Name

I never thought this would happen, but in the back of my mind I always wanted it to. My name is on a plaque. Just head up to the sixth floor of the Tanner Building--the marketing department to be exact. Head straight once you get off the stairs and turn to your right. There she is. There I am. The first name on the list.

Thank you David Alcorn. Thank you Darron and Christine. And thank you executives from Kraft, Walmart, Amazon.com, Intel, Nestle, Honda, Del Sol, Nike, Google, Simplot, and all the rest. You have all inspired me to be even better and work even harder. I miss our lunches together on Fridays.

Up next on the Bolivian Underground:

I give thanks for my husband, my families, my job, the Marriott School, puppies, blogs, and best friends that have impeccable taste in movies and food.

Wrestle (with my Mother)

Phillip and I met in high school. Providence helped him break his ankle which meant he couldn't play on the soccer team anymore. He joined the track team instead. It was there that we met. It was also there that we fell in love--or was that in his parent's basement??? KIDDING KRISTINE!

Anyway.

High school flirting is a strange strange thing. Kids do the craziest things to be inconspicuously frisky with each other. We learned some tricks while we were dating, though. One trick is that if you want to touch each other, and not have it be weird to your observing family, you can just wrestle. Wrestling in reality is totally awkward for your family, but we were blind to this at the time.

It was one night during the winter at my parent's house that Phillip and I started to wrestle on the floor. Our relationship was just blossoming. Things got pretty intense--lot's of tickling, laughing, yelling, and loud thumps from us "falling onto each other" in a totally For the Strength of Youth kind of way of course. It was nice.

Nice until I hear my mother's bedroom door fling open. I hear her little feet stomp briskly down the stairs. We freeze. She pokes her head out from behind a pillar to hide the fact that she is in her underwear. She stares at us in shock and frantically and in all seriousness yells, "Oh my gosh, Phillip! Don't let her do that to you! When she was little she was mean to cats!"

Oh Cosmos, if there is ever a time where I could erase one embarrassing moment from my life completely, let it be now. I promise I will be good forever if you can grant me just this, I thought.

Nope. It still happened. And I just wrote about it. I'm so lucky Phillip embraced my family and decided to marry me. Thank you Cosmos.

Up next on The Bolivian Underground:

Rondelle makes a new best friend.

On Being Romantic

We have funky flour and sugar containers. They are cylinders made out of clear glass with a chalkboard square on the front. The containers came with chalk so you can label them "flour" or "sugar". But why write "flour" or "sugar" on them when you have a blank slate? You could write anything you want to! You know, confess your love your one and only companion, share a secret, write a memoir! The possibilities are absolutely endless.

I look over at our containers. What do they say?

"Poop"

Now that's what I call pure romance.

Up next on The Bolivian Underground:

Aragog makes an appearance as the Halloween centerpiece for our fantastic waffle brunch where we made the best waffles ever. Period.

Feeling like Buster

Last week I earned two things from various business school classes. The first, a stuffed animal version of Aragog (spider from HP) that is only sold at Harry Potter World in Universal Studies, Florida. The second is box of fresh Wheaties Fuel. The former was courtesy of the CEO of Cascade Toys for asking a first-rate question about creativity in an entrepreneurial setting . The latter was courtesy of General Mills for correctly guessing that our guest speaker was from Texas. I couldn't help but feel like Buster Bluth when I walked in the door to show Phillip my "awards" from business school.

And you know you're a winner when you feel like Buster Bluth. Can I get an amen?

Not So Crucial Conversations Part II

It's Friday. I get back from campus late in the afternoon. The house is in shambles from this morning's breakfast/get ready/take a quiz efforts. I put some salmon in the oven and start neatly stacking the clean dishes in the cupboards when my phone rings. It's my loving mother.

Hello?

Hi. How are you? I haven't seen you in a while.

I'm good. What's up?

What are you doing?

Oh, right now I am just cooking and cleaning.

You're cooking and cleaning on a Friday night? Wow. Now that's what I call a low-life no-life. (emphasis on "no-life")

What is the purpose of you calling me?

To tell you that I lub you.

I know that she really does love me. And in some alternate universe she knows how to show me that love in an acceptable way. For now, I'll let her get away with this.

Ordinary People

Just ordinary people here. Nothing more.


When you spend too much time around dogs you start making faces just like them.



Or do they start making faces just like us?



Maybe we aren't so ordinary.

I'm a Blogger

It may not seem like it since my nearly 2 month hiatus.

But I am indeed a blogger. And here's why:

I have dozens of blog drafts that I have yet to finish in my blogger account.
I am blogging right now instead of doing homework for any of the 6 classes I am taking.
I have a crazy mother who does and says crazy things that people need to know about.
I can tell people embarrassing or funny things about myself and not care.
I can type 90+ words a minute.
I sing songs about blogging to the tunes of primary children songs to motivate myself...blog said the little stream, blog oh blog, blog oh blog!
I have changed the look of my blog 4 times now.
I love the internet.
Because I say so.

