Sister Soulier

If you look closely you will see the name tag does indeed read, "Sister Soulier." I would like to say that this picture was taken after I was dragged into an alley and severely beaten. However, to be honest, I think I remember thinking I was looking particularly good this day. I was going home in two months and I think "looking good" had become a relative term.

Anyway, I post this deeply revealing picture for two reasons: 1. There's a very funny story behind it...

So, I was sort of starting to date Dan and I hadn't met his parents yet. At this time, his dad was working at the temple with a couple who had served in Mongolia. They got to talking, my name came up, and a couple of days later, this delightful picture was sent to my future father-in-law. He like, any smart individual, decided to use this picture to his advantage. He wrote Dan and said he had a girl all lined up who he wanted Dan to meet. Dan said he wasn't interested, but his Dad kept talking up this really "accomplished" girl. Therefore, to appease his dad, Dan said to send on the picture of this "amazing girl." Dan's dad then sent on this infamous picture, and Dan had to study it for awhile to realize it was indeed the girl he was dating. I guess the only thing that is good about this picture is that no matter what I look like in the morning I still can't look worse than this picture.

The second reason I post this picture is because my sister just forwarded me a couple emails I had sent her while I was on my mission. They are in one word completely "manic."

Below are a little snippets of my delirium:

"Well, I had better close. I have neglected to write anything spiritual. In about two weeks I get to train for the first time. I’m so excited. I’m going to teach her how to do snot rockets, (completely allowed in this country) and throwing food out the window when the investigator isn’t looking) other than that, I’m not sure what I have to give."

"I got a huge package from my coaches, mom and dad of course came up big with hot chocolate and pretzels. (you know your life priorities are all out of wack when all you wanted for Christmas were pretzels, hot chocolate and a book on the temple)."

"Alright let's stop talking about this, well, actually here's another funny story. i was teaching the law of chastity to this woman. she is a single woman, with the craziest child in the world. at any rate my companion first teaches, and says from now on she may not sleep with anyone. she gets all scared, and says, "but soul, i really want to. i mean i miss it." i get completely awkward, and tell her it's okay. but she won't stop. she starts to ask me about it. i'm like, "hello, lady, read the tag!!" this job. oh man."

A Lesson Learned

Saturdays...they are by far my most favorite day of the week. They remind me of P-Days on my mission because they are not days to be wasted. Every moment is planned and every food craving is fulfilled. I wonder what kind of missionary I would have been had I planned the other six days like my P-Days? Oh well...no need to dwell on the past.

Anyway, this past Saturday was another great one. It started off with a delightful sleep until ten in the morning and then a drive to the store to get breakfast (with no bra on - I don't know why I love just putting on a sweatshirt and walking around in public. It totally reminds me of Freshman year Calculus. I don't think Noble and me ever wore anything but a "sweatshirt.") Anyway, after consuming a bowl of cereal and some waffles we started the mad dash to buy a bike for Danny. (With the prices of gas becoming completely ridiculous we have decided to invest in bikes.) For the past month we have been searching craigslist.com for a deal and finally at about eleven we found one. The bike, like usual, was a little worst off than the description and picture led you to believe, but after a little negotiating we still ended up paying the asking price. (That was supposed to be sarcastic - we aren't exactly great "negotiators.")

So, now that we had a bike for Danny we got suited up in our matching Duke kits and headed out for a ride. At about mile 25, while we were riding along the beach, a man yelled from his car, "Nice matching outfits you homos!" Homo? I just got called a homo? I just looked at the guy as I was riding by and tried to give him my most, "seriously?" look. As I continued to ride I got more angry about the situation. 1. I was really upset that he was making fun of our cool outfits and 2. that he called me a "homo." However, as I thought about it longer I was most upset at my reaction. This guy deserved the finger and all I gave him was a LOOK. I was disappointed and embarrassed with my actions.

Dan, on the other hand, is someone to be admired. This man, who I love, can be talking on his cell phone, eating a sandwich and down-shifting on his bike AND still manage to get his finger up in a beautiful salute to obnoxious drivers. Unfortunately, in this case he didn't hear the "homo" part, but I know, if he had, that guy would have been properly dealt with - not just looked at. Geeeeez, I'm still embarrassed.

So now, from this experience I'm setting myself a goal - next time I'm honked at, yelled at or almost hit I'm raising that finger with not only confidence, but with conviction.

