Utah Valley's Al-Qaeda

A billboard on I-15 proudly proclaims the following:

A local grafitti artist obliged himself to add a tagline: "Cuz we f@#$ed over too many people and had to change our name!"

I am firmly convinced that APX...Vivint...whatever...is the Utah Valley equivalent of Al-Qaeda. Think about it: young missionaries come home to BYU with few resources. Nowhere to go, nowhere to turn.

Lost.

They need someone or something that can promise them unspeakable money, glory, and--as a result of these things--women. Sure, there are subsidiary organizations like Pinnacle Security, pest control companies, or Dish network sales. But Vivint is the grand-daddy of them all.

Except instead of churning out suicide bombers, it churns out tools.

A Simple Question

Me: "Hey honey, which category do you think you fall into?"

Brock: "Mmm...I think obsession."

"...Huh?"

"Obsession."

"That's not a category. That' an abstract concept. I meant geek/nerd/dweeb/dork."

"It is too a category! It's part of the Venn diagram!"

"Why would I ask you which abstract concept you are? Wasn't it obvious that I meant adjective?"

"No."

"But adjectives are describing words!"

"Yeah, but that's not what you asked! You asked which category do I think I fall into. Obsession is a category."

"That doesn't even make any sense!"

***

The Perils of Marrying a Math Major: A Haiku

Hard-set on logic

They suck the fun out of life

Totally lame sauce.

Macaroni & Cheese: A Play

ACT I

***

Curtain.

Me: "Why do you have that big mixing bowl?"

Brock: "Because I'm going to melt the butter in it. Sometimes when you just throw the butter in and stir it with the milk and cheese, the sauce has little chunks in it."

"I like the chunks."

"I just want to try it this way."

"Why do you have such a big bowl? You only need a small one."

"But we're making two boxes' worth."

"Seriously. That bowl is too big." I grab a smaller one.

"That bowl is way too small."

"No it's not."

"Why does it even matter?"

"Because it means less dishes."

"It's still a dish!"

"But you'd have to HAND WASH the big one. You can just stick this small one in the dishwasher."

"I never see you stick that bowl in the dishwasher."

"I do it all the time!"

"Really?"

"What are you, the Grand Inquisitor?"

I nuke the butter and mix in the milk and cheese "stuff". The entire concoction fits nicely inside.

Me, sarcastically: "OOOOHHHH look!! It's almost overflowing!!!!"

"Screw you!"

"No, screw YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

ACT II

***

I stir the mixture in with the noodles and have a taste. It sucks. I attempt eating a bowl of it, but it seriously SUCKS. I mournfully pour half of my bowl back into the pot and go upstairs to read a book.

I fall asleep reading said book--typical.

ACT III

***

Brock gently shakes me.

"Honey?"

"Mmpphhhhzz." I slowly open my eyes.

"Can we be friends again?"

I look up. He's gone to Sammy's and bought me a banana cream pie shake.

ACT IV

***

Friends again.

Pay It Forward

I was standing in a line at the Wilk trying to buy a donut before rushing off to my next class. Earlier in the day, I'd discovered that I'd left my wallet at home, so I met up with Brock and borrowed his.

I handed the cashier a credit card to pay for my wares.

"Can I see some ID?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"I need to see some ID."

"Oh, I don't have any on me. I left my wallet at home, and borrowed my husband's credit card today."

"Ummm....okay....well, I can't process this transaction without seeing some ID."

Seriously? Can't you just take my word for it? I understand that you're trying to prevent identity fraud, but c'mon. We're all Mormon here--this is the university where people will turn your laptop into the Lost and Found if you lose it. Plus, it's a freaking 75-cent glazed donut. Not a bottle of gin. Is ID really necessary?

I stared down at the donut, which I'd already taken a couple of bites out of while waiting in line. I couldn't believe this girl being such a stickler. "Well, what do you want me to do? I've already taken a bite out of this . . . "

The cashier looked at me blankly. It was a classic BYU-employee-runs-into-a-problem-with-a-simple-solution-but-can't-force-themselves-to-break-beyond-the-red-tape moment.

"Here," said a voice from behind me. "I got it. Add it to my tab."

I looked behind me to see a smiling girl with gentle eyes. She set her own food on the counter next to my donut and offered the cashier her credit card.

"Are you serious?" I said. "Thank you so much! That's so kind of you."

"Hey, no worries. It's no biggie."

But it was to me.