From my heart to the tips of my fingers, I'm a blogger.

And I'm back.

Blog oh blog oh blog oh blog, blog oh blog away....

My Love is Deep-Fried

The perfect treat is made with lots of sugar, deep fried, and then topped with more sugar. It's crispy and warm. It decorative and beautiful. It coats your heart with a sweet velvet glaze and makes all those vivid memories of dumb things your husband said while you were dating him melt away. It's called Funnel Cake. I. love. Funnel Cake. I love it so much I treat it as a proper noun and capitalize it in my spelling.

A few weeks ago we went to see the a baseball game in Colorado. We walked by concession stand and I saw there were only three things on the menu, Funnel Cakes, corn dogs, and deep fried Twinkies. I knew eventually we would fork out the $4 and buy a Funnel Cake during the game, but a deep fried Twinkie also fits the description of a perfect treat...I sat there for a moment and flirted with the idea of opting for a deep-fried Twinkie instead.

Idea: Hey baby. What's your sign?
Me: Um, I'm married...

To make a long story short Phillip wouldn't allow a deep fried Twinkie to get between us.

We walked over to a place where you could see the game and ate our Funnel Cake. There, with a powdered sugar mustache streaked with tears, I hassled Phillip about how I was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman and that we need to be adventurous, try new things, and buy deep fried things when they presented.

I was upset. I tried to get even more upset by harboring up all the memories I had of other times Phillip had made me upset (like when he wouldn't let me buy deep fried Oreos). But I just couldn't.

I could only love Him.

This Post is About Hair

I don't usually blog about this sort of thing but I've been hinting about this day for a while. And now it's done. It's a huge weight off my shoulders. Literally.

So long, long hair that I had for so long.

Mmm, Nielsen's Frozen Custard in St. George....

Hello short, whispy hair.

Also, notice anything more symmetrical?

Close Encounters of the Motherly Kind/ Talisa Exists

I put on my favorite cotton white shirt and a peachy-pinkish summer scarf that I got in Denver last week. Before I walked out of the guest-room of my parents' house, I put on my favorite red-stud earrings. I take one quick glance at myself. Everything on my face is in order--except for that weird rash on my upper-lip that makes me look like Dr. Mario. Oh well. I'm off.

"Mom, I'm going to Talisa's."

Talisa. One of my very best friends. In high school I would go to her house every weekend without fail. When mom would ask where I was headed my answer was always,"I'm going to Talisa's." My mom would reply, cross-eyed and in a slurry voice, "Tuh-LEE-zah!"

You see, my mom didn't think that Talisa existed. Rather, she thought that I just made Talisa up as a cover for who I was really going to hang out with--boys, bad ones. She came to this assumption because she saw me shaving my legs in the sink one day before I left for Talisa's. Now she thinks I shave my legs every time I say I'm going to Talisa's (but really she knows that I am going to hang out with boys, bad ones). This interrogation and mocking from my mother continued for years.

Just so you know I shave my legs so often because my leg hair grows back freakishly fast. I'm Bolivian. It's in my blood. I'm over it. You should be too.

My mom finally got to meet the elusive Talisa at my wedding. That cleared things up and caused a really embarrassing moment between the two of them at my luncheon. More importantly, it cleared things up.

So yesterday, there I was, in my peachy-pink scarf and favorite red earrings. "Mom, I'm going to Talisa's," I say as I head for the garage.

"Okay," was her answer.

Then I turn to the door. What is this? She didn't have any smart remarks about my assumed promiscuity? It's a miracle. Then I hear it.

"Don't forget to shave your legs!!!" Loud and proud, like any loving mother would yell at her own married daughter.

"Oh, and eStephanie, your ears are bleeding."

They weren't bleeding. It was just my earrings. Just so you know, I have Bolivian leg hair, and a Bolivian mother. I'm over it.

Blessed Week

This is my experience with finals illustrated through a Search Story.



Thanks Kacy. I really could do this all day.

Oh, and make your own and post a link to your blog in the comments section cause I want to see it.

Someday You Will Be Gone

Hey kitty kitty,

I never understood why your owners have been so desperate to get rid of you until I had to spend the week with you. Stepping in a mound of your warm throw-up barefoot in the dark also helped clear some things up for me. I know the majority of your life has been spent being a good cat, but waking me up before 6am every morning by pawing on the blinds above my bed isn't a very classy way to end "things". You know? Anyway, your days are numbered and I just wanted to share some stuff.

