucked out butt-first from the aircraft--do you hear that crazy wooshing/gaping-jaws-of-hell sound plane toilets make when you flush them?!!--do not, I repeat, DO NOT forget to lock the door.

Because lemme tell ya, only one thing is more embarrassing than having a male flight attendant walk in on you mid-squat and hearing him do this weird "Ahuuhh!" yelp thing as he fumbles to close the door.

And that is the walk of shame back to 42B past the hundreds of passengers who just saw it happen.

The Mantra

2011-10-11T11:10:00.001-06:00

I'm a wee bit embarrassed to tell ya'll my mantra, because it's kind of pathetic. But it's helped me a lot this past week--I've been crazy productive and I'm feeling gooood.

It all started out a few weeks ago with I approached Brock with a proposition. I love the guy, but sometimes his humor is a little too Wayne's World. After a particularly "That's what she said!"-heavy day, I plopped onto the bed and said "Honey, I just want to feel like I'm married to an adult. Could we lighten up on the junior high jokes?"

And that's exactly what Brock did. Things were going along just peachy until the tables turned.

The sink was full of dirty dishes, and it was my turn to wash them. "I'll do it later tonight, don't worry!" I assured Brock. But, you know, life came up. And when I say "life" I mean The Internet. Before I knew it, it was 11:30pm. Brock walked into the kitchen and looked at the sink.

"Lovey, you forgot."

At that moment, a light bulb went off in my brain. Did I seriously not have the self-control to pull myself away from what I wanted to do? How did I let an entire evening pass by without accomplishing the one chore on my list? Why did I need Brock policing me? I'm sure he wants to feel like a husband, not a parent. Needless to say, I felt pretty stupid.

Hence, my mantra: "I am an adult."

I say this to myself (sometimes outloud...) whenever I have to do something I don't "feel like" doing. Because that is the essence of adulthood--putting work before play and realizing that life isn't about you and what you want to do. This mantra has helped me with . . .

Making myself go to bed at a decent hour
Not hitting the snooze button in the morning
Consistent scripture study
Waking up 90 minutes earlier every day to get ahead on my homework
Writing down weekly goals and actually doing them
Pulling myself away from mindless interneting
Assessing issues I'm having with language-learning and actually fixing them. (Even if this means reading Arabic newspapers for five hours on one particular day.)
Setting a timer for myself as I set out to accomplish 15-minutes tasks

I have been a productivity MACHINE this week, I tell you! It's this awesome self-perpetuating cycle: I feel so good when I act like an adult that it makes me want to act like one ALL THE TIME!!!!!!

My mantra is a reminder that I have the self-control to make myself do lame things (or at least I should). It's so easy to excuse your laziness by saying "Oh, I'm just a procrastinator." But really, isn't procrastination just a lack of self-control? This was the epiphany I had as I looked sheepishly at that sink of dirty dishes.

For whatever reason, "I have no self-control" sounds a lot worse than "I'm a procrastinator."

"I'm an adult" is a great way to shame yourself into acting like one. Because if you tell that to yourself and then display a lack of self-control, you'll feel so stupid that you'll eventually succumb to self-pressure in a desperate attempt to salvage your pride.

I'm sure there's a more eloquent psychological explanation for that, but you get the idea.

So that's my mantra. Before you know it, I'll be exercising, eating vegetables, and taking vitamins.

. . . just kidding on the vegetables thing.

YEAH ADULTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Talkin' Dirty

2011-10-09T00:08:00.001-06:00

Scene: 1:00AM. Face washed, teeth brushed, alarm set, day over. Brock and I have been chatting and joking around before going to sleep.

"Hey Kristi, what are my chances of gettin' lucky tonight?"

"0%."

"What?!? After I've been so funny and cute during all this pillow talk?!"

"You've improved on the Cute Scale, but the Gettin' Lucky scale holds steady. At zero."

"But aren't those two scales correlated?"

"No. And even if they were, correlation does not imply causation."

"Well, what is the Gettin' Lucky scale correlated with?"

"Leaving me alone."

"Pfff. Yeah. Inversely correlated."

***

This is what happens when two dorky Mormons get married.

Worried

2011-10-08T10:01:00.000-06:00

Will I get kicked out of the feminist club if I laugh at this?

Because I did.

***

Also, can I still be in the club if I tear apart feminist ~~whinings~~ arguments?

The feminist movement didn't gain steam until the mid-1900s. Much of Met's art predates that by decades (if not centuries). I would venture to guess that most of the pieces in the Met were created when women's empowerment was a laughable idea. Of course most of the artists in the Met are male--they were the only ones who made art back in the day.

Also: 83% of the nudes are of women because the female body is exquisite. Duh.

You may not think that's an airtight argument now, but the next time you get the chance, take a look at a naked man and naked woman side by side and tell me which form is lovelier.

Case closed.

I Am Woman

2011-10-07T13:09:00.001-06:00

All the names mentioned on the front page of the New York Times last Monday.

For all intents and purposes, I shouldn't be a feminist. I grew up in a traditional household with traditional values and had plenty of upstanding male figures in my life. My mother seemed intent on wringing the masculinity out of my wet cloth of a self by enrolling me in piano lessons, sewing classes, cotillion, ballet. I even studied voice with a professional opera singer. I was constantly being told to walk with my shoulders back, hold my spoon correctly, and watch my language. Even today when I visit my parents' house, my mother sometimes scolds me for filling my own dinner plate before my husbands'. She bought me dresses, made me wear nylons to church, and put French braids in my hair each morning before school.

On the other hand, my father taught me the beauty of sweat and the joy of dirt. He encouraged adventure, bruises, bumps, scratches, messy ponytails, heaving lungs. He praised me when I came home with bloody knees and high-fived me for jumping off 40-ft cliffs at Lake Powell.

As different as my mother and father's parenting styles were, both of them were constantly telling me that they loved me. This makes them sound like mushy-gushy softies. They weren't. I got my fair share of whacks upside the head (what my dad lovingly refers to as "braindusters") and my mom washed out my mouth with soap on a fairly regular basis. I grew up in a yin-yang of femininity and masculinity, love and discipline. Balance was the name of the game.

***

My feminist tendencies didn't emerge until college, where I was surprised at how dispassionate some of my female peers were. This confused me. They were in college! Of all women, shouldn't they be the go-getters? The rabble-rousers? They seemed resigned to waiting for life to happen rather than making it happen. They were mostly waiting for men--men to date, men to come home from their missions, men to propose, men to marry, men to have children with. Why was their happiness so dependent on the opposite sex? Why couldn't they strike out on their own?

Luckily, before I had too much time to dwell on this, I got married.

I say "luckily" because if I'd had time to let these feelings fester, I very well may have become a feminist stereotype. But how could I loathe men after marrying one who was so good to me? How could I blame them for my problems when one of them was the answer to my problems? And how could I possibly think I was better off alone when I knew the opposite was true?

I've had too many positive male influences in my life to be what some might call a "true" feminist. But that's okay, because true feminists kind of bug.

