Staycation

Last weekend we escaped to SLC for a quick getaway to celebrate Brock's 30th. We stayed at the Hotel Monaco (one of the most beautiful buildings in the city, and my favorite hotel.) It was so fun to be tourists just a few blocks from where we used to live!

While searching Yelp for a good place to eat dinner, we stumbled upon a small tapas restaurant that neither of us had heard of called Meditrina. It was perfect for a low-key, intimate dinner and we had the best conversation over an eclectic, delectable meal of small plates--including ahi tuna nachos and drunken Oreos (ice cream + Merlot + Oreos. Epic wasted opportunity not naming them "Merloreos").

We had our hearts set on bustin' a move later on somewhere downtown, but our eyes bugged out of our heads when people said that "scene" doesn't really start until 11:30. (11:30! Don't people have church in the morning?) Determined to be cool, we dutifully waited and set out to prowl the streets. Down this block to that place, over that block to that other place . . . lemme tell ya, there's nothing like looking at people dancing in clubs to make you not want to be a person dancing in clubs. Also, do you have be drunk to enjoy house music?

In any case, it was a beautiful warm night to experience Salt Lake's witching hour. People vomiting in trash cans! Bearded men driving bicycle taxis! I mean, who knew things happened AT NIGHT? IN A CITY??

The next morning we brunched at Rye.

^^ Brock had a rice bowl with pork belly, egg, and kimchi. Also he really loves pictures.

^^ Brioche, lemon custard, whiskey maple syrup. (Some people avoid the appearance of evil . . . I eat it.)

^^ Oh, yes. And then there was peach pie with candied lavendar. To be honest, these peaches looked canned to me, but candied lavendar. Who even knew that was a thing?! Is there no limit to what we can candy?

Such a fun weekend together. Happy birthday, Brock! I love you and I love being with you. 

Let's Be Honest: I Exploited A Fight With Brock For A Taco

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

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

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

"SET UP YOUR FREAKING VOICEMAIL."

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

"I tried calling you!"

"My phone died!"

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

"I said I was 'locked out'!"

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

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

"I want a snack!"

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

"I WANT A SNACK."

"FINE. MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN DINNER."

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

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

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

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

What to do next?

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

This absence must last at least twenty minutes.

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

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

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

Creeper? Me? MAYBE.

Love him. Happy Sunday. 

Green River

After watching the BYU men's volleyball team wallop #1-ranked UCI on Friday night, we drove 2.5 hours south to a Motel 6 in Green River. The plan was to wake up early the next morning for an adventure in Moab, but things fell through. What are two lovebirds to do upon finding themselves stuck in a one-horse town? Well, I'll tell you. (Or show you, more like.)

Breakfast. Our booth neighbor told us where to get the best truck stop tacos (Hopi Travel Plaza off the old Route 66 in Arizona). We entertained ourselves with the funny books in each booth (How to Understand Women, etc).

This place is real.

Green River is apparently famous for its melons?! Who knew? I bet this bad boy gets busted out once per year at some local parade.

"No perfect people allowed" . . . so . . . no Jesus?

The top-rated restaurant in Green River, according to Yelp. Great burgers, apparently.

The Last Person I Want To Talk To Before I Go To Sleep

We spent the last few minutes of 2012 snuggled up in bed, watching this. Fireworks went off and we could hear shouts and cheers from hundreds of frigid bodies just a few blocks away. But our apartment was warm and we held each other close as Auld Lang Syne  played.  Hello, 2013.

I Dreamed A Dream

That my weekend rocked. OH, WAIT.

It did.

So maybe we're a little obsessed with Les Miserables. I've already written about my long-running love affair with this story. The only person I know whose passion for Les Mis  equals mine is Brock. We have the score memorized. Brock has read all 1,400 pages of the novel (I'm in the beautiful throes of it right now). We cry every time to we see the play. And we've watched the following trailer an embarrasing number of times:

So naturally, when I heard that the 25th anniversary Broadway tour was stopping through Idaho, I had to surprise Brock with tickets. We listened to the entire soundtrack during the five-hour drive to Boise, and again on the drive back down. (Including the actual play, that's three times in twenty-four hours. WE'RE LOSERS!!!) The production was incredible, of course. But no revolving stage, surprsingly! They made up for it with other cool visual effects and staging, but I did miss it in the final battle scene where everyone dies on the barricade. Oh, well--that was a very minor grievance amidst all the things they did so well! Like Javert's suicide, Fantine and Eponine's death scenes . . . I get tingles just thinking about them.