***

Amazing how the simplest things can make a person's day. I think that's really important to remember. Being Christ-like doesn't necessarily mean going out of your way to care for the sick and afflicted, donating your time to worthwhile causes, not judging others, etc.

More than anything, it's about keeping your eyes open for those small moments that make a big difference.

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

I'm sitting in the Huntington Beach Public Library trying to write a paper when my dad calls to chat. I don't want to be distracting, so I look to see if anyone is near me. A couple girls are studying on my floor, but they're not in close vicinity. Plus, there's a HUGE, CASCADING fountain IN the library (Huntington Beach tax dollars hard at work...) that will drown out any noise I make with my call. I figure I'm safe, but I'll keep the call brief.

I answer the phone and start talking to my dad as quietly as I reasonably can. We're chit-chatting about Amman and having a gay old time, when an old lady bearing a striking resemblance to Yzma (from The Emperor's New Groove) approaches me:

Imagine Yzma with an orange "tan", bright pink lips, fake nails, leathery skin, bleached hair, and last season's Talbots clothes. I see her slowly walk toward me out of the corner of my eye. I know I'm in trouble. Pretty soon she's in the MAZ--the Must-Acknowledge Zone. Three feet away from me.

"Can I help you?" I say.

"You know," she says, "phone calls are not allowed in the library." The words are oozing out her wrinkly mouth like tar.

"Really? Not at all?" I ask. I'm a little taken aback that short phone calls are not permitted in a library WITH A GIANT, ROARING, INDOOR FOUNTAIN.

"No . . . didn't you read the signs??? There are signs posted everywhere as you walk in."

No, lady. I didn't. I come to libraries to STUDY. (And to blog about the shrews I meet in them.) So while YOU may have all the time in the world to read the signs, I come to sit SIT MY BUTT DOWN, CRACK OPEN MY BOOKS, AND WORK ON MY CAPSTONE PAPER. What's that? A Mary Higgins Clark novel in your hand? Must be nice. Don't you have a Senior Citizen Special from IHOP to buy???? Some Depends to change???

"Sorry," I reply, "this is my first time here. And I just walked in and took a seat."

She's noticeably annoyed. "Well, no phone calls are allowed."

"Fine. Let me finish talking to my dad."

She gives a sigh of exasperation and proceeds to walk ten feet away. She STANDS THERE WAITING  while I finish my call. Then she returns to whence she came from--two floors up the stairs. Nowhere even near me.

What is she?? The Library Falcon who uses her keen eyesight to spot phone-call-making prey from miles away? Who then swoops down with her outstretched bitchy talons to attack all those who dare enter a PUBLIC LIBRARY without having read every sign, bulletin board, and placard on their way in????

Is this what old ladies in Southern California do when their Botox appointment gets pushed back???? Doesn't she have some Rx drugs to buy?? Some vodka to drink??? A pool boy to sexually harass???

***

UPDATE: I just left the library. THERE WAS NOT A SINGLE SIGN SAYING ANYTHING ABOUT CELL PHONES ANYWHERE. And I scoured that place.

Also, my dad gave me a retort for if this ever happens again: "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm talking to my oncologist."

Burning Questions: ANSWERED

Infrequently Asked Questions.

***

1. Who's your favorite sister?

Well, I don't really have a choice. But even if I did, it would be KIANA! :)

2. What's your trick to getting gifts from your parents?

Ha, this is a funny question. I honestly don't get that many gifts from my parents. I think I was one of the only girls on my floor freshman year who NEVER got a care package. Birthday gifts have always been modest, and--oh yeah--that was that one stint for like TWO YEARS WHEN I NEVER GOT A CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

Story time. I can't remember exactly when this whole ordeal started, but it was sometime in my teenage years. My parents decided that we older kids--in order to get in touch with the true meaning of Christmas--were only going to get one Christmas present a year. The first year this was instituted I got a black leather jacket that was WAY TOO BIG. "You'll grow into it! This is a closet staple that you'll want for years! " my mother assured me. Yeah, never grew into it. Never wore it ONCE. The year after that my parents thought it would be a grand idea to replace my old, tattered baby blanket with a brand new one. Hand-embroidered all nice and fancy. Yeah, THAT made a permanent abode UNDER MY BED (I loving refer to it as "Imposter Blankey").