Somewhere along the line, I think feminism lost its femininity. We became so obsessed with sexism, objectification, and misogyny that we retaliated by asserting our masculinity--fighting fire with fire. In the end, I think feminists' demand for equality is slightly misguided. Women should be treated equally, but men and women are not equals. This difference is crucial, and I think too many women fruitlessly demand the latter. You can charge at the windmills all day long, but it won't change the fact that men and women are distinct beings with distinct gifts. That doesn't mean there's anything men can do that women can't (or vice versa), but people would save themselves a lot of time and energy if they just acknowledged and accepted these inherent differences.

This is a concept that the feminist movement has yet to embrace because it tends to view gender as zero-sum game. One gender's win is the other's loss. Instead, why can't men and women work together on feminist issues? Who says you need to be female to be feminist? Instead of spending all our energy demonizing and pitting ourselves against our male counterparts, shouldn't the goal be a combined social crusade toward cultural change?

To all you man-haters out there, swallow your pride and lower your middle fingers. I think the reason why the word "feminism" leaves such a yucky taste in people's mouths is because a small group of women have hijacked the movement into something loud, brash, and obnoxious. They're hypersensitive, hypercritical, and uninspiring. To be fair, every group I've ever identified with has had "those" people--feminists, Mormons, Republicans, etc--and you just have to deal with them. I think it's important, however, to let it be known that these abrasive minorities are exactly that: minorities.

My parents raised me to be a resilient girl with ambition and confidence--character traits that could have easily translated into one of the aforementioned feminist types. But the perpetual state of ying-yang I grew up in helped me understand the value of balance. There's a lot of hot heads in the movement today. We need more level ones. If feminists acted femininely--with love, compassion, and poise--I think the movement would be much more palatable for the masses (and much more effective).

I identify with feminism because I want a better world, and I believe women's empowerment is the most direct path to achieving that objective (see here and here and here and here).

Care to join me?

_________________________________________________________________________________

I think this is a really important issue, so you'll probably be seeing more posts relating to feminism and women in general. I'll try to write one per week or so. Stay tuned for the following:

Can Republicans be feminists?
Is feminism obsolete?
Women's issues in the Middle East
Women who inspire me
The dissolution of gender roles in society

Bad News

2011-10-04T00:27:00.003-06:00

I bought these crackers that are coated in rich, dark chocolate. I can't stop eating them. I would say they're like manna from heaven, but that's so cliche. Instead, allow me to compare them to nectar from the gods.Like sex on the beach. A ride in the park. My Achilles heel.

"Hold up," you say. "You found something delicious to eat? Shouldn't this post be titled 'Good News?'"

PROBLEM: They're digestive crackers.

And, like I said, I can't stop eating them.

Conversations on Culture

2011-10-02T11:58:00.001-06:00

I have speaking appointments several times per week with a teacher named Ibrahim. We've gotten to know each other pretty well over the course of the past month or so, and my conversations with him are some of my favorites.

Last week we were talking about women and the hijab and I mentioned that I find it funny how some girls in Jordan wear a hijab, but super tight clothes. Granted, the do cover the skin . . . but clothes don't have to show skin to be revealing.

Ibrahim commented that this is a problem in Jordan, and that girls like this are not respected.

A joke popped into my head. "Hey . . . what's the word for 'neck?'"

"Raqba."

"Okay. It's like above al-raqba they're Muslim, and below the neck they're . . . "

" . . . Christian!"

I burst into laughter while Ibrahim apologized profusely for his joke. Even though that's essentially what I had been planning on saying, he was worried that he'd offended me. After I'd thoroughly convinced him that he hadn't, I saw a twinkle in his eye. He was holding back a comment.

"Yes?" I said.

He smiled, but was still reluctant. I felt like I was waiting for a volcano to erupt.

"Did you want to say something?"

. . . . "Mosque on the top, church on the bottom!"

The remainder of the speaking appointment was pretty much a waste since we couldn't stop laughing. I think it's a good sign of the times that a Muslim and Christian can poke fun at each other without drawing ire :) (Now if only the same could be said for Muslims and Jews!)

On a slightly unrelated note, I have another story pertaining to culture and religiousness. Every day on my way to school, I walk by a series of small shops--a barber, a convenience store, etc. Several girls from the program also live in my building, so there's a constant stream of college-aged American women passing by these shops on a daily basis.

My friend Weston was talking to one of the shopkeepers recently when the shopkeeper asked, "Oh, do you live in the same building as all the binaat mutadayineena min amreeka?"

"All the religious girls from America? Yeah, I guess that's what you'd call them, "answered Weston. "How do you know they're religious?"

"Because of the way they dress."

CHALK ONE UP FOR MODESTY!! BOOM, DAWGY.

Glad people are noticing our efforts to respect the people, culture (and ourselves!) here.

I'm sure the fact that we live next to Ukrainian prostitutes provides for great juxtaposition.

One of my fleshier ensembles.

Wadi Mujib

2011-09-30T05:17:00.000-06:00

We capped off last weekend with a trip to Wadi Mujib—the GrandCanyon of Jordan.

One of our fellow church members, John, is a Marine servinghere in Amman, and he graciously offered to take Brock, me, and two other couplesto Wadi Mujib in his car . . . a welcome break from crowded buses and smelly taxis!

For those familiar with Zion National Park in Utah, imagineThe Narrows with 80-degree water—that’s Wadi Mujib. Unlike The Narrows,however, all the cool stuff happens right as you step into the canyon. None ofthis walking-two-hours-to-get-to-the-awesome-part business. The voyage into Wadi Mujib is only 2kmlong (it ends at a 40-foot waterfall) and, since we arrived early in themorning, we literally had the entire canyon to ourselves.

It felt like stepping into another world. Ican’t even begin to describe how happy it made me to get out of the city andspend time outdoors—especially when the outdoors entails 150-foot highcanyon walls with the sun streaming through. The funnest part about Wadi Mujib,however, is climbing up and over small waterfalls on your way to the big one. There’s aseries of about five smaller waterfalls (maybe ten feet high) that you have toscale, and each one has a rope attached to the top of it that you use to climb up the rock face (Indiana Jones, much?!). Some of the falls even had a smooth,slanted surface that you could use as a slide—so fun!

It wasn’t long before we made it to the big waterfall at theend, where we stopped to splash around for a while. On our way back down, we lied on our backs and floated down with the current. The waterlevel wasn’t very high (for the most part, maybe a foot or so), which made forserious bumps and scratches on my booty—but (or should I say butt?) it waswell-worth it!

I’m so glad that we got the chance to go to Wadi Mujibbecause we found out later that doing so was actually forbidden! Oops. Weforgot that we needed permission from our program director to go outside ofAmman, and that in order for him to approve anything adventurey, it has to be with a guided tour--which can cost upwards of $100! We only had to pay an entrance fee of 16JD (about $20). Not only that, it’s really good that we jumped on the opportunity when we did because WadiMujib will be completely closed for the season in a few weeks (winter iswhen Jordan gets all its rain, and rain means flash floods).

Luckily, we didn’t get in trouble because it was an honestmistake. NIIIIICE!!!!! How many times inyour life do you get to break rules and walkaway scot-free? Unless you’re Casey Anthony, the answer is “never.” So yeah. Boom dawgy.