Through your life you have had so much going for you--the pound lady, dogs, all animals larger than you. I am really impressed with your consistent standard of living. 6am. Every morning. I know you are probably worried that you won't be able to finish the novel that you have been inscribing on the side of Krisitne's favorite couch. But you're a hard worker. And you get what you want. Remember all those times you came meowing at me because you wanted me to pour food in your bowl but there was already a lot of food in your dish and you just wanted me to shake the food pellets around so that you could hear the metallic clinging of the food pellets on the side of your cat dish just to make sure you know food was really in there? Do you?! Fun times.

I know you won't be around for much longer. This is why I am being so nice to you.

I don't have to go running because I can just watch 30 Rock

I don't have to go running because I can just watch 30 Rock.

Not sure how it happened. Yesterday I wanted to go running outside because it was warm and sunny. Instead of exercising I just laid on my bed and watched episodes of 30 Rock THAT I HAD ALREADY SEEN for about 40 minutes. After, I felt just as refreshed and skinny as if I had gone running for 3 miles.

Side note. I noticed Tina Fey's character wearing Dansko's. This solidifies my need/want for them. If she can wear them and be cool and funny, so can I. Also, we are naming one of our girls after Tina Fey. Tina-Fey Manwaring. Yep. I just dibbsed that name.

I Left My Fork in San Francisco

Yesterday I made my favorite Italian vegetable casserole. It has roasted peppers, onions, basil, tomato, and zucchini. I drizzled the vegetables with red wine vinegar and olive oil. I topped it off with colorful pasta and mozzarella cheese.

Today we have leftovers. I just warmed some up in a microwave on campus. I climbed two flights of stairs in the JKB to find a secluded bench in a hallway where I plan to finish writing up a blog post for the BYU MBA blog and eat my warm lunch.

I look for my fork. I keep looking for my fork.

It's not in my backpack.

What's this? My good friend Trevor walks down the hall. We small talk. I tell him I forgot my fork as he piles mounds of ravioli from a bowl in his hand onto his fork and stuffs it in his mouth.

"You carn gor to the Wirlk," he says with his mouth overflowing with food, "they harb forks there."

Wow. He didn't even offer me his fork.

"I think I will, even though it's far away. There is no way I can eat my pasta without a fork," I reply.

He continues to walk down the hall until he turns the corner and is out of sight. I pull out my tupperware and take off the lid. There is no way I am walking all the way to the noisy Wilk to get a fork. Trevor is gone. Nobody is around. So there I was eating my lunch with my hands. It was perfect.

Then Trevor wanders by again. He doesn't notice me eating with my hands but I still feel like I need to explain myself.

"Trevor. I am eating with my hands, and I'm okay with that." I explain nervously, thinking that he may not buy my lame excuse for having no dignity.

He just laughs and walks off.

I am eating with my hands. I am okay with that.

I won't tell you whether or not I washed my hands because I like to let my readers be creative.

The Best Day

Here is Phillip's version of our wedding day in the worst possible grammar (this was the assignment for his advanced writing class). It's very touching.

ps. Phillip had to write with poor grammar on purpose--that was the assignment. In reality, he is one of the best writers I know.

At the present time, my best day would probably have to be when the ringing of the wedding bells came and the marriage of I and my wife found a beginning. On this day, although not only on this day, there were a lot of smiles, a lot of laughs, and a lot of happy tears of joy. With regard to the anticipation for the big day, nothing had before been, nor has since been, nor likely will have been, worse. The night before the event was a sleepless one, owing, as it were, to the nervous and happy thoughts which were, at the time, in a state of disarray and confusion in my head, leaving me without rest. But there exists in the human body a need for sleep, and so it was with me that night. Breakfast was hastily consumed after alertness was achieved. A great deal of things had the potential to have happened in a manner detrimental to the joyous proceedings of the momentous day, but as luck would have it there was only one such event that was fated to have occurred: upon arrival at the temple, the location-to-be of the wedding, the discovery was made that the recommend of my mother had been left at the house. Upon the timely conclusion of the aforementioned setback, the proceedings which have been previously referenced continued in all their joyousness.

It is of no stretch of the imagination to say that, truly, the saying could have been given, by whoever initially gave it only with regard to the occurrence of the matrimonial ceremony, that ‘truly, these were times never to be forgotten.’

Don't Get the Wrong Idea

I want a Mom haircut and I want it bad.

Let me explain.

When a non-mom steps into the realm of motherhood her love for her baby overpowers her love for her hair and before you know it some 8-inches of hard earned hair are gone. The new style is a between the chin and shoulders length (or even above your chin if you had a really hard labor experience). It's new, sleek, and looks clean and professional as if to say, "I manage a family of three and I look great."

I want to feel that way too.

I know what you might be thinking right now so let me make this as clear as possible--no estoy embarazada. The fact that I like to wear loose blouses that could double as maternity clothes probably doesn't help either. That's beyond the point. They're just really comfortable. That's also beyond the point. I just want short hair.