Anyway, my family doesn't really do "stupid" gifts. So as far as wheedling an iPad or a stereo system out of your parents, I'm not the person to ask. When it comes to practical ones, though? I'M A MASTER. Mostly just because if I see something I really want, I'm like "MOM! You could get me this and have it be my birthday present! Yes, I know it's not for nine months. But you could get it for me now and it'll still count for later!"

Then I hope she forgets that she bought me it when June 14th comes around.

She never does.

3. How did you and Brock meet?

My aunt Cindy married my uncle Rob about four years ago. I went to Sunday dinner at their house one night, and met Cindy's nephew, Kyle, WHO I WAS NOT RELATED TO BY BLOOD. Kyle said that I should try launching a grape into his mouth from across the table, with the caveat that if he caught it, I had to go on a date with him. He did, and that little grape changed my life.

A few weeks later, Kyle and I were still sorta in the Friend Zone. Cousin Zone. Whatever. Anyway, I went to watch BYU football play Boston College on TV at Kyle's apartment. That's when I met his roommate, Brock. Brock kept complaining about how we were going to lose the game, about how BYU football always chokes when we play a big game. I told him to have a little faith. BYU won.

It had rained the night before, so Brock suggested that we all go play mud soccer in a field near Raintree Apartments. He purposely put himself on the opposite team so he could guard me.

Afterwards he said "Hey! Let's all warm up and go hot-tubbing!" (He really just wanted to see me in a swimsuit.) I said "Okay! Let me go back to the dorms and put mine one!" But once I was back at the dorms, I decided I didn't really feel like it. Brock sat in that hot-tub for 45 minutes talking with some dude named Fred.

Anyway, Brock eventually got my phone number from Kyle going off the logic "DUDE. You're COUSINS." Brock started texting me, and I remember how funny his texts were. I can still remember some of them even after four years. He asked me on a date to Del Taco ("A California staple! You have to try their chicken soft tacos!"). I'm not sure if it was the tacos or the man sitting in front of me, but that date was awesome.

Things went on. He left roses for me on the track when Coach Shane would torture us cross-country runners with 800 repeats. He would make breakfast for me and leave it in the lobby of my dorm. He wrote me a song. I remember literally counting down the hours each day until I could see him.

Things have only gotten better.

4. How did you, as a Mormon, become so comfortable with sexuality that you occasionally talk about it on your blog?

When I was around 17 or so, I remember hearing one time that belly-dancing was a really great ab workout. Our coach in high school always stressed core work, so I was like "Hmm. I should try belly-dancing in my room." And it was a workout. But I also noticed as I danced in the mirror, "Hey, weird. What I am doing right now is sexy. I am sexy." I know that sounds so dumb and but let me try to explain why I think this was important: I believe women need to recognize the allure of their bodies. Because the female physique really is a beautiful thing (sorry guys--ya'll are just funny-lookin' when yer nekkid). Few things are more empowering than when a woman realizes that her body is art--even if it's not a masterpiece. All of a sudden, her body is not just something for men to use, but a tool of attraction that she controls. It's not just an ornament, but a force.

A lot of times we think of confidence from a emotional standpoint--like "I'm a winner! I can do things! I'm talented!" But I've never heard anybody talk about physical confidence because we're so afraid of people thinking we're narcissists if--heaven forbid--we say "Hey! You know what? I GOT A NICE BOOTY."

It's also important to realize that there's a line between being comfortable about sexuality and cavalier about it. But just as I think you shouldn't surround yourself with people who are always making light of it, I also don't think you should surround yourself with people who never reference it at all. I mean, you need to be real. As a dear relative of mine once said "It's spiritual 10% of the time, and the rest of the time it's just plain fun."

Update: See this post. :)

5. How do you reconcile your career aspirations with your plans to raise children?

Honestly, I'm leaving that one up to God. If there is certain work that God wants me to do, then it will happen. If that work is a career in politics or intelligence or linguistics, it will happen. If that work is raising 14 kids, it will happen. If it's a mix of the two, it will happen (well, hopefully not with 14 kids...). I'm just trying to get as much education and experience as possible in case I ever need to work.

6. When are you having a baby?

Maybe in two years' time, definitely by three.

7. Do you ever write a post and then delete it for fear of embarrassment? Or are you an unabridged open book?

Open book, baby.

Embarrassing stories are funny for everyone. Uncomfortable ones are good for the soul. If writing or saying something about yourself makes you uncomfortable, that means you're growing. Personally, I don't have a problem sharing my growing experiences because I know so many other people are dealing the the exact same things. If reading something I write helps a person not to feel so alone, then fantastic. Plus, why would I be embarrassed? The posts that were the hardest to write are the ones I'm most proud of.