As if we hadn’t had enough fun last weekend, Brock and hisfriend Weston planned a barbeque that night and invited everyone from theprogram. Brock made an awesome marinade and everybody brought their own meats. Weston’s apartment has a huge patio complete with a gardening plot--with no grills to barbeque with, these boys dug holes in the dirt,filled them with charcoal, and slapped oven racks on top. Ghetto Grillz. I was a little skeptical at first, but theyactually worked! Weston's wife, Kami (aka the brains of the operation), figured out the perfect way to fan the coals, and before we knew it BY GEORGE WE HAD A BARBEQUE. The get-together ended up being a total success with great food, drinks, snacks,music, and conversation.

I wasn't able to take pictures in Wadi Mujib because the water would've completely ruined my camera, but John's camera was waterpoof and he got some great pictures! I'll post them as soon as I get them from him. And I do have pictures of the barbeque--I'll update my Facebook album soon.

Just so you have an idea of what Wadi Mujib was like, however, here's a couple photos I stole from the Facebook pages of my friends Mark and Coby (they've been in Jordan since June, and went to Wadi Mujib a couple months ago). !شكرا يا مارك و كوبي

Sickety sick dank shizzle sauce.

Dear Family

2011-09-26T11:26:00.000-06:00

My dad has this thing with the phrase "I love you." He doesn't like how people say it flippantly at the end of conversations, so he takes extra time saying goodbyeiloveyous (so you know he means it).

He sent me the following email via Facebook yesterday, and there are so many things I love about it. I love the fact that he put "Letter" in the subject line. I love that he started it out with "Hey girl!" I love that he used an Oxford comma. I love that my seven- and nine-year old brothers' "thing" with my dad is hiking 14ers. I love that my dad felt sheepish when he got sick in front of them. I love that he's going on a date with my mom this weekend. I love that he's getting old and goes to bed early (on that note, I'm sad that I'm missing his 50th birthday in October). I loved how he randomly capitalized the word "WIVES." I love that he's proud of me. I love that he always reminds me to treat Brock well.

Letter

Hey girl!
This week Caden, Connor, and I climbed mt elbert. The 2 boys did great with consistent power up and down. Very impressive. Everyone on the trail was blown away especially the out of state lowlanders climbing their first 14er. I got altitude sick coming down and had to get down to silverthorne before my head stopped pounding and I stopped throwing up. It is degrading to be sick in front of your children and it made me feel sorry for grandpa Kern. You always want to seem invincible for your kids!
Mom and I are popping off to Denver on the Sabbath (friday) for a weekend getaway. I don't know what we will do but it may involve a movie and dinner. Kiana and colby went to homecoming together on kind of a group date that makes Sister WIVES look tame. It will be a great story for kiana to tell her kids.
Anyway it is Sunday night and almost 8 o clock so I better put on my pj's and drink my warm milk. I am proud of you and your life. Take good care of your man and be safe. I love you..... No...I really love you...like the kind if love that makes life worth living kind of love. Dad

Last April when Dad went trekking in Nepal, I remember chatting with him on Gmail. We randomly happened to be online simultaneously, and we exchanged a few lines of conversation before his time expired at the internet cafe.

Michael: Well you get some sleep muffin and dream about Bobo the bat and willie the worm saving the princess from the gargoyle in his cave.

I got the strangest feeling talking to him right then. He wasn't just my dad--he was my dad in another world. It's one thing to spend months apart knowing exactly where I can find him. But there's something about knowing that you're both farther apart that makes things worse. I couldn't help but think that that's how it'll feel like when he passes away. Worlds away.

اسرة عزيزة: You're not here in Jordan with me.

با با, you're not here to call me "Muffin" or tell me that made-up bedtime story for the billionth time.

ماما, I can't smell the Ponds cold cream on your cheek as I kiss you goodnight.

كيلب, you're not here to be the Tutu to my Belle.

كولبي, there are some epic places to unicycle in Amman. And you're not here.

كيانا, I'm not there to stay up late with you talking about how homecoming was.

كيدن, you're not here refusing to eat the local cuisine ("Uh...do you have any oatmeal?")

كونور, I'm not there to hear your latest catchphrase.

But I just want to say: انا بحبكم

No, I really love you.

Like the kind of love that makes life worth living kind of love.

The Picnic

2011-09-25T11:07:00.005-06:00

After church on Friday, we went on a picnic lunch with an elderly Syrian man I befriended in a bookstore, Abu Muhammad. He picked us up at about 1:30 and we drove out with his family to the ريف (reef--countryside). Jordanians love picnicking on the weekends, and the park we went to was packed! It actually looked more like a dump than a park--what with scattered, bare trees and trash everywhere . . . I guess the concept of cleaning up after your picnic is foreign here. In any case, it was fun to get outside the city and see Arabs in their element.

Abu Muhammad's wife, sister, nieces, and youngest son, Mustafa, accompanied us. Mustafa is twenty-seven years old and has Down syndrome--he was such a riot to be around! He's a completely uninhibited sweetheart with a smile that never leaves his face. The family picnicking next to us started drumming and singing traditional songs, and he ran over to their group and started shaking his groove thing. Everybody congregated around him and clapped and laughed.

The park we went to (The Park of the King of Bahrain) was really cool. Brock and I were the only foreigners there--it felt like we were crashing some huge Arab party. There were Bedouin minstrel men in kuffiyeh who wandered from group to group offering to play songs on their drums for a small price, and other men who wandered around with horses, donkeys, and--get this--camels offering rides for children! It was a total circus.

Let me tell you, Arabs know how to picnic like it's nobody's bidness. I've never seen so much food in my life! Vegetable salad, baba ghanoush, and traditional Syrian dishes like kubbeh and kufta with roasted tomatoes and potatoes. Not to mention roasted chicken, French fries (Arabs are obsessed with them!), seasoned olives (fresh from the garden), figs, peaches, grapes, cucumbers, fresh pita bread, you name it. People just kept piling and piling stuff on our plates--it was a little overwhelming!

After eating, we all kicked back and the coffee started flowing (not for Brock and me, of course). Abu Muhammad started smoking hookah--or, as the Arabs call it, "hubbly bubbly." I have no idea what type of shisha he put in there, but it smelled freaking good. Abu Muhammad's wife and sister sang traditional songs together as we all munched on nuts, fruit, and sweet bread. Then it started to rain.

Yes, rain. In Jordan! One of the five most water-poor countries in the world. It was the first rain of the year and everybody flipped out like Californians in a snowstorm. We packed everything back into the car and--naturally--the rain stopped right as we finished up. We decided to head home anyway, and continued our powwow on Abu Muhammad's balcony. More hubbly bubbly, more coffee, more tea, more steamed milk with sugar for us Mormon folk (for the record, that actually tastes really good!). Abu Muhammad's brother and niece joined us on the balcony while Brock napped on the couch for a little while.