No Thank You Service

I come to you all in a very heighten state of utter frustration. Since I can remember I have been taught the principle of service. I have been taught to help those in need, lift up the weary and feed the hungry. However, today I learned another part of service...the part they don't really teach you in Relief Society.

Yesterday, after talking to a girl in my ward, who has had a very rough month, I decided to make her dinner tonight. Being the suspect cook that I am, I decided on an easy recipe of homemade mac and cheese and set off to change the world. After screwing up the recipe (mind you this recipe is for idiots) and dumping the entire thing down the drain I should have known this was not going to be a good idea. Finally, after a quick restart, I dumped the concoction in a pan, covered it, wrote a nice note (yes, I'm amazing) and set off to...well, change the world.

As I was pulling out of my driveway (which has a slight incline) the concoction started to seep out of the pan and into my car. Now this is the only part I'm proud of...I didn't swear. Not even one word. (That will actually come later). I did scream and beat up my steering wheel - but no choice expletives. Now that my car was smelling like cheese and milk, I pulled over, pulled the pan out of the car and took it back into my apartment. Because I was dropping it off I didn't cook it all the way (hence, the seepage) and so now I decided to cook it so it would be easier to transport. Thirty minutes later and slightly deflated, I packed the pan up again and headed off to her house.

After a "quick" stop to pick up a chicken at the most geriatric store I've ever been in (I swear every person in there was buying prune juice, depends and using every coupon they had found in the Sunday paper). Anyway, with the chicken in my car, the warm mac and cheese in my pan I thought I had finally done it. I pulled up to the compound (Dan and I's nickname for the place our ward lives) pulled out my goods, walked up to her apartment and knocked on the door. Here's the best part: she wasn't even there. I called her about ten times on the way there, when I got there and when I was pulling away...nothing.

In desperation and anger I called my busy husband and told him of my predicament. I asked him (as my last ditch effort) to check the address and make sure I had the right one. When he said, "201" that's when I finally cracked and said, "Shit, I'm at the right address."

So, here's what I learned today about service. Not so cool. Not what it's cracked up to be. And I don't know when I'll be jumping on the next service bandwagon. Amen.

The Shuffle Function

It's one in the afternoon and I've been working since nine this morning. Well, if I'm honest, it hasn't been a real "productive" four hours. While trying to edit fifteen interviews into one story I have IM-ed my best friend in D.C. about her man troubles, talked to my mom about my sick husband, looked on craigslist for a forsaken bike, talked to my sister about becoming a mom, heard a rather lame joke from my dad, talked to a man called my husband, who I think came home last night at two, and snacked on every carbohydrate that isn't nailed down in my house. It's been a remarkably busy and unproductive morning. (And I still have no replies to my inquiries on craigslist.com)

During this exciting morning I have had my Ipod on shuffle. I think the function of shuffle is so interesting. After four hours I have come up with the following conclusions and questions:

1. It literally takes you on a roller-coaster of self-esteem as some songs make you feel instantly cool for having such great taste, and then in a second exposes you as a total dork for bobbing your head to "Gettin' Jiggy With It."
2. Some days it seems like your Ipod is mad at you and insists on putting together the worst shuffle. The other day I was caught in a 10,000 Maniacs, John Grisham book on tape and Aerosmith mix. It was awful...and I had no one to blame but myself?
3. Only the very confident can have their Ipod on shuffle around other people. I have tried this a couple of times and after apologizing with the phrase, "Ha, ha...this is a guilty pleasure," too many times to count, I have stopped opening myself up.
4. How come your shuffle seems to always play the same songs? My Ipod is in love with "Tripping Billies" by Dave Matthews and this battle song from the "Braveheart" soundtrack. (don't judge)
5. Lastly, I have found that shuffle is a magical function. I can't even explain how many times I have been listening to my Ipod and some song comes on I have never heard. It's truly magical.

Okay, I'm getting back to work...after one more bagel. I heart carbohydrates.

LOTOJA...the untold story

I know this looks like a shameless attempt to celebrate myself - but I just found these pictures on my madre's computer and decided to document them for all posterity.