8. What is your favorite color?

Purple. Just because I think it sounds funny.

9. What's your five-step plan for world domination?

1. Win The Amazing Race

2. Use the $1 million in prize money to travel to outer space

3. Make some sickety-sick alien friends

4. Come back to earth

5. "Yo, if you don't make me Queen of Everything, I'll have my buddies blow everything to smithereens."

Pretty simple, really.

10. Do you prefer more PB or J on your PB&J?

J. Definitely more J.

PMS Camps: The Answer To Your Prayers

I officially knocked off one of my last to-dos on the College Bucket List: I pulled an all-nighter.

To my surprise, this was easier than I thought it would be. I was lucky that one of my dear friends, Christina, happened to be working the graveyard shift at a hotel reception desk that night, so I always had someone to talk to. Another one of my friends, Julene, suggested munching on popcorn to keep myself awake. Psychologically, it reminds you of all the fun times you've stayed up late watching movies--a good way to trick yourself into thinking "THIS IS FUN!!! GRADING AMERICAN HERITAGE ESSAYS AT 4AM IS FUN!!!!!"

They say inspiration strikes you at the weirdest times. After hours of solitude last night, I came up with a GENIUS business plan that will make me millions. Ready? Okay, so you know how there are fat camps out there to help obese people get healthy? I'm going to start Penmanship Melioration and Sexification camps.

PMS camps.

Why would I be qualified to run these? My penmanship is the aesthetic equivalent of Sofia Vergara. Would you look at this? LOOK AT THIS.

A thing of beauty, eh?

For the poor souls whose friends and family are perennially subjected to illegible grocery lists, birthday cards, and thank-you notes, PMS camps may be the answer. What could be better? An unforgettable week in French Polynesia to lay back, relax, and let the island breeze beautify and sexify your handwriting. PMS camps could change the world. Better penmanship. Better people. ©

Tuition is $40,000. Airfare, meals, and lodging not included.

My Bomb Mom

Everyone's a critic.

The thing about having a blog is that everyone's alllllways looking for a shout-out. The woman from whose womb I came has a bone to pick with me. Apparently, I have insinuated in various posts that I was a disappointment to my mother. That she forced prim-and-proper French braids on me, when all I wanted to be was Mowgli. Oh, and I haven't even mentioned  cotillion yet.

On the flip side, this lovely woman seems to think that I give undue praise to the other parent who raised me. What with all my talk about his badassery (my mom swears--it's okay), his insanity, and general hardcoreness.

So, Mommie Dearest, this post goes out to you: I want to let everyone know how great you are. Sources tell me that I'm turning into you more and more every day, so obviously  you must be cool to some extent (otherwise I would have nothing in common with you).

1. She's a regular Babe-raham Lincoln.

Look that that hottie. Isn't he a stud? Oops--I forgot this post wasn't about Dad. Rewind.

Look at that hottie. Isn't she a babe? How does a person who's given birth to six kids come out looking that good? Most 20-somethings don't share clothes with their mom because their mom has butt-nasty taste in clothing. I don't share clothes with my mom BECAUSE I CAN'T FIT INTO HERS.

2. She's old-school.

Even though it took years for me to forgive my mom for the Spoon Incident of 1996 (she made me set down and pick up my spoon--holding it correctly--100 times), in retrospect I am so grateful for an old-school mom who values manners, class, and propriety. Because heaven knows I was not naturally imbued with a sense for any of those. She taught me to write thank-you notes promptly, hold my silverware correctly, set a table, walk with my back straight, chew discreetly, and put myself together each day.

I'm also grateful that her prim-and-proper ways are balanced out with a healthy dose of attitude. My mom is not afraid to speak her mind or put her kids in place when they show even the tiniest  amount of sass. For those interested: The best-tasting kind of soap is Dove.

3. She's freaking smart.

Aside from doing the Medicare billing for my dad's nine nursing homes that he works in (she's literally the CEO of her own one-woman company), my mom is also an options trader on the side. Yep. In her "spare time"--i.e. 3am-5am--she's taught herself about puts, calls, stock splits, ETFs, volatility, and everything else in between. And let me tell ya, she makes bank with that little hobby.