For reasons besides the obvious, our weekend was lovely. We went to Boise on Saturday to catch the Sunday matinee, but we'd already had a good dose of art before then. On Friday evening we went on a gallery stroll around SLC with some friends from church. One of them, Ehren, is a local art critic so he served as our guide. Our other two friends that went, Phillip and Krysta, work as architects and they actually helped design  one of the galleries we visited! Do we have cool friends or what?!

Once in Boise, we stayed with Brock's aunt and uncle--they stuffed us full with crepes, Asian pears, fresh carrots from the garden, and delicious apple pie.

Friends, family, art, music, food . . . like I said. This weekend rocked.

I Have No Pictures Of This Weekend

And maybe that's why it was perfect.

***

On Friday we visited a used bookstore. We're suckers for those places, with their musty shelves and creaky floors and out-dated wisdom. Bookstores are museums, in a way.

At the glittering mall downtown I showed Brock my favorite perfume--Versace's "Bright Crystal." We didn't buy it, but I sprayed two tester strips to put in my car.

We curled up in bed with air-popped popcorn and laughed our way through Netflix re-runs of The Office. Then, what was supposed to be one episode of Downton Abbey  turned into three, and we went to sleep with Anna's singsong "Mr. Baaaaates..."  echoing in our heads.

***

In the morning, Brock played football with friends while I went running. We undid it all with RubySnap cookies before going rafting in Henefer, Utah.

A few years ago my parents gave us a small inflatable boat. They'd found it at a discount store for $15, marked down from $85 (probably because it had a hole in the bottom...).  I think you're only supposed to use it in pools, but what fun is that?

We patched the hole as best we could and took off down the Weber River. I'm sure we looked ridiculous. I channeled Pocahontas and sang "Just Around the Riverbend" more than a few times. We navigated like pros--snaking around boulders, under highway overpasses and abandoned train bridges--but the last rapid of the day (a Class III!) proved too much. Our trusty raft scraped over a craggy rock, and as we went over the falls we heard the sppeeeeeeeeeeee  of deflating air. We scrambled to grab loose shoes, shirts, and oars as the current pushed us along, our bums bouncing along the rocky riverbed like pinballs.

We hitched a ride back to our car with three stoners and their Rape Van. (Our other option was to walk the seven miles back to Henefer, so Rape Van it was.)

One of our new friends was a self-proclaimed "Ladies' Hair-Band Maker."

"Yeah," he explained. "It's a lot better than the manual labor I used to do."

"I bet," said Brock. "You probably have a lot of time to think when you're making hair-bands."

"I guess so."

"What do you think about when you're making ladies' hair-bands?"

"Um . . . just about making more hair bands, dude."

***

We ate macaroni and cheese after church on Sunday and laughed to more Office  re-runs before afternoon naps.

I fell in love with miniature eskimo dogs after Mojo played with one at Sugarhouse Park. Brock and I sat on a bench as they ran circles around us.

That night, we parked up Emigration Canyon to watch a meteor shower. We laid down the back seats of the car and lied on our backs, heads poking out the open trunk, looking up at the night sky. The inversion and clouds made it hard to see, but we both saw one shooting star. (One is all you need for wish-making.)

By the time we got home, the whole wheat bread I'd made earlier was done baking. We drizzled honey on two warm slices, washing them down with almond milk before going to sleep.

Photo Credit

And This Is Why My Marriage Works

I spent all afternoon today writing cover letters for various job applications.

Later, the mister and I had a little, shall we say, dispute. We were both just dumb. I was more upset that I had to go run and it was still  95 degrees outside (at 8pm!), and Brock was cranky because he'd just woken up from a nap and didn't want to join me on said run.

This dispute  culminated in me walking (OKAY, OKAY...storming) out the door to run alone. When I got back, Brock had taken Mojo out for a walk.

A piece of paper laid outside the door.