Anyway, I haven't found the fresh courage to go chop my hair off just yet. I have to weigh the pros (maybe it will look awesome, maybe I won't have to use so much shampoo) and cons (maybe it will look terrible, maybe people will think I am expecting--how would I give back all the baby gifts!?)

Maybe I'll just do it.

I think I'll keep wearing my loose shirts and get a sexy Mom haircut. Maybe I can get me some presents.

Love Appreciation

Inside the spirit of love there lies a list. This list. A list of the not-so-well-known things that I love.

I love my red Moleskine planner. My entire life is laid out neatly page by page in this red book. I take it with me everywhere. Here she is.


I love our new camera that took this picture of my planner.

I love how my friends are artistic and sarcastic. We have the most amazing conversations and watch the best movies.

I love tomatoes. I say this because I used to hate them. Now, I can't wait to try new recipes with tomatoes--bruschetta, roasted tomato basil soup, caprese salad, you name it. I love how smooth and red they are. Just the other day I was nearing the last bite of a hamburger and all that was left was a moderate piece of a tomato nestled between the buns. It was luscious.

I love Berkley's blog. I wish she would blog more because every time she doesn't I reread all of her old posts over and over. Does anybody else feel the same way?

I love how, given 10 years of tweezing my eyebrows, nobody told me that my eyebrows were ridiculously asymmetrical.


Nobody. Not even the internet was man enough to tell me that one. I'm just glad I was able to keep and maintain friends (not to mention get into the business school) with those things. I am also glad that I was vain enough to take these pictures of my face yesterday to see the damage myself. The camera never lies--the mirror does lie, obviously, since it told me they were symmetrical all these years.

I love Phillip's reasoning:

Me: Why didn't you ever tell me my eyebrows were like this?
Him: Uh, I didn't know you could change those things...

I should not part my hair with a red scripture pencil. This isn't something I love, but rather, something I would love to not do again. Now it just looks like I have a long red scab down the middle of my part. Oh well. All in the spirit of Valentine's Day, right?

the REAL power of love

This week millions of dollars are going to be spent on flowers. Eight days later those flowers will be dead. I am starting to rethink this whole Valentine's Day thing. Cupid, what a tool.

Husband, this one's for you.

Instead of spending (y)our hard earned dollar bills on overpriced flowers (that I will have to watch shrivel up into a lifeless grime), how about spending our Valentine's money on something more meaningful and long-lasting. Like a cardigan, or a new lamp for our night table.

I love my grandma's enormous table lamp with the faux fur lining around the edge of the massive lamp shade. Don't get me wrong, but I think we should consider something a little less, let me think, antediluvian? Just imagine it. February 14th we spend all day going to dozens of stores in search of a smaller lamp with great price-to-quality ratio. Then, we would argue for a half hour on what color of lampshade to get. You'll want a plain one. I'll want one that is impractical but a good conversation starter. Then, every time we turn our new lamp on we could say something like, "the power of love." It could be our first family tradition. It's just an idea--a very romantic idea.

Or we could just surround ourselves with things we love (including the money we will save). We could invite our closest friends and family over to play Pandemic or BANG!, and make jokes while we eat bruschetta and chocolate covered pretzels. We could even talk about the book we would have just finished reading for our book group. That sounds like a fitting way to spend Valentine's Day. Let's do this instead.

We can just buy a lamp online later that day.

The Anatomy of a Poop Machine

The poop machine got to spend the weekend with us.

He thinks she is as a pillow. She thinks he is a pooper scooper.

Behold, her head.

She melts into any surface.

Ten thousand belly rubs would not satisfy her.

Such poise.

Such grace.

Compare her face to this piece of work.

We plan to own a certified poop machine of our own someday. Until that day, she gets to enjoy us on the weekends.

The Good Days

Crayons. Crayon Boxes. Fresh number two pencils, new clothes, unmarked shoes. I long for the days when I would walk into a building that smelled like these things, like school.

Another first week of school has gone by. I am an experienced first day of school-er. I've gone through 19 first days of school so, I know how it goes. These days I don't get new clothes (curse you restrictive clothes budget!) and I spend more money on textbooks than I do on candy sticks and Disney folders to hide my times tests from the wandering eyes of my peers.

Oh, and I am married now. Married and going to school. It's new.

Sort of.

In elementary school we practiced this"marriage" thing. In normal places it's called "dating," but we did not date. No sir. We were pure. Instead, a group of popular boys got together and called themselves the pirates (you know who you are). They were smart, sporty schwas buckling 6th graders who were in need of love. Consequently they each picked a girl whom they deemed their wench.

Craig was paired up with Brittany W.
Taylor chose Brittni.
Nate chose Chelsey.
Kenyn chose my best friend Karen.
Bryce chose me.

Oh elementary school. The high-life.

The Bolivian Underground

Because stepiphanie just didn't cut it anymore.