All of Abu Muhammad's family--his mother, his sons, his sister, brother--live in the same building (each in separate apartments). He used to be a civil engineer, and he spent seven years building this home by hand so that when he retired, everybody would have a place to live. It had been his dream to do that ever since he was a little boy. He's retired now, but he loves being around people so much that he took a part-time job in a bookstore just so he could talk to customers. Every time I go in and speak with him, he has a new life lesson of the day for me :) It's so cute. He speaks pretty good English, but tries not to use it much because he knows how important it is for me to practice Arabic.

We all sat and chit-chatted away until it got dark outside--Brock and I finally left for home at around 8:00pm. Abu Muhammad said it's not uncommon for him and his wife to stay out on the balcony until three or four o'clock in the morning! Arabs love sitting around and talking. And I'm happy to oblige! :)

Zarqa

2011-09-24T13:56:00.003-06:00

This weekend has been nothing short of crazy. I feel like we need another weekend to rest and recover! But the experiences we had were well worth the exhaustion. For now, I'll just blog about our Thursday night outing and cover the rest in subsequent posts.

We kicked off the weekend with a visit to Zarqa on Thursday night. Zarqa is the third-largest city in Jordan (after Amman and Irbid) and is an industrial town about thirty minutes outside of Amman. Our friend Hussein lives there and invited us over for mansaf--Jordan's national dish that everybody here is obsessed with! It's a traditional Bedouin meal of cooked lamb on top of rice that's doused with a dried yogurt sauce (jameed) and garnished with almonds.

We took a minibus from Amman to Zarqa--they're the cheapest way to get around. There's no set routes or stops, but each bus has an end destination. Usually there's a guy hanging out the bus door yelling the name of that destination--Zarqa! Zarqa! Zarqa!--and you just hop on whenever you can. The half-hour ride to Zarqa only cost us 45 qirsh each (about 60 cents), whereas a taxi could've easily ran us upwards of five dinaar (about $8).

Zarqa (at least the side of it we saw) is definitely less developed than Amman. It's got a small-town feel with a big-city bustle. To get to Hussein's apartment, we wound through a huge outdoor market where you could buy clothes, household goods, meats, fruits, sweets, you name it. Hussein was excited to show us everything--he wanted us to see the real Jordan, or at least the real Jordan to him. People here are very proud of their roots.

We met Hussein's father--a retired blacksmith with a big, toothless smile--and wound through a couple more alleys before arriving at the apartment. We made ourselves at home on the floor cushions and began chatting away. I think Hussein was a little worried about how we'd take to sitting on the floor--we'd invited him over for dinner the week prior, so he'd seen our place and knew that it was nice. He kept asking if we were relaxed, if we were comfortable, if there was anything we needed, etc. It was so sweet :) Jordanian hospitality is truly unparalleled.

It wasn't long before the mansaf arrived. It came on a big huge plate that we set on the floor, and then we all gathered around and dug in. I don't know if Hussein's mother just makes a mean mansaf or if that's just how it normally tastes, but it was freaking good. We washed it down with icy cold Coke, and then kicked back and talked (the quintessential Arab pastime!). Brock sparred with Hussein's nine-year old nephew over soccer--which teams were best, which players, etc. It was cute to see these two have a full-on conversation about Lionel Messi, Real Madrid, and Barcelona without nary a shared word of Arabic between them!

Later, Hussein's mother and older brother stopped by to meet us. Hussein's mother wears a niqab (head covering that shows only the eyes), and was even about to take it off for fear that it made us uncomfortable. Again, how sweet is that? We told her we didn't mind at all, and the conversation kept rolling. Each and every member of his family was so nice and so patient with me as I tried to speak Arabic. Luckily, Hussein speaks fairly good English and was able to fill in some of the holes.His older brother told me I spoke well, and that with a couple months' practice I'll be rockin' it. Insha'allah! We had to leave at around 9:30 to catch the last bus home to Amman, and are looking forward to visiting again and again throughout these next few months :)

I can't believe we're already in our fourth week here--I had a minor freak-out when I realized that this whole experience is 25% done with. I still have so far to go with regards to speaking ability! I am happy to report, however, that I had my first dream in Arabic this week, which was kind of a milestone. It wasn't all in Arabic--just chunks of it--but it still gave me a little high.

I think the key to success will be unrelenting effort. This is definitely a mental marathon of sorts, and sometimes it's hard to keep myself amped when all I can think about is the future--how great it will be when I can speak well, how great it will be to go to Petra, to Israel, home, to start our lives in a new place, etc. For the sake of staying focused, I need to live in the moment. This is the one chance I'm going to have in my life to nail Arabic--I need to wake up every day and think It's go time! I need to visualize myself succeeding. I need to think positively. I need to be the Richard Simmons of Arabic. You can do it!!! You're strong!!!!!! Feel the burrrrn!! Now inhale, conjugate, exhale.....yeah!!!!!!!!!!!

. . . Or, you know, something like that.

525,600 Minutes

2011-09-20T14:19:00.001-06:00

I was recently reading the blog of a fellow Fort Collins ultrarunner, and saw that he'd ran the Run Rabbit Run 50 over the weekend.

My thoughts, in sequential order:

1. Has it really been a year since then?!
2. Man, I miss the mountains.
3. I hope Brock gets a job in a state with mountains.
4. Kristi, you have to come to grips with the fact that the odds of that are slim.
5. Shut up, Self. There's tons of places with mountains. Colorado, Utah, slivers of Idaho, parts of northern California, pieces of Oregon, Montana I think?, the Appalachians . . .
6. Doesn't Brock want to use his math degree to work with money?
7. So?
8. So these places aren't particularly known for their booming financial sectors.
9. YOU'RE NOT PARTICULARLY KNOWN FOR YOUR BOOMING FINANCIAL SECTOR.
10. That doesn't make any sense.
11. Is it time to move to Costa Rica yet?
12. I want an oatmeal creme pie.

Speaking of CR, I'll need to seriously re-hardwire my brain when we move there. Yesterday in a taxi I found out that my driver was half-Palestinian and half-Spanish. For those wondering, yes, that combination does produce particularly pulchritudinous people.

"Your mom's Palestinian and your dad's from Spain? So do you speak Spanish as well as Arabic?

"Yes. Do you know any Spanish?"

"نعم! I mean ايوة! Er . . . "

I remember a time not so long ago when my Spanish used to interfere with my Arabic (si instead of نعم, y instead of و). Now I seem to have the opposite problem--which is just another way of saying that I officially suck at two languages!

FIST PUMP IN THE SKY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AT LEAST I DON'T SUCK AT FIDELITY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I Chose This

2011-09-19T09:40:00.003-06:00

A couple years back, one of my friends from high school, Cassie, spent a year in France. I vividly remember reading her blog and looking at pictures of her romantic life in Besançon, green with envy and aching with wanderlust.

A couple days back, Cassie sent me a Facebook: "I'm totally jealous of your travels!"

Granted, Jordan is a lot less idyllic than France and this program is far from being reminiscent of your typical play-first-study-later semester abroad. But even so, Cassie's words gave me pause. How the tables had turned! If you had told me in 2009 (back when I was an elementary education major--seems like a lifetime ago!) that I would not only get to study abroad, but would do so in the Middle East, my jaw would have dropped to the floor. It sounds so corny to say, but I am literally living my dreams.