In 2004, I decided to ride LOTOJA. According to Wikipedia LOTJOA is: "...one of the longest single-day road cycling races in North American, if not the world and is the longest race sanctioned by USA Cycling or the United States Cycling Federation." The race is always held on the second Saturday of September, starts in Logan, Utah and finishes in Jackson Hole, Wyoming and travels 206 miles.
I started the race at about 7 in the morning. The skies were very overcast and after about ten miles it started to rain. After about fifteen miles it started to downpour. What you see above is all I was wearing when I started the race. After about forty miles I thought I was going to die. I remember coasting into the first feeding zone and finding my sister. I was shaking horribly from the cold and I kept saying, "I can't do this. I can't do this." My sister, being the absolute bad ass that she is, just replied, "Shut up, and get back on your bike." Which I did. As the ride continued, people started to drop out, and I started to steal clothes.
This poor guy rode with our group. He took a wrong turn and rode an additional 30 miles to get back on course.
The entire race is sort of a blur. If I wasn't freezing, I was having to pee from drinking so much water. I remember one time my sister pulled up next to me. I was about ten miles away from the next feeding zone and I thought my bladder was going to explode. She tells the story that I was almost crying and saying, "I have to pee so bad." I typically deny this story, but now four years later, I think there might be some truth to it.
My sister was the absolute reason I finished this forsaken race. At every feeding zone she had peanut and butter sandwiches made, she would rub my legs down, got the most amazing chicken McNuggets in all of Wyoming, and would constantly say, "You are going to finish this race." I have never been colder in my entire life (Mongolia included) and yet, her words truly made me go forward.
This was one of the last feeding zones in the race. In order to move on from this zone you had to be checked for frost bite and hypothermia. I remember some lady grabbing my face and watching my eyes. I was shaking so bad, but held it together as she examined me. She then said, "If you are crazy enough to go - I'll tell you that the next pass is snowing. It's up to you." Again, I don't know what I was thinking, but I shook my head and clipped in.
This is me at the top of the last mountain pass. I look happy because I thought Jackson was only twenty miles away. (My odometer shut off after hydro-planing down the pass into Montpelier, Idaho...so I was guessing based on my watch). Unfortunately, I had about forty miles to go and the sun was setting.

After riding in the dark for about two hours I crossed the finish line. Again my sister saved me. I remember she followed me with her car so I could see the road and blasted Bruce Springsteen to push me the last mile. As soon as I crossed the finish line they took down the sign and started to pack up. Unfortunately, for the 300 or so riders behind me their times were never recorded. I ended up finishing in a little over 13 hours and was 1 of the 13 girls who actually finished.

The legacy of this ride: 1. I hate riding when I have to pee 2. My knees have never fully worked since 3. I still want to go back and do it again...even though Dan won't let me.

The Look into the Future

Last week our ward had it's annual Primary Presentation. For those of you who aren't Mormon, the Primary Presentation consists of a lot of restless children, singing deeply out of tune and regurgitating gospel principles their teachers have written out. It's sort of a mix between absolutely adorable and slightly creepy. "Adorable" because who doesn't like watching a bunch of kids sing "I'm a Child of God" while picking their noses and waving to their parents in the audience. "Creepy" because it always strikes me a little strange to listen to these kids recite gospel doctrine like little robots.

Anyway, I chose to write about this event because in the past the Primary Presentation has meant nothing to me other than an hour off from listening to otherwise typically boring talks. However, this time the Primary Presentation made me think - not anything about the gospel, but what kind of kid will I be adding to this madness? Will I be adding the spit fire who sasses up to the microphone and screams "I KNOW the CHURCH is TRUE!"? Or will I be adding the boy who can't seem to figure out where he is and why in the world he isn't sitting with his parents? Or lastly, will I produce the Korean girl, who not only gave a dissertation on the "Dead Sea Scrolls," but after speaking sang a solo. A solo! Seriously, it was insane. I felt so bad for the other parents. This kid literally made all the other kids look like morons.

So, I don't know what kind of child I'm going to produce, but after watching this little scene I've come to term with a couple of things:
1. There's a very good chance my kid is going to be a moron because we aren't Korean and I can't carry a tune.
2. There's a good chance my child is going to be the incoherent screamer into the microphone because I'm sort of that now.
3. There's a very good chance that my child will be able to beat up that Korean girl...because I was sort of that little girl.

911...not so responsive

So today was an interesting day...no it doesn't consist of actually showering (yes, it's almost four in the afternoon)...I did brush my teeth. Sorry this is not a hygiene report, but if you were asking I do smell quite good. (okay, so I hugged Dan when he got out of the shower and his deodorant got all over my arm...I still smell good)

ANYWAY...today I decided to register my car. Sure I've been living in California for almost a year and a half, and I've been driving around with an expired registration for the past couple of months, but I'm not what you call a "conformist," "someone who follows the rules," or "someone who pays for things before walking out of stores." I'm my own person...so no judging. Who am I talking to? Sorry I'm feeling feisty today, or maybe it's because I smell like a man.

