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.