I feel alive here. Nothing puts you out of your comfort zone more than language learning. Simple conversations can be terrifying, let alone when a new Palestinian friends asks you why America supports Israel so much. And you want to explain to them how difficult it is for a person in America to get elected President, how money really helps in that endeavor and it just so happens that American Jews tend to have a lot of it, and there's also the issue of the Bible-thumpers in the South and how if you turn your back on Israel you might as well kiss those electoral votes goodbye, and how one time during the Holocaust FDR turned a whole shipful of Jews back to Europe and we still feel really bad about that, not to mention that Israel is our biggest ally and arguably the only functioning democracy in the Middle East, and besides, the Tea Party keeps calling President Obama a Muslim which, sadly, is not becoming of American presidential candidates (don't worry, being a Mormon isn't either) and appearing anti-Israel will only further serve to strengthen that misconception; oh, and then there's the pesky little issue of nuclear proliferation in Iran and how America really wants to support Israel as a regional counterweight to Ahmadinejad, but in reality Netanyahu and his Likud cronies frustrate the heck out of us and no, we don't approve of Jewish settlements . . .

But all you can manage to say is ma b'araf (I don't know).

When really you do know and you've read books on this and could probably write a book on this and now your new Palestinian friend thinks that you've never given the idea a second thought.

Bye-bye, Comfort Zone. At times like this, it's tempting to scoff at people who say they're jealous of me.

BUT: I chose this. Whether I like it or not, this is my dream.

Sounds funny to say, huh? "Whether I like it or not." Shouldn't you at least like your dreams? What's the point of dreaming if it's not enjoyable?

But what I'm learning is, maybe, the sweetest dreams are the ones that kick you in the face for a while.

***

All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did." - T.E. Lawrence

This I am doing.

Thanks for the reminder, Cassie.

Artsy

2011-09-16T09:00:00.006-06:00

One of my new friends here on the program was recently asking me why I chose to study Arabic, and mentioned that she'd thought I'd been in some "artsy" major before switching over.

Artsy?

It was the first time someone had ever even implied that I was artsy, which is why I think this comment stuck with me so much. Because in order for her to say that, I must have been living artfully. Be it in my speech, dress, hair, makeup, actions, whatever. Somebody who barely knew me looked at me and thought "That girl must be artsy."

I took it as a compliment because"artsy" is just another way of saying "unique" or "creative." (Also: "Weird.") Artsy folk tend to notice beauty that others pass by. Like the texture of a sweater or the swirls in marbled wood. And gradually, all this noticing--all the times your parents cocked an eyebrow at each other thinking "Should we take her in to see if she has ADD?", all the incessant double-takes over your shoulder to look at leaves on the sidewalk and empty Big Gulp cups--makes your life fuller.

I remember driving in Utah before we left for Amman. Coming out of the mouth of Provo Canyon, I abruptly pulled over and parked the car. A few minutes later, I remember getting back in the driver's seat and thinking Did I really just pull over to take pictures of a sunset? Am I one of THOSE PEOPLE???

I had. I was. And I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride about it, like I had just joined some elitist club of people who order Chinese takeout on the weekends while they "create" and who actually like "Howl."

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how artsy I actually was to being with. I'm not going to give up my day job (oh wait, don't have one!) to pursue a particular medium, but my passions are a Pollock of writing, photography, fashion, makeup, hair, architecture, food, literature, painting, dancing, singing, film, music, and design. This is basically just a convoluted way of saying I REALLY LIKE PRETTY THINGS. Nothing quite makes my heart swoon like subway tile in a kitchen, succulents in bridal bouquets, the blue undertones in wine-colored lipstick, or a sentence by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I'm not artistic because of what I have created (which, in reality, is just a bunch of carbon dioxide and one of those paper Thanksgiving turkeys made from a cut-out of my hand in the second-grade for my mom) . I am artistic because I notice little masterpieces all around me.

I think that may be a trap that a lot of people fall into--the thought process of "I'm not crazy artistic, so I'm not artsy." First off, who even wants to be crazy artistic? That's usually just a euphemism for "substance abuser" anyway. But I think a lot of people are so quick to cast themselves into their own personal stereotype, and it's important to take a step back every now and then to look for all the beauty in yourself that you may not know is there. I am not just a student of politics. I am not just an Arabic language learner. I am not just a Mormon or runner or wife or blogger or bitch or lover or child or mother (NOT AN ANNOUNCEMENT, JUST A 90s POP CULTURE REFERENCE). If I were to typecast myself into just one of these things, how boring would that be? How boring would I be?

Embrace your inner kaleidoscope with vigor!

Anyway, the fact alone that my neurons have spewn forth this much content from a comment that a person made to me over a week ago is probably testament enough to the fact that I am, indeed, artsy. Or that I'm a Type A, over-analytical, self-obsessed person who fishes for compliments and validation when there is none to be had (aka A BLOGGER).

But I had a dream last night where an elephant walked on water to bring me my shoes (which were in a helmet), right before a porthole in a fjord spat me out in the Comorosian jungle where my friend from Chicago who I haven't seen since 2009 almost ate a poisonous frog.

So . . . I'm gonna go with artsy.

Flash Forward

2011-09-14T03:47:00.001-06:00

I hope we're just like this in fifty years.

I love this video because it reminded me that Arabic is such a tiny facet of my life. The biggest (and best) part of my life is the guy who's stuck with me forever, regardless of how well I speak a foreign language.

Good to remember for when I forget the word for "rockets" for the umpteenth time.

Jordanian Cuisine

2011-09-13T10:15:00.000-06:00

30% of Jordanians over the age of 25 are diabetic. It's easy to see why:

1) Nobody exercises because everybody smokes.

2) Schwerma.

3) Falafel.

4) The infamous Arab sweet tooth. Pastries with enough syrup, butter, sugar, and dough to send even Tony Horton into cardiac arrest.

I had some yogurt for breakfast in this morning, which is all I could bring myself to eat until dinner. I mean, I like schwerma and falafel--but I'm already sick of the "cement stomach" phenomenon that inevitably follows their consumption.

I think it's funny that I'm taking issue with the unhealthy food here because I'M the girl who lived on Sprinkles cupcakes, oatmeal creme pies, and toasted bagels with delicious, full-fat cream cheese all summer. In yet another testament how much I value independence, I enjoy unhealthy foods when I choose to eat them. But when they're my only viable option, I choose something even less appealing--starvation--simply for the sake of making a choice! What's that Amman? No fresh salads or all-fruit smoothies in the food court? FINE. WATCH ME GO HUNGRY. WATCH.

Imagine my joy when I came home and discovered Brock had made fajitas for dinner. Lean steak, onions, green peppers, tomatoes, lettuce . . . come to mama. It was a home-run on the Brock front. Which is good, because he struck out last week when trying to buy milk.

"Honey, this carton doesn't have the Arabic word for 'milk' on it."

"Huh? It was in the refrigerated section and has a cow on it."