Brock A. Boyce

Our Address

His Cell

His Email

______________________________________________________________________________

Kristina R. Boyce

Boyce Household

Our Address

June 22, 2012

Dear Mrs. Boyce:

           

With bachelor’s degrees in Mathematics and Communications, I offer the Boyce Household creative problem-solving abilities along with polished interpersonal dishwashing skills—a unique combination that I believe qualifies me for an apology acceptance.

I showed my problem-solving abilities as dinner-cooker for tonight’s meal. Although food was scarce, I managed to include several variables—potatoes, cheese, salsa, vegetable oil, and my love for you—to creatively prepare California burritos to satisfy the need. I have shown time and time again my abilities to please your tummy, from French toast on your birthday to…well…French toast on every other day. I feel that this alone should incline you to accept my apology for being a jackass.

I always try to go the extra mile, as you can see from the dishes I washed. Most people would stop at merely soaking the dishes, but not me. With careful, yet firm, hands, I made sure every wet cheese clump was rubbed off the spoons and bowls. I am excited to use these hands to give you scratchies as your new and improved husband—that is, if you accept my apology.

I am available for make-up sex immediately, and am prepared to apologize at your request.

Sincerely,

Brock Boyce  

Two Boxes

I still have it, sitting in one of the two black boxes I keep in my closet. I tell myself I'm not sentimental, and I suppose that's partly true. You can't be too sentimental about things if you ever want to purge your house of clutter, which I do regularly. (Organization helps me think better.)

But there it sits in a mangled mess of treasures: Old ticket stubs, love letters, poems, small gifts, a song. The insides of those boxes are allowed to be disorganized.

Huey Lewis and the News: Greatest Hits. I can't remember why Brock bought it for me. It wasn't like I was a die-hard fan or anything. All I remember is him and I belting out "DO YOUUUU BELIEVE IN LOOOOVE??? DO YOU BELIEVE IT'S TRUUUUE???" across Highway 6 in my 1993 Audi with the window that I had to duct tape shut.

He was meeting my family for the first time. I remember sitting down on the bathroom floor with my mom late one night, talking about this Brock  fellow. He was quite the charmer, I admitted, but I wasn't about to get ahead of myself. My mom was relieved.

I didn't know what I was doing when I got married. (I still don't.) But I knew  that I believed in love. And today--five years later--I'd like to thank my parents for that.

They were flabbergasted when I got engaged. My mother was literally crying on the phone when Brock called to ask for permission ("Don't you think she's a little young??"). Well, guess what? They only have themselves to blame. And I hope they do. I hope they take responsibility for the daughter who knew how to spot a good man because she'd been raised by one. For the daughter who was okay with not having all the answers because she knew her mother gave the best advice. For the daughter who believed in love because she grew up in a home that was filled with it. I'm celebrating my fifth year of marriage today because of two people who are in their twenty-sixth. They are the reason why two disorganized black boxes sit in my closet.

It's fitting, really. Organization implies finiteness--beginning, middle, end. But my love story doesn't really have a beginning that I can pinpoint, because it didn't really start with Brock. It started with my parents (even though I have no boxes to show for it). And their story started with their  parents. And on and on and on and on all the way back to distant ancestors whose names are lost. But they--whoever they were--had love stories, too. And maybe they kept letters and poems and songs in boxes.

Someday in the future when our names are the lost ones, a young woman will lie in a quiet bed. She'll be thinking back on her nameless great-grandsomethings, wondering what their love story was. I doubt my two boxes will be around by then. (She won't need them--believers never do.) She'll yawn, kiss her husband goodnight, and whatever wispy thought she had of us will become a dream.

I'm sure it will be a lovely dream.

At Stuart Falls in one of the first pictures we ever took together. Fall 2006.

While You Were Sleeping

You don't know this, but last night as I cuddled up to you, I cried just a little bit. I tried to cry real softly because you had a 5AM meeting this morning and I wanted you to sleep. But I cried because I started thinking about our anniversary coming up in a few days, and all that's transpired in the last five years, and where we are and how we got here and where we're going and I was just so grateful.