4. She's a great example of how a woman can be both feminine and strong.

My mom did all in her power to help me realize that it was okay to be feminine. She even elicited the help of my older cousin Sara--who was (is) so cool and so pretty--to come teach me how to do makeup. We went to Walmart, raided the cosmetics section, and then came home to put it all together. When I looked in the mirror to see the results, all I could think was "WHAT THE?!?! You were able to make me look like this?!" I'd never felt prettier or more confident.

I kept the old me. The girl who runs around, gets bruises, and laughs at poop jokes. But through my mom's dogged efforts, I realized that femininity was not something that weak girls are, but something that strong  girls know how to work. More than anything, I learned that from watching her. Every day, my mom puts on makeup, curls her hair, dresses nicely, and heads out into the world to get shiz done--whether it's flying off to Vegas for an investment seminar, taking care of her aging mother, or surviving yet another trip to hell--er, excuse me, Sam's Club--with spastic kids in tow.

5. She's Captain Efficient.

My mom never sits down during the day--no exaggeration. She is always running errands, cleaning parts of the house that I didn't even know could get dirty (door hinges often have black, oily residue around them--who notices that?!?), billing, making dinner, dropping kids off at x/y/z, exercising, landscaping, etc. I really admire my mom because she is not a procrastinator and runs a tighter ship than most Navy admirals out there. Get this: Sometimes if she's having trouble sleeping, she'll just get up and start doing chores. At two o'clock in the morning! Her philosophy? "Well, if I can't sleep I might as well be productive."

What a freak.

6. She's health-conscious, but real.

Our fridge is stocked with organic produce, but Mom doesn't go overboard with it--mostly because Caden and Connor would stage a mutiny if she took away those Twinkies. On top of that, my mom is always trying out new vitamins and minerals. She and my Grandma Kern single-handedly keep Puritan's Pride in business.

At the same time, I never saw her yo-yo dieting. Her priority was always on health, not being skinny, and I think that was really important for me to see as a growing teenager.

Plus, the Kern Sweet Tooth is infamous. So while you may find a huge bag of organic romaine in our fridge, it's probably sitting on top of a quadruple chocolate fudge cake from Costco. Moderation in all things, ya'll.

7. She's a spendthrift.

My mom has never seen the logic in buying a $100 blouse at Nordstrom when you can get it six weeks later at the Rack for $30. She's knows that you don't need a lot of money for you, your house, or your children to look nice. I love that about her. 

(For the record, honey, that doesn't mean I would feel bad if you bought me this.)

***

Anyway, this post is getting a little long--yes, Mom, I know you don't mind but others do--and it's time for me to start cranking away on some homework. In closing, I just want to say that I'm so lucky to have a person who's strong, smart, selfless, compassionate, and a wonderful parent.

Oh, and my mom's pretty cool, too.

Homewrecker

Email from Grandma Thomas:

"I hear you watched the game with the whole family. Glad to know you were all together. I love you all soooooo much. Give Brock a hug. He is second only to Jimmer on my 2nd marriage go-round....I have to wait until Gene bites the big one! Darn. You be good to Brock though keep him happy with Thomases until I'm free....Then you will have to worry.....a lot!!!! You can keep Mojo!"

Brock's retort: "Yeah, Kristi, you better be nice to me or else I'm running away with Grandma. What's that? Why am I not smelling crackling bacon on this beautiful Sunday morning? Grandma would make me bacon."

I guess marriage was fun while it lasted. Have at it, Granny.

IAQs

For those of you who don't know, I'm on this little mini-quest to become a legit blogger:

• "About" page--check
• Vlogging attempt--check
• Giveaway--check
• Regular posting--check
• Whoring out my blog posts out on ya'll's Facebook newsfeeds--check

Along with starting up an Etsy store and posting daily pictures of my outfits, there are only a few more steps I need to take to accomplish this goal. One of them is that my blog needs an FAQ section. Having an FAQ section demonstrates that people--even total strangers!--want to know all the little secrets that make me me. Oh, you're one of the haters that thinks FAQs are just a way for bloggers to inflate their own sense of self-importance???? Au contraire, mon frere! I'm doing this for YOU GUYS out of the goodness of my heart. It's like an expedited "How To Be Kristi" manual for all the wannabes.

There is only one minor problem with this whole FAQ idea: nobody has ever asked me anything. Hence negating the whole frequently asked  part. This actually works to my advantage, however, as having an IAQ (Infrequently Asked Questions) page makes me even cooler  because nobody else has one. BAM.