"Yeah, but it's not milk."

"Then what is it?"

"The Arabic says shabeebeh."

"Really? Lemme taste."

***

Turns out shabeebeh is a mixture of yogurt water and salt.

That facial reaction was fun to watch.

Thunder From Down Under

2011-09-12T11:52:00.000-06:00

"Brock, your hair looks amazing today."

"Dude I know. I've been looking at it all day. In mirrors. In windows. Everywhere."

later . . .

"Don't even tell me my hair doesn't make you want me."

later . . .

"If you're wondering where your lingerie is, it's in the drawer on the left."

***

You give a man one compliment--one compliment--and he thinks he's a Chippendale.

Ladies be warned.

Purpose

2011-09-10T12:32:00.004-06:00

I’ll be able to start posting regularly because we get internet in our apartment on Monday—huzzah!

What a week this has been. Monday was our first day of classes, and it went pretty well. Until classes start at the University of Jordan in a couple weeks, my schedule looks a little something like this:

9:00-10:00: Homework.

10:00-11:00: Issues class at the Qasid Institute. Everyone in the program has been separated into different groups of about eight or nine, and we all have different teachers for both our Issues and Performance classes. My teacher’s name is Fadi, and he’s awesome.

In our issues class we discuss various subjects in Arabic. And when I say “we” I mean Fadi talks for about forty minutes and then the rest of us try to express opinions—which usually end up being a sentence and a half long. I feel good that I can understand the vast majority of what Fadi is saying, but speaking is a whole ‘nother ballgame. This week we talked about the ins and outs of Jordanian government and the rich history of tribal law.

11:00-12:00: Performance class. Everybody in the class prepares a three-minute presentation on a certain topic, and then we get feedback from the class on how our Arabic sounded. This week we spoke about ourselves in ‘aamiyya (colloquial) Arabic, and about the history of an Arab country in fusha (formal) Arabic. I’m getting to the point where I feel comfortable with Jordanian ‘aamiyya. At BYU we learned Egyptian ‘aamiyya for the past two years (remember when this study abroad was supposed to happen in Cairo?), and Jordanian ‘aamiyya is different. It’s really only about twenty words or so that aren’t the same, but they’re twenty words that you use all the time (what, why, I want, I speak, etc).

12:00-4:00: “Free” time. Except not really. We have to find a native speaker(s) to talk with for two hours, and also have a load of homework due every day at 4pm. We also have four half-hour appointments scattered throughout the week during this time (two fusha, two ‘aamiyya, one writing).

4:00-5:00: Culture class and newspaper review with Dil (our program director). Each day we’re given a three or four newspaper articles to read and translate. (At the minimum, this takes two hours.) 4pm is when our translations are due, and then we go over the articles in this class. We also talk about different facets of Arab/Jordanian culture, which is super interesting.

9:00-10:00: Time for a chunk of miscellaneous homework and vocab review before hitting the sack.

***

Crazy, eh? I’m barely keeping on top with everything I need to do, and some of our classes haven’t even started yet! I actually really enjoy just about everything we’re assigned to do. I think the newspaper articles are fun despite the fact that there is so much vocabulary I don’t know. Dil tells us which articles to read, and then says “Oh, and by the way, here’s a list of vocabulary you may not know.” Which usually totals about 80-100 words. Sigh.

The speaking portion of the day is what fills my soul with terror. The easiest way to reach your two-hour goal is to catch a taxi to the gam’aa (University of Jordan) during the afternoon and find people to talk to there. Unfortunately, classes don’t start for another two weeks at the gam’aa so there isn’t a ton of people on campus yet, but enough.

Speaking is my least favorite part of the day because A) I sucketh and B) It’s hard finding girls to talk to. Approaching guys (“Hi! I’m Kristi. What’s your name?) is very forward and can be taken in the wrong way, so I’m limited in the conversations I can start.

The women here seem a bit stand-offish. Generally (not just in the Arab world, everywhere) a guy can approach another guy, say “What’s up?”, and they’re instant friends. With girls it’s soooo different. Also, what’s up with women traveling in huge groups?! That makes it even harder to approach them. (Dear Males of the World: I kind of get what it’s like to ask a girl out. Never realized how hard the Friends Fortress was to break into!)

Anyway, on Monday I did find two speaking opportunities. One was with two girls sitting on a bench, and another happened with a larger group. One of the Arab girls in the larger group spoke pretty good English, and she completely dominated conversation. Unfortunately, an English-speaking Arab does little to help me (yet another obstacle to swerve around!).

Even though my speaking experiences on Monday weren’t completely abominable, I left discouraged. Then I went home and got kicked in the face by 100+ new vocab words from my newspaper homework. I went to bed mentally exhausted, overwhelmed, and feeling completely hopeless. The more Arabic you know, the more Arabic you know you don’t know.

These feelings carried over to Tuesday. I was on the brink of tears all day and couldn’t bring myself to go out and try speaking again. I was sad, angry and jealous that the guys on the study abroad had things so much easier as far as speaking opportunities go.

Things came to a head at the end of the day. After watching the Jordanian national soccer team play China (that’ll have to be a different blog post!), we were exiting the stadium with friends and heard somebody shout “Willyum! Willyum!” in the distance. Will is a TA on the program, and we went to the soccer game with him, his wife, and their adorable baby boy. He recognized the person who was shouting and went over for a quick conversation. Upon his return, Will explained “Oh, him? That was the guy who sold me nuts at the grocery store last week!”

The guy who sold you nuts at the grocery store last week?!!?

Like I said: So much easier for guys to make friends here!

Will is a really outgoing, fun person and makes friends everywhere, but what kills me is that so am I! But I can’t be that way in Jordan. Around men, it comes off as sexually aggressive. And most women here seem pretty reserved (at least at first)—I feel like my strong, Western personality is a turn-off to potential friends.

So, let’s see what adjectives I’ve used in the past few paragraphs: Discouraged, exhausted, overwhelmed, hopeless, sad, angry, jealous, and sexually aggressive. That’s a lot of emotions! (Okay, so that last one was taken out of context, BUT STILL.)

Anyway, I woke up the next morning and felt prompted to turn to the scriptures. I went to the topical guide and searched for verses that talked about struggling, since that seemed apropos at the time. I turned to Ether 12:27.

27 And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.

“I give unto men weakness that they may be humble”—this really hit home for me. It’s no secret that I’m a very independent, headstrong person (dragging my husband with me to the Middle East so I can learn one of the hardest languages in the world . . . go figure). I prefer to navigate through things on my own and sometimes scoff at people who do this thing called “asking for help.” I look at them and think I figured it out. Why can’t you? I think being an oldest child is a double-edged sword for me: On one hand, I’m a very resourceful person who doesn’t rely on others to solve her problems; on the other, I tend to view humility as a sign of weakness.

All my life, I’ve set goals and achieved them through hard work. Most of my biggest goals have been physical--helping my track team win a state championship, completing an Olympic triathlon, the Boston Marathon, a 50-mile ultramarathon. Of course I’ve had the help of the Lord in achieving these things (how else could you explain all these years of running with nary a sprain to speak of?) but physical goals are different than mental goals. It’s a simple physiological fact that if you train hard for something, your body will become strong. And with enough strength, you’ll probably achieve what you set out to do.

