Birthday Suprises

Last year was my golden birthday. I turned 22 on the 22nd of December. To celebrate I had a small party with my very best friends. Phillip made sure I had my favorites which included peach cobbler, non-Christmas music, and games. Phillip also invited my parents.

Here is what happened that night.

Twenty minutes before my parents arrive I get a frantic call from my mother. She keeps yelling in the phone, asking if I would prefer brown or pink. I try to ask what it is she is planning on getting me that is brown or pink but each time I try her interrogation for the unknown brown or pink birthday gift gets louder and angrier. I assume it's a cardigan. Brown, I tell her.

I was wrong. Sorta.

My parents show up late, for being late is the true spirit of Bolivian culture. They hand me the gift, wrapped in a plastic Walmart grocery bag. Then they insist that I open it in front of my friends. I slowly pull the large square contents from the WalMart bag. There, on the front of the packaging was a blond haired woman, nestled warmly on a sofa, wearing nothing but a blue blanket with sleeves. It was a snuggie. My parents got me a brown snuggie.

If your parents have ever given you a snuggie in front of your friends as a sincere gift for your golden birthday then you will understand the mass confusion and embarrassment that overwhelmed me at that moment. I tried to stay positive. I thought you know, getting a brown sleeved blanked isn't the worst thing that has ever happened to me. No, the worst thing that has ever happened to me happened 10 seconds later when my mom and dad forced me to try it on in front of all of my friends!

Poor Caitlin and Jason! Poor Talisa! How awkward for them. They wanted to laugh so badly. I could see it in their faces. The problem was my parents weren't joking. They were deeply serious. It was a complete disaster and all we could do was cry.

So, the day before my birthday this year I hassled my mom. I hassled her about giving me gifts that were purposefully ugly and then returning them and keeping the cash without getting me a replacement gift. I hassled her about buying me clothes that were her style and her size which she would then wear to work the next day. Lastly, I hassled her about getting daughters snuggies for their golden birthdays. When I finished my rant she called me a "proud little girl", said she could get me whatever she wanted, and then asked until how late the mall was open that night, the night before my birthday. She hadn't even gotten me anything yet. Right then I decided to just give up.

So I bet you are wondering what she got me this year. I am happy to inform you that my mother gave me some really cute white-gold post earrings, quality eye shadow, and an itunes gift card. It was surprisingly thoughtful and I felt terrible. Why? Because just before I got on my mom's case about her birthday giving habits I showed her the beautiful pearl earrings Phillip had given me as a surprise for my birthday--which is exactly what I wanted and I adore them. It turns out, a week earlier she had gotten pearl earrings for me too. She asked how late the mall was open until because she wanted to go exchange the pearl earrings for something else since Phillip had already given me some. My sweet mother braved the mall during Christmas week to get me, her ungrateful daughter, some new earrings.

Yes, I felt awful for hassling my mother about birthday gifts. Phillip made sure of it.

After my birthday dinner I hugged my mom, and told her thank you for everything. I'm pretty sure I apologized too. I realized that all the thoughtless gifts over the years didn't matter and that I have been given something more valuable than earrings or snuggies. I have crazy Bolivian mother who's outrageous personality and stories will make my blog so popular that companies will pay me money to run their ads on this same blog. And those ads will make me very rich someday.

Just kidding. Or am I? Ha ha, I'm totally joking. I love my mom. No, but seriously.

Up next on the Bolivian Underground:

Shep gives me the look I have always wanted--short curly hair! It feels like a complete makeover. That same day I back our car into a concrete-like mound of snow. The car also gets a makeover.

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.