So here's how it's gonna go down: I have set up an account with a website called Formspring. Go to my page here (there's even a nifty little image you can click on off to the right--see how techy I am???). There, you can ask me ANY QUESTION YOU WANT. Anonymously. I'll leave this account up for a week, and do a post next Thursday answering all your burning need-to-knows. Voila. IAQ page.

Think hard about the questions you want to ask . . . this is ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY.

Ready? Go.

Twenty-Six

I love you without knowing

how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly,

without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know

no other way that this:

where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand

on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close

as I fall asleep.

Sonnet XVII, Pablo Neruda

Happy Birthday, Lovey.

♥

I love him because . . .

New Low

It takes raw talent to mess up a frozen pizza. And friends, that's exactly what I did tonight.

DiGiorno's Ultimate Cheese Pizza lists three directions on the back of the box. #1 is turn on the oven, and #3 is "Bake for 17 minutes."

Step 2 is where things get tricky.

I removed the pizza from the box (check) and from the overwrap (check), but failed to take off the cardboard platter underneath. Seventeen minutes and one "Oh my gosh I'm such a freaking idiot" later, I realized my pathetic, pathetic mistake.

Brock will hang this one over my head for a long time. And what a shame, too, since he just barely let go of that one time (three years ago, mind you!) that I served him canned condensed clam chowder. No, really, it was LITERALLY condensed seeing as how I forgot to add milk and all.

Hopefully he's also forgotten about that one time I put cheese on the outside of his omelette. But if he hasn't, I'll kindly remind him of the time he told me "You know, you're not that fat . . . just muscular."

Or the one time in February when he threw me into his parents freezing pool with all my clothes on? Not to mention the fact that the pool had FROGS in it who had DIED after hopping in and discovering that--surprise!--CHLORINE KILLS THEM.

Like my father-in-law's sweatshirt and my moose pajama pants?

It's Brock's favorite ensemble of mine...

الحمد لله

One of my favorite phrases in Arabic is الحمد لله: alhamdulillah--"praise be to God." Muslims say this approximately every five seconds.

"How are you doing?"

"!الحمد لله"

"How is the food?"

"!الحمد لله"

"I'm getting married!"

"!الحمد لله"

"I'm getting divorced!"

"!الحمد لله"

While I imagine some people find this annoying, I love it. How beautiful for a language, for a people, to constantly be acknowledging the graciousness of our Heavenly Father.

***

One of my dearest friends, Tiffany Whitsitt, is on my hit list. You see, she introduced me to this new website called Pinterest. It allows you to catalog any picture you find on the internet and save it onto different pinboards you make . . . sort of like clipping out hundreds of pretty magazine pictures and having them all in one place.

While this is all well and good, there is a downside. More than any other website I've ever been to, Pinterest has the ability to make you really  ungrateful really fast. Think about it: A community of thousands of people collecting pictures of the world's most beautiful things into one inspirational megacenter. As you wander through page after page of gorgeous herringbone floors, tropical paradises, extravagant weddings, and unbelievable homes, it's terribly easy to get caught up in IwantIwantIwant.

***

When my family went to Ecuador this past January, we stayed at a lodge up the Amazon that was close to a small river community. Every day, we went down to the river to play on the rope swing with the village children. Despite the fact that this dinky little rope swing was one of the only sources of entertainment in their small community, I never saw these children fight or bicker over it. Everybody played together and laughed like I'd never heard before. Squealing giggles and screams of joy shot into the thick jungle air, tumbling along the steady water until the river curved and carried them away. They had nothing and everything.

Day after day, I played a made-up game with them called "La Coccodrilla"--I was a hungry crocodile wanting my dinner, and would stand on a rock lunging at the children as they swung by. With their abs of steel and ridiculous  upper body strength, they easily summoned the acrobatics necessary to evade me--I would splash into the river with a "Noooo!!!" as my jumps fell short time after time. And even underwater, I could hear peals of their sing-song laughter above.

Their joy made me  joyful, their laughter made me  laugh. I remember going to bed at night with awful headaches because I had been laughing so hard for so long with my whole soul.

These children will likely never see a room with herringbone wood floors, they'll likely never visit the Maldives. Their weddings will be modest, as will their homes. But what do they care?

But what do I care?

I have it all, already.

.الحمد لله

He Saw Him

Jimmer Fredette had just dropped a free throw to score his fiftieth point of the game Fiftieth! We were watching it in the basement of the Wilk with several hundred other students who erupted into deafening jubilation. Amidst the whistles and hooping and hollering, I turned around to give Brock a high five, but he was nowhere in sight. My eyes scanned the room looking for him--he knew Jimmer was about to hit 50! Where on earth did he go?