A Soulful Palm Sunday

The moment I woke up last Sunday, I whipped out my NYC guidebook. Mother Nature had canceled my previous plans for the day (renting a gondola in Central Park . . . probably not as fun in freezing rain), so it was time to start from scratch. I turned to page 146.

"Brock. We're going to Harlem and we have to leave now."

"Huh?" His voice was groggy.

"There's a famous African-American church in Harlem called the Abyssinian Baptist Church. It was started in 1808 by a group protesting segregation within the Baptist church. They have an amazing gospel choir and services start at 11 . . . that gives us barely an hour to get there so we need to go now."

We were out the door within fifteen minutes and arrived at the church at 11:10. There was a long line of tourists wrapping around the building. Just as we walked up to the end of it, an usher came and announced that there was no more room inside--cutting off the line right  in front of us! It was the Supreme Court all over again!

Luckily, my dogged husband doesn't give up so easily. It took him roughly eight seconds of schmoozing to get another usher to let us in the front door. Instead of being led up to the rafters with all the other tourists, we took our places on the ground level, right smack dab in the middle of the action.

I don't think my spine stopped tingling for the entire two-hour service. It began with a processional hymn called "All Glory, Laud and Honor." As we were singing, the choir filed in down the two aisles surrounding the middle section Brock and  I sat in. You could hear each individual voice as it passed. It was like listening to ocean waves on a beach--retracted stillness; a pealing soprano vibrato; stillness again; a thundering bass line; stillness; an alto; stillness; a tenor; stillness.

Reverend Turman (click on the link to be surprised) proceeded to give a heartfelt prayer, with a whooooole lot of hand-raising, amens, and thank you Lords woven in from the congregation. An organist accompanied her words, decorating them with major and minor chords as needed. When the prayer concluded nearly ten minutes later, the United Voices of Abyssinian sang a choral response.

Oh, but they weren't done. Next on the program was a spiritual arranged by Roland Carter called "Ride On, Jesus." (Perfect for Palm Sunday--think about it.) With the first note, the skin on my arms swelled with goosebumps.

Ride on, Jesus
Ride on, King Jesus
Ride on, Conquering King
I wanna go to heaven in the morning

You can find a sample of the song's mp3 here, but the choir in that recording doesn't hold a candle to the United Voices of Abyssinian. I couldn't find an mp3 of UVA singing "Ride On, Jesus", but if you want a sampling of the energy they put into it, click here and listen to the ninth track.

Next on the program were announcements and scripture from Reverend Dr. Calvin O. Butts, III. This is where things got a little weird for me because whenever the bishop in a Mormon church reads announcements, that segment of the meeting is brief and to-the-point. Not so in the Abyssinian Baptist church! Reverend Butts went on for a good twenty minutes--it was 10% announcements, 90% tangents. It felt like he was just up there shooting the breeze with everyone, rambling on about whatever came to mind. He brought up the Travyvon Martin case, his disappointment with the local district attorney, the crookedness of law enforcement in the area, etc. As he went on, a woman in front of us kept raising her hand in positive affirmation of his words. When she did, I couldn't take my eyes off the bling  she was wearing! I'd spent the previous morning inside Tiffany & Co, so the sparkle of expensive diamonds was fresh in my memory.

A few minutes later, I got my answer when Reverend Butts welcomed the mother of Amar'e Stoudemire to the congregation. Somebody's  takin' care of his momma! Takin' care of her reallll  good.

Naturally, the Reverend doesn't just welcome visiting mothers of NBA players--next on his agenda was welcoming all  visitors. "If you are visiting this congregation, please stand up!" Everybody clapped as a throng of tourists rose on the second-level balcony. Brock and I followed suit on the ground floor, looking like two cotton balls in a coal heap. Immediately, everybody  within a four-foot radius of us turned to shake our hands and introduce themselves. I felt like royalty!

The choir followed with a number called "Let Us Go Into the House of the Lord" by Edwin Hawkins. They had a soprano soloist named Mae Carrington who hit notes that astounded me . . . not just in how high they were, but in how effortlessly she sang them. With each progressive measure, her words floated up, up, up, up to the ceiling, the clouds, the stars. It was like those words, that prayer, inside her really did want to go into the House of the Lord, and she was setting it free.