Train hard. Succeed. Boom, done.

I wouldn’t say I was overly prideful about the physical goals I’ve met, but I will admit that I felt like I could do them mostly on my own with just a little bit of help from the Lord; i.e. train, train, train, and then say a quick prayer when things got nasty at mile 44. No matter how you cut it, I wouldn’t have succeeded without the Lord’s help, but I’d rest my prideful head on my pillow at night thinking “Well, at least I did most of it by myself.” What am I, four years old?! How awful is that? It takes for granted that the Lord gave me my healthy, strong body in the first place.

I love how Arabs consciously praise God in all things. You ask them how they are? Alhamdulillah. What a beautiful baby you have! Masha’allah. You’re planning on arriving at seven? Insha’allah. Praise be to God, whatever God wills, if God wills. Yes, it gets repetitive and yes, it gets routine, but that doesn’t mean it’s without principle. Arabs are almost humble to a fault, and I think that’s something I’ve tried too hard to avoid. I mean, being humble is one thing, but c’mon—I make my own decisions! I choose my own path, I set the course of my life, O Captain, my Captain, etc. But in an effort to avoid being fatalistic (i.e. whatever happens is God’s will, nothing you can do about it), I have failed to give God proper credit. And by “proper” I mean “all.”

I think the reason Tuesday was so difficult was because I had to come to grips with the fact that no matter how hard I work, I need the help of my Savior. And not just at mile 44, either. I freaking had a breakdown on the second day of the program—mile zero! I’m going to need His help from start to finish. Acknowledging my weakness wasn’t the hard part. I’ve always been able to do that. Accepting it is what humbled me.

I am here in Amman because learning Arabic is one thing I literally cannot do on my own. I need other people to practice speaking with, and I need the Savior to help me buoy me up against continual discouragement and frustration. Comparing myself to others or succumbing to jealousy will only hamper my efforts and lead me farther away from my goals. I know it sounds cliche, but if I hone in and have faith that the Lord will help me be the best that I can be, I’ll walk away from this experience having achieved more than I ever thought possible.

I am weak now, but I know that through faith I will be made strong. I think it’s kind of funny that Heavenly Father knew the only way I was going to learn this lesson was if He dumped me in the Middle East with a seemingly impossible task before me. I must be really prideful! J I am grateful, however, that my purpose in being here revealed itself so early on. To be honest, I’m not sure that I’ll even use Arabic in my professional life, so if I were to go through these next four months thinking that’s the reason why I’m here, it would be very hard to stay motivated. But I know that I am here to develop true humility, true faith, and a true relationship with the Savior.

That will get me through.

Insha’allah.

Settled

2011-09-04T07:56:00.012-06:00

We are finally settled down in Amman--classes start tomorrow and I am so excited to get going. I'm going to start using this blog as a language journal sorts. I'll write down my frustrations, my anxieties, my successes, and weekly goals. But FIRST! I believe I have some updating to do :)

Sunday, August 28: 11:58pm take-off from Denver International Airport.

Monday, August 29: 5am touchdown in Dulles. THIRTEEN HOUR LAYOVER. Kill me. Actually, don't. I still need to learn Arabic. 6pm takeoff for Heathrow.

Tuesday, August 30th: 5am touchdown in Heathrow. Six-hour layover. 2:00pm takeoff for Amman. Flew on BMI (British Midland Airways)--BALLER! The Europeans know how to make an airline. Comfy leather seats for everyone, lots of legroom, ambient music as your board, and a pretty legit dinner as far as airplane food goes: Lasagna, tabbouleh salad, cheese and crackers, mineral water, strawberry creme mousse.

Touchdown 8:30pm. Saw the exchange rate and realized we'd gotten screwed in London (1 dollar = 0.61 dinars in Heathrow, 0.70 at Queen Alia Airport. We exchanged$1400. For those of you who aren't math majors: Bye-bye, $200). Learned that our apartment wasn't ready (somebody was still living in it --legitimate problem). Drove to our interim apartment that we shared with another couple, Jason and Kimberly. Interim apartment spacious and beautiful, but nasty. Dirty sheets, dirty floors, dirty bathrooms, dirty kitchen. But we were so exhausted that we didn't care. Shared a "twin-and-a-half"-sized bed with Brock and slept like a baby.

Wednesday, September 1st: Spent the day cruising around a little and getting to know the area. Ate shwerma for the first time at the Mukhtar Mall--delicious! Spent a good part of the day back at our interim apartment chatting away with Jason, Kimberly, and our other friends Raage and Nicole. While walking to our apartment, we came across a group of kids playing around in the streets. Our hearts stopped when we saw what they were playing with: guns! Thankfully, they were just toy guns--Jordan must not have the same toy requirements that the United States does (i.e. a toy gun must look like a toy), because these things looked freaking real.

It was so interesting these kids play together. There were two distinct groups, and they both ran around trying to shoot each other and shouting "Allahu akbar!" You can't judge their culture for this or condemn their parents for allowing such violent play because that's just the way it is. My friend Stacy was telling me about a new toy that a little boy was opening on the bus in front of her the other day--a fancy 3-in-1 package with a fake gun, grenade, and knife. American boys play with Hot Wheels, Jordanian boys with weaponry. Tomato, tomahto.

Thursday, September 2nd: Busiest day to speak of thus far! We visited a small town right outside of Amman called Madaba, which is famous for its mosaics. There, in an old Greek Orthodox church, lies a 1,400 year old mosaic of the Holy Land--it was absolutely incredible. After Madaba we went to Mt. Nebo,which is spoken of in Deuteronomy. It's where Moses looked out over the Promised Land, and later died. It was surreal to stand there and look out over areas that I've read about in the Bible since I was a little girl: Jericho, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, Jordan River, etc. I lagged behind the group a little bit and had the lookout area all to myself. It was perfectly quiet on top of Mt. Nebo, and the view really hasn't changed since Moses was there. To stand there and think that I was standing where Moses stood, looking at what Moses had looked at, was a very special experience.

After Mt. Nebo we drove down to the site where Jesus was baptized along the Jordan River. The actual area itself was completely dry--kind of an"Oh, this is it?" moment because you're expecting to see a flowing river like in all the paintings. But that still didn't take away from the experience. It's still hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea of Jesus was here. Not that I don't believe He was a real person, but that just makes him very real to me . . . almost incomprehensibly so. I know"incomprehensibly real" makes no sense. But I'm the girl who stumbled over her words when she met Chris Heimerdinger in the BYU Bookstore (Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites books, anyone? Anyone?).

I didn't have these feelings on Mt. Nebo--Moses is one thing, Jesus is another. To live in the land where the Savior lived, standing in front of the place where He was baptized . . . I almost feel like my testimony of the church isn't ready for something like that. My testimony is based almost purely on faith, not on knowledge. But physically standing where Jesus stood and feeling that overpowering sense of Oh my gosh, it was all real almost removes faith from the equation, replacing it with knowledge. I know 2+2 is 4 and that the capital of Somalia is Mozambique and that Jesus stood here. All of a sudden my testimony is based on something tangible--an experience that I had--which is so different from faith alone. I was surprised at this reaction, and think I'll need to go back a second time to soak it all in now that I've processed it.