Then I saw him. He was holding open the door for a man who was bringing in his three young daughters to watch the end of the game. The man was crippled.

I am so thankful to have married a person who is constantly looking beyond himself, even in situations where we often forget to open our eyes. It was--by far--the most memorable thing I saw tonight.

Lovely

A year ago today, I was in New York City for the 2010 National MUN conference with BYU. After a particularly long morning of caucusing, a few friends and I hit up a nearby Wendy's for some lunch. (For an authentic New York meal!) After finishing my crispy chicken deluxe meal, I got back in line to order a frosty. There was a dad in front of me who had the cutest little girl in tow. She was about four or five, and ran a little toy car back and forth across the counter as her dad ordered at the register. I kept looking at this sweet little girl on a mid-afternoon date with her daddy (how sweet!). I gave the man a smile.

"You know," her dad said, " . . . you are a lovely-looking woman."

Cue the scratching-record sound. What? Nice daddies don't makes passes on twenty-year olds at fast food restaurants! What do I do? Compliment him on something in return? . . .

"And you have the most beautiful little daughter!"

" . . . that's my nephew."

The next twenty seconds were painful. Oh, uh . . . he has very pretty hair! Has it taken him long to grow it? I wish my hair grew fast like that. That's so nice of you to take your nephew out for guy time! Are you going to the Yankees game later today? No? Okay!

Thankfully, my frosty arrived not long thereafter, and I skeedaddled my lovely little self right out of there.

Hey, Brock . . .

You do realize that you're typing in the search engine, not his wall, right?

Hey, Brock . . .

You do realize that you're logged in under my name . . .

and that saying "by the way that was me" doesn't clarify things AT ALL.

***

I am married to a

90-year old in a 26-year old's body.

It Shouldn't Have Bugged Me, But It Did

That the girl sitting in front of me in class yesterday took twenty minutes to eat a piece of string cheese.

What I wanted to say: QUIT WITH THE SAVORING. IT'S A FREAKING PIECE OF WESTERN FAMILY STRING CHEESE, NOT A SWISS TRUFFLE. EAT THE DARN THING AND BE DONE WITH IT.

What I said: Nothing. I just sat there and suffered.

It became so distracting. All my faculties were concentrated on watching her gingerly pick off the tiniest shreds--seriously, we're talking the width of a hair--and nibble on them like a little church mouse. Shred after shred after shred. Sometimes she would take a break from her labored efforts and set the string cheese down on its wrapper for a rest. After a couple of minutes, she'd have another go at it. Shred after shred after shred.

After shred.

Kanye Moment

I just walked down a hall on my way to class. In that hall, and during the course of two minutes, I ran into three different people I knew who were like "Kristi! What's up? How are you doing! Good to see you!"

It was nice to see the first person.

It was nice to see the second.

After the third, I could think of only one thing:

I AM POPULAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!

EVERYBODY KNOWS ME!!

EVERYBODY WANTS TO TALK TO ME!!!!!!

Okay, so three things. Whatever.

I walked away with a pep in my step. My ego has since returned to its normal size (which, admittedly, is what I like to call "healthily robust"). But still. It was nice to feel all Kanye West there for a moment.

I Promised Brock I Wouldn't Tell People

the score he got on his practice LSAT today. But let's just say it could easily get him into a top-ten law school.

. . . and it may or may not rhyme with bun weventy pour.

Do You Hear The People Sing?

This may come as an utter shock to many of you, so brace yourselves: I have never been one of the cool kids.

It's always been this way. See, I have this imagination that tends to run rampant. I've learned to rein it in as I've gotten older, but back in elementary school---hooooo-eeeee. My first-grade teacher, Mrs. Pearson, literally thought I had psychological problems. I am not making this up. I wouldn't act out in class, but that cryptic first-grade journal I kept convinced her that I needed professional help.

Once upon a time, there was a newt. The newt's mother didn't love her. So the newt died. Humans can't feel anything, they're numb from the brain down. When they bury a penny, it's something that can't be found.

But Mrs. Pearson gave me far too much credit. The answer to my psychological problems was simple: I watched a lot of TV. The line about humans not feeling anything, being numb from the brain down? Totally stole that from Fern Gully.