Then came the sermon. It was everything I expected and more: A whole lot of fist-pounding, prrraaaaaaaaaaaise Jesus, and unbridled holy passion from Reverend Butts who, judging by the decibel level of his voice, had forgotten about the microphone in front of him. His sermon centered on Christ and the people who laid palm fronds before Him on His triumphal entry into Jerusalem. (For great historical context on this, check out this Wikipedia page and read the section titled "Biblical basis and symbolism".) He said that laying down palm fronds was a way of thanking Jesus for all that He'd done for them--healing, feeding, serving, teaching, loving. On Palm Sunday, the reverend said, we  should proverbially lay our palm fronds before Jesus. It's a day for gratitude and adoration.

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI gave a sermon in St. Peter's Square that same day that beautifully expounds upon the meaning of Palm Sunday:

Dear brothers and sisters, may these days call forth two sentiments in particular: praise, after the example of those who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem with their “Hosanna!”, and thanksgiving, because in this Holy Week the Lord Jesus will renew the greatest gift we could possibly imagine: he will give us his life, his body and his blood, his love.  But we must respond worthily to so great a gift, that is to say, with the gift of ourselves, our time, our prayer, our entering into a profound communion of love with Christ who suffered, died and rose for us.  The early Church Fathers saw a symbol of all this in the gesture of the people who followed Jesus on his entry into Jerusalem, the gesture of spreading out their coats before the Lord.  Before Christ – the Fathers said – we must spread out our lives, ourselves, in an attitude of gratitude and adoration.

Isn't that perfect?

In closing, Reverend Butts issued a rousing call for us all to be saints in Caesar's palace (see Philippians 4:22). I left the Abyssinian Baptist Church with a new appreciation for Palm Sunday and a heart that swelled with gratitude for my Savior. Oh, and a palm frond. I left with a palm frond, too :)

By the time church got out at 1:30, we were ravenous. (In our rush to get there, we'd skipped breakfast.) I'd heard of a great restaurant in the area that, according to Yelp reviewers, served up good home-cookin' and "shivers-up-your-spine" BBQ.

Oh, baby. Those Yelp reviewers weren't kidding. That was the best BBQ I've ever had in my life. We started out with fried green tomatoes that came with a sauce that had  to have had cocaine in it. Our waitress told us their chicken wings were a best-seller, so we ordered a small plate of just three honey barbeque wings to taste. Again: Unreal. For entrees, we each ordered sampler plates: BBQ chicken, beef brisket, sausage, pulled pork, ribs . . . we had it all. Our waitress told us that they smoke all their meets for fourteen hours--FOURTEEN HOURS! There was so much other comfort food on the menu I wanted to try (mashed potatoes, key lime pie...), but we decided to quite while we were ahead. And by "ahead" I mean "approximately four pounds heavier than we were before."

We spent the rest of the day wandering through Harlem and Morningside Heights. We visited the Riverside Church (financed by John D. Rockerfeller, has the largest carillon in the world), the Ulysses S. Grant Memorial (AKA Grant's Tomb, the largest mausoleum in the world...guess who's buried there? NOBODY), the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine (the largest cathedral in the world--600 feet long, 146 feet wide), and the beautiful campus of Columbia University. We came home exhausted and with aching feet, but that's nothing that hot cocoa and Mad Men can't fix ;)

Riverside Church

Grant's "Tomb"

Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine

Inside the above church; largest cathedral in the world. Reminds me of that hallway leading up to the Wizard of Oz!
Makes me giggle to think of a lion diving out of one of those beautiful stained glass windows :)

Slices

We kicked off the weekend with a fun date on Friday night that completely redeemed the bust of a day I'd had in Queens. The redemption actually started with a quick stop I made in Greenwich Village on the way home when I came across a shawarma shop. I got so  sick of shawarma in Jordan and will probably never eat it again of my own volition, but I had to stop in because I knew an Arab would be working behind the counter. And that's where I met Hussein from Lebanon! I shot the breeze with him for just a few minutes--it felt so nice to have that language rolling off my tongue again. I'm a little rusty, but I can tell it's all still there in my brain :)

Anyway. Our date. One thing Brock always makes fun of New Yorkers for is their obsession  with "slices." You do not  call a piece of pizza here "a piece of pizza." It's a slice. And whenever a New Yorker thinks about moving to another city, the first item on their Cons List is usually expressed with "Awwww man I could never do it--I can't get a good slice there!" (This is the trademark sentence that Brock uses to make fun of his slice-obsessed co-workers . . . he says it with the most terrible  New York accent you'll ever hear. Imitations are not his strong suit, but that's okay, because terrible imitations are almost funnier than good ones!)

