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.