There was also the fact that I ran around the school playground like a madwoman. No really, like a madwoman. See, I had just watched the non-animated version of The Jungle Book and was convinced I was Mowgli at heart. I ran around the playground in an ugly dress that my mom made me wear (in an effort to make me more ladylike...), jumping off the monkey bars and grunting. LIKE MOWGLI. I even purposefully ruffled up the French braids my mom put in my hair to achieve the full savage effect.

My wild imagination and inability to conform to social norms led to a dire lack of friends throughout the majority of my elementary years, which only perpetuated the problem of me acting like a total imbicle  on the playground. In class, I was normal. Nice little Kristi Thomas, who prided herself on her ability to read and rock the multiplication tables. But as soon as the recess bell rang? Banshee time.

Third grade is when Roald Dahl got really cool. Not because The BFG and The Witches were awesome books, but because Brooke liked him. And Brooke had shiny hair and played on the Arsenal soccer team. I desperately wanted to be friends with her.

PROBLEM: I sucked at soccer and all other physical activities requiring any semblance of coordination.

PROBLEM: My hair wasn't pretty like Brooke's thanks to my frizzy French braids.

I devised all sorts of plans to befriend Brooke. One of my friends, Dawn, played on Arsenal (and was thus officially cool). I had an in! All I had to do was get myself a pair of black nylon Adidas track pants (like the ones Brooke and Dawn wore). It was a plan that couldn't go wrong!

I begged my mother for a pair, but the last thing that woman was going to do was buy me a pair of butch athletic pants (thus negating her French-braiding and ugly-dress-buying efforts). She compromised and bought me a pair of pink ones. They were better than nothing, so I went to school the next day hoping to be welcomed into Brooke and Dawn's arms. This proved to be an utter failure. Pink nylon track pants?? Who did I think I was? Dawn--who is now one of my dearest friends--said she and Brooke made fun of me for being such a wannabe.

I was running out of ideas. Reading Roald Dahl didn't make me cool, I didn't play soccer, my hair wasn't shiny, and the pink nylon track pants debacle had set me back. As I sat in the car one day pondering my fate, my dad stuck a CD in the CD player that I had never heard before. Les Miserables.

We were driving to Denver, and my dad told me the story of Les Mis in between songs. It basically changed my life. Then, it dawned on me: This was my ticket to Cool City. I would tell the story of Les Mis at the next week's show-and-tell. An oral recounting of music theater for show-and-tell: Again, a plan that couldn't go wrong!

Well, I did just that. And freaking Anne said she'd already heard it before. Biotch. Plus, it didn't help that Nathan brought in his skateboard that day. Everyone was much more impressed with his ollie.

I returned home that day dejected. After a few hours of moping, I put on the Les Mis CD.

Do you hear the people sing? Singing a song of angry men . . .
This story is all about the triumph of the human spirit. Of the power of believing.

It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again . . .
Who freaking cares about Brooke anyway?! About Nathan's stupid ollie?!?

When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums . . .
So what if I don't have friends? I'm still happy!!!!!!!!!!

There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!
I wasn't about to let third-grade social politics get me down! This was my PERSONAL revolution. I was ready to storm the barricade! I had to share this epiphany with EVERYONE ON MY BLOCK.

So at 9PM, I hopped on my pink Huffy bicycle and rode around the neighborhood, singing at the top of my lungs "DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING?!?!? SINGING A SONG OF ANGRY MEN!!!!!!!!!!! IT IS THE MUSIC OF A PEOPLE WHO WILL NOT BE SLAVES AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Like I said, I've never been one of the cool kids.

مجنون

Majnuun.

It means "crazy" in Arabic. It's also officially my dad's new nickname.

Some may think the 50 I did last September made me bonkers, but I ain't got nothin' on this guy. We thought he was crazy when he kept heading back to the Hardrock 100 year after year. Total elevation gain for this race? 33,992 feet. (Height of Mt. Everest? 29, 029 feet.) We thought he was crazy when he ran a 100-mile race in Wyoming after discovering that 70% of the course was complete mud. We thought he was crazy when he decided to go trek in the Himalayas for a month. And when he hiked past Everest Base Camp up to Island Peak (21,000 feet) without feeling any altitude sickness whatsoever. He literally raced the sherpas down the mountain. And won.

Maybe it makes me crazy too, but these things get my blood pumping. I can comprehend why a human being would want to do them.

But Badwater? BADWATER?!?!?!?!?

A 135-mile race along one stretch of pavement. In the middle of July. In Death Valley.

And he's excited about this???