Next on the list was the Dead Sea--yep, it's as weird and other-worldly as it looks. And it freakin' HURTS! You instantly become painfully aware of every scratch on your body. Definitely a one-and-done kind of experience. You need to be care not to get a single drop of water in your eye (unless you're ready to b be blind for a few minutes) and at 93°F the water isn't refreshing in the least. Brock and I coated ourselves in the black Dead Sea ~~tar~~ mud and baked in the sun for a few minutes. It's a great exfoliant that gives you baby-soft skin. I can't believe Brock made it through the day sans sunburns and only minor dehydration. DC prepared us well! :)

Friday, September 3rd: Friday is the Sabbath day here in Jordan, so we went off to church at 10am. Speaking of religion, can I just say how much I love hearing the Islamic call to prayer? To hear allahu akbar ("God is great") literally being sung from the hilltops five times per day is very special--Islam is such a beautiful religion.

The branch here is tiny and our group of 60+ BYU kids was no short of an inundation. Good thing, too, because it sounds like this branch is really struggling. The Church isn't recognized in Jordan, and it probably won't be until its members here learn to get along. My first Sunday School lesson in Arabic was cool, but kind of demoralizing. I could hardly understand a thing! At the conclusion of the lesson, however, the teacher bore his testimony, and I did understand the brunt of that--the Spirit speaks in every language :)

Friday was also the day we moved into our actual apartment--yaaaay! It was so nice to finally unpack and live in a clean place. Our neighbors Will and Tasha (Will is the study abroad's TA) showed us around the neighborhood a little and helped us grab some basic food supplies at . . . Safeway. Yes, Safeway. In Amman. (Ah, globalization!) Did I mention it was right next door to a KFC?

Saturday, September 4th: Free day. Grabbed some more groceries with our friends Weston and Kami, got some laundry done, and went to bed early.

Sunday, September 5th: I've been taking tests all day today. Speaking tests, listening test, reading tests, you name it. Again, I'm overwhelmed with how much have to learn! Baby steps, right?

Yalla!

2011-08-29T05:13:00.008-06:00

Pronounced yullah . . . Arabic for "let's go!"

Mom snapped this photo before we left Denver. Red-eye to Dulles, twelve-hour layover (gross), Heathrow, six-hour layover, AMMAN.

We can't believe it's finally here! WE ARE GOING TO THE MIDDLE EAST.

Take a look at our friendly neighbors: Saudi Arabia, West Bank, Israel, Syria, Iraq.

Shall I bake them some cookies???

Hashufak bukra, al-Ordon!

Change of Plans

2011-08-22T11:38:00.033-06:00

Brock's not going to law school.

Side-note: Notice how I didn't say "we're not going to law school?" That's always been a pet peeve of mine. Kinda like saying "we're pregnant!" No, we are not. However, I do have one friend who is going to law school simultaneously with her husband; so Verzello, you're off the hook on this one.

Anyway.

About a year ago, Brock felt that law was the right thing for him to do. It really does open up so many doors professionally. I'd always told him that his going to grad school was pretty much a non-negotiable for me (grad degrees are the new bachelor's degrees), so he was vacillating between law school and getting an MBA. The more we thought about it, the more we saw a JD as giving you all the opportunities that an MBA does and then some. Seemed like a grand idea. So we sunk $900 into a baller LSAT prep course, and Brock studied tenaciously. At least an hour per day on top of an insane work and school schedule (500-level math classes? Are you kidding me?), 3+ hours on Saturday, for nine months. I've never seen anything like it. In the weeks leading up to the June LSAT, he was consistently scoring in the mid/high 170s. (A perfect score is 180.)

For practice, Brock took every LSAT test distributed in the past ten years (the week before he took the actual test, he literally ran out of practice tests to take). Coming from a guy who can tell a killer LSAT when he sees one, my heart broke when Brock told me that the LSAT he was given on test day was the hardest he'd ever taken. He ended up scoring 163, which is decent, but for Brock it was devastating. (To put things in perspective: A bad practice test for him in April/May was a 173.)

This completely threw us for a loop. For a while, I was even a little mad at God because I felt like he'd left Brock high and dry. Whatever happened to the whole idea of "You do the absolute best you can, and God will be there for you in your hour of need?" I felt like Brock had done more than his share, only to be abandoned. Even though this rattled me a little, I took comfort in knowing that we weren't the only ones to have ever felt like this (Matthew 27:46; D&C 122:5-8).

In retrospect, I am so grateful for that 163.

If Brock had scored a 178 or whatever, he'd be off on his way to an Ivy League law school without a second thought. But a 163 gave us pause. It made us think. Is this really what Brock wants? Is this really the path, we, as a couple, want to take? And the answer was no.

It made zero sense for us to sink $100,000+ worth of student loans into something Brock wasn't crazy about. He doesn't want to be a lawyer. That's not where his soul is. He and I are free spirits, and being beholden to that kind of debt would prevent us from living our best life. In essence, it wouldn't give us the option of not being wealthy. (We would be and we would have to be in order to pay down loans.)

But what if we didn't want to be?

After reconsidering our life and family goals, here is how things broke down.

1. We want to live and work with passion and creativity.

a) Brock loves surfing, teaching, writing, and--most of all--people.

b) I love nature, languages, humanities, adventure, and writing. Obviously, I love politics--but I'm perfectly fine with that being a continual hobby and interest rather than a profession.

2. We want to live simply.

a) We don't want ourselves, nor our children, to have lives cluttered with "stuff" or endless activities (soccerdancepianosingingkaratescouts) that distract from family.

3. We want to raise grateful, happy children.

a) We want kids who don't feel entitled to the newest gadgets or name-brand clothes. We want them to find joy and happiness in family and relationships, not possessions or entertainment.

4. We want to make a creative living that helps us foster relationships with others.

a) We love talking. We love laughing. We love thinking. But most of all, we love doing these things with people. Relationships with friends/family are our greatest source of joy. It goes without saying that law is, generally, a negative profession that isn't conducive to positive relationships (nor to creativity).

Wealth is a sufficient, but not necessary, condition to these goals. Call us crazy, but here's the new plan:

1. Use Brock's baller math degree to get a job in Chicago's financial sector.

2. Spend a couple years working and saving up cash.

3. Move to Costa Rica.

4. Start a business in the tourism industry. (We'll tell you later!)

5. Pura vida.

We may live there for three years, we may live there for twenty. Who knows? All we know is that we want to live purposefully. A small home, a small community, a quiet life, an adventurous life, a full life. We see Costa Rica as a straight shot to helping us achieve these goals.

Along with having killer surf. Bonus.

Life's A Beach

2011-08-21T13:30:00.004-06:00

***

I'm a Colorado girl through and through, so my spirit needs mountains.

But the more I visit Huntington Beach, the more enamored I become with the ocean.