How I Came to Be: Independent Part I

I consider myself very independent and have ever since I learned how to make pancakes on my own and talk back to my parents. But, independence was nurtured into me. When I look back I can think of times in my life when my parents, unknowingly, taught me that if I wanted something done I would have to do it myself. This is an example of one of those times.

Adult conversation was a curious world to me when I was nine years old. My parents would use words that I knew but didn't fully understand, like swear words in Spanish, or the word "pantyhose". Since it was clear that my parents, when asked, feigned ignorance about the true meaning of the Spanish profanities they said to each other and about their children, I moved on.

One day, I walked out to the yard where my dad was working on the grass. I politely asked him what pantyhose were to which he replied, "Duh! A hose with a panty."

It was one of the most frustrating things my dad could say. But that was his thing. If he didn't know how to explain something he would split the word or phrase into two parts and repeat them backwards adding "with-a" in the middle of them. He though it was especially hilarious with compound words like this one. He had done this my entire life. A nut with a dough. A screw with a cork. I could go with a on forever. But I won't.

I asked again but this time using a sure-fire technique I had learned from the man himself: raising your voice. "No Dad! What are pantyhose!" I screamed.

He threw his arms up above his head and in an anger and a volume five times stronger than my own he snapped, "I just told you! A hose with a panty!"

Useless. It was all useless! I stormed back into the house and was so flustered that I felt like I had to pee. I still had no idea what pantyhose were and my dad was driving me crazy. That day I decided I was done being aggravated with mean and crazy responses. I knew that if I wanted to know what anything was I would have to find out myself, or ask my best friend Karen because she was a few months older than me and already wore bras and stuff.

That is how I came to be independent.

Up Next on the Bolivian Underground:

How I came to be a little bit paranoid.

A Series

After looking at all my ideas and notes for blog posts I realized they were all very similar. Each post had something to do with what my parents did when I was little and how their action effected the way I thought or acted for the rest of my life. So I decided to compile my posts into a small series that I will post throughout the rest of the week. My goal is to post one everyday for the next few days. Its called, How I Came to Be. No, not like that sicko.

Hope you like it!

I'm Done

The late night homework in bed coupled with late night snacks in bed--Phil is trying to break me of this awful habit.

Eye sunburns from staring at a computer screen for so long.

Weekends spent in the studio finishing a ceramic piece that has to be perfect.

Case competition meetings that last late into the night.

Saying "hi" to all the professors on the 6th floor.

Cherishing every moment of free-time as if it were my last.

Saving seats for Katlyn and Tyler in business law.

The screen in the testing center telling me I'm awesome.

I can't seem to grasp it. But I'm done. I love this feeling. It's so new that I'm not quite sure what to do with it--because I can do anything.

For the time being, I think I will prepare to spend a great deal of time here.

And then we're off. Come mid-May we will be packing up and, with smiles from ear-to-ear, jumping into our red car for a beautiful drive to our new home.

New home? What?

Yep. Please visit. I make a mean roasted tomato-basil-soup. You won't be sorry.

Up Next On the Bolivian Underground:

My mom turns 47 for the third time! She has refused to eat junk food for the past five years and has developed a habit of, how do you say this, chewing on a cookie and then spitting it out in the garbage. So, we hold a birthday party for her where she gets a gift card to Shep Studio and instead of sticking candles in cake, that she would just spit out anyway, we put her candles in her favorite food...




a raw papaya! She loved it. Really, she loved it. Happy 47thrd-ish birthday mom!

Sales Idol (WINNER!)

Sales Idol is a part of my amazing star-wars-themed sales class. This class is something else.

For starters, it is taught by Master Bone. He is the greatest business professor in the Marriott School. Master Bone teaches us to use the force in B2B sales. Tuesday he put our Jedi training to the test.

It goes like this.

Eight contestants sign up.

Each of us wait outside and one-by-one we are called in.

We walk into the crowded classroom and sitting in the middle are 2 chairs; one empty, the other occupied by a representative from Ecolab pretending to be bipolar Bill, from Bill's BBQ. We have seven minutes to sell a product to the rep who can take on any one of 4 difficult selling personalities. I just so happened to get the scariest and most difficult personality of all--the DRIVER. I kept my cool though, and I was strong during the whole thing. I even laughed during my turn. But I laughed so I wouldn't cry.

It's a stressful yet worthwhile experience. I also need to mention that it is so so fun. And I won! I couldn't believe it! Winning stuff is just the greatest feeling. Ecolab brought this little baby as the prize for first place:

Hello orange iPod Nano Touch.

I Loaded it up.

So sleek.

So sexy.

It's the first sexy touch thing that I have ever owned. We'll...besides P-Man.

Gotcha!

Up Next on The Bolivian Underground:

I show some studio work from my ceramics class.

Birthday Success

So there I am, covering the space in my planner set aside for March 3, 2011 with birthday stickers. While I am doing this I yell out to Phillip asking him if he is excited for his birthday next week. He informs me that yes, he is looking forward to his birthday, but that his birthday isn't for another two weeks.

So there I am, frantically peeling stickers off of March 3, 2011 and placing them on March 11, 2011. Uh yeah, big mistake forgetting the exact date of his birthday. Won't happen again, pinky-promise.

I'm a good wife. I'm a good wife. I'm a good wife.

Moving along. For Christmas I thought it would be convenient to just buy gifts for ourselves. Good idea? Nope. It's especially not good when my husband's "love language" is gifts. To make up for it I gave Phillip the best 24th birthday ever.

Proof:

Surprise awesome shirt given the DAY before his birthday, strategically placed in his closet.

The most amazing breakfast waffles ever made the morning of his birthday.

We also went to dinner and played games with our very best friends on his birthday. I also gave him a game, Oreos, and Coca Cola.

Happy Birthday P-Man! Hope it was the greatest.

I'm a good wife. I'm a good wife. I'm a good wife.


Up next on The Bolivian Underground:

I write a nice story about my mom.

Post from 10-year-old me

Today I imagined what a blog post from a 10-year-old me would look like. I don't think it would be too different from this.

Hello,

I have learned a great deal over the past 10 years. I want to share the things I have learned pertaining to some of the most poignant questions that are being asked in these latter days. The question is, What smells good but tastes bad? I retort:

Imitation vanilla extract
Coconut smelling shampoo

That is all.

Up Next on the Bolivian Underground:

Katlyn wears a shirt to class that I fall in love with. It has silhouettes of kittens wearing bow-ties on it. Her boyfriend tells her she can no longer wear the shirt so Katlyn hands it over to me. I wear it to Thanksgiving dinner. I will also wear it tomorrow.

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.

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.