I'd heard great things about Joe's Pizza in Greenwich Village. I mean, Kevin Bacon said a slice from there would be his last meal on Earth if he had a choice. KEVIN BACON. I don't know why I just typed his name again, but I guess that just speaks to the effect that KEVIN BACON can have on you.

Joe's was indeed good . . . but I just don't think New York slices are our cup of pizza tea. All the places that people rave about--Joe's, Lombardi's, Grimaldi's--are indeed delicious, but not in that knock-your-socks-off way that we think Chicago deep dish is.

However. Our pizza night didn't end with Joe's. Walking back to the PATH station, Brock decided he was still a little hungry, so we popped into the closest place near us for one last slice. It happened to be Bleeker Street Pizza, which apparently has won the Food Network's title of Best Pizza in New York for three years running now.

New York, you can thank Bleeker Street Pizza for single-handedly redeeming your obsession with thin-crust slices. I've never tasted a Tuscan style pizza better than that. The tomatoes used in the sauce tasted like they'd been plucked off the vine only hours before, and the crust could actually hold its own as fresh bread. Unlike the crust at Joe's, it wasn't just a flimsy mess of an afterthought. For a thin crust pizza it was a little  on the thicker side--stable enough to support the bite in your hand, light enough to not overwhelm it--and managed to hit the jackpot between fluffy and crispy (a subtle crunch in every bite, followed by an airy, melt-in-your-mouth center). Bravo, Bleeker!

Look near the bottom of the pizza . . . you can see  how perfect the crust is!

Right before heading into the PATH station, we came across this sign.

The store owner saw us looking at it and came out to greet us. He was a tall, wirey guy in his late 20s with shoulder-length hair and a Woodstock swagger. His store--at twelve feet long by four feet wide--was indeed small, and I saw no working lights inside (a problem which he remedied with a disco ball). He Kramered out the door and greeted us using a microphone.

"Heeeeey, guys! You two're lookin' fancy tonight."

"Just comin' back from date night, man!" said Brock. "We see you offer free advice. What advice can you give us?"

"Oh, dude. It doesn't work like that. You gotta think of something you want advice on first,  and then I give it to you."

"Ahhh, I see. What's your name?"

"Parks Are Zoos For Trees."

"My name's Brock."

"Oh, so, you don't like have a name that's a sentence?"

After more chit-chatting, we learned that his real name is Ivan and that he's an aspiring comedian. Parks Are Zoos for Trees is his stage name. Brock asked if he had any upcoming shows.

"Dude, I'm starting a mailing list so people can know when my events are. You wanna get on it? You'll be like the second person on the list. It's parksarezoosfortrees@gmail.com."

I don't know how much stand-up comedy Ivan does because I'm pretty sure he just smokes bongs all day in his small shop. He makes t-shirts for a living and they're basically amazing. We may have to buy a couple of them to, you know, support the arts. My personal favorite is one the reads "I am more humble than you" in puff paint with some unicorns stamped on it.

Overall, it was a great night in Greenwich Village and a great way to start the weekend. We topped it off with a pint of Chunky Monkey and two lottery tickets. 

The bad news is that we're not multi-millionaires. The good news is that you don't have to be one to afford Chunky Monkey.

A Plan

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

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?

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A Balanchine Valentine's

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!

1. 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.)
2. Do your shoes give off a plasticy sheen?
3. Are your heels less than two inches high?
4. Are you wearing a North Face jacket?
5. Is your hair in a ponytail?
6. 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.

Mrs. Lonely

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

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?!)

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. Believe me when I say that fiery arguments are far  from uncommon between us. 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 (I'M 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 promises."

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!!!!!!!!

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2011 (Part Two)

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.

Brock and Fareed.

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

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!