Again, ANWAY...in order to get my long awaited registration I had to go get my smog check. (yes, I am going to walk you through every painstaking moment of my registration process). As I was driving down Lincoln (a very busy street for you non-Santa Monicans) I was stopped at an intersection. For almost five minutes our light didn't change. At first I wasn't too concerned, but then I got a little worried when I watched Paco try to cross the intersection as cars were flying across. Many cars started to follow his lead, and I feared I was about to see a very nasty accident. So, being the good citizen that I am, I decided to call the police. Who else do you call in a situation like this? Anyway, I dialed 911 and waited as it began to ring. I don't know if any of you have called 911, but I suggest if you are being murdered this is probably not the best route. I couldn't believe how many times it rang until an automated voice came on and said, "If this is an emergency, please press 1." 1? So, you are about to get killed, and not only do you have to wait on the phone, but you also have to have the ability to find the number 1 on your phone. Because I was not being murdered, I pulled the phone away, took a deep breathe, scratched my cheek, looked out the window and pressed 1. Again, more ringing. Are we serious? So let's say you have managed to get away from the person who is trying to murder you, you pull your phone out and dial 911. You wait, you find the number 1 and then you...wait a little longer. I think this is the point where the camera actually moves into a tight shot around your face, the music gets more intense and behind you is a creepy hand. Anyway, finally a very "friendly" voice barked, "911 what is your emergency?" My emergency? Hmmm...911 isn't working so well? My friend died about ten minutes ago, but thanks for asking?

At this point, I then feared I had called the wrong place, because was a broken traffic light really an emergency? However, I was in (I had placed 1) and so I blurted out, "I'm on Pico and Lincoln and the traffic light I think is broken." Good delivery I thought. A little lacking in confidence, but I said it. The operator then responded, "Hold please." (Which made me wonder is making me hold because I'm not really an emergency or because this is their typical procedure?) Unfortunately, I didn't really find out because then I was hung up on. Again typical procedure? Anyway, two seconds later the light turned green, so something must have happened in the magical world of 911.

So lessons for the day: 1. register your cars on time and don't hit Chalynn in Santa Monica when she hasn't eaten lunch...she sort of sucks. 2. Don't call 911 if you have an emergency. Just keep running until you trip and fall in the forest...you really have no other option.

Be Cool or Be in Pain

There are moments when I just don't feel my ripe age of 29. This morning would have to be one of those moments. At sixteen I got my braces off and was given a nice little retainer as a parting gift. For about eight years I was incredibly faithful about wearing my orthodontic gear...and then one night I decided I had had enough. I was 24, a college graduate, a return missionary and too cool for a plastic piece of torture. Consequently, for the past five years I have been recklessly sleeping with no protection. A couple of days ago I was going through our pictures from Italy and I noticed something...my teeth looked completely out of place. I don't know if this was a result of the time change or a severe case of jet lag, but something didn't look right. Therefore, I was left with only two choices: 1. Continue feeling cool at night and allow my teeth to become "Summer Teeth" (suma here and suma there) or 2. Strap back on the dork gear. After a moment of reflection of what my teeth used to be before braces I realized there really was only one option. Therefore, two days ago, after scrubbing with toothpaste, mouthwash and paint thinner my retainers were placed back in their rightful home.

This morning I woke up to my phone ringing. Without thinking I flipped open my phone and croaked a very lispy and saliva enhanced "Good morning." As my mom was saying "good morning" back, a rush of pain swept over my mouth. At first, I thought I had been punched or kicked accidentally in the mouth the previous night. Yet, when I went in search of what was causing so much discomfort to my mouth, and so much drool, I remembered my fateful decision to reintroduce my retainer. I had no idea something so small could cause so much pain.

So there I sat, 29, feeling like a complete dork, covered in spit and clutching my mouth. There's got to be a point when your teeth stop moving, and you can feel like a real adult. Right?

This Gallery is Free

As opposed to writing out my entire trip I thought a photo gallery of the highlights would be better.

May 5
Our trip began flying into Milan at about 8:30 in the morning. We decided to take the metro over to the Duomo. Talk about a cool way to begin the trip.

May 6
After a few hours of being in Milan we took the train to Cinque Terre. We ended up staying in a quaint beach town called Monterosso.
The following day we hiked a little over seven miles through the five towns that make up Cinque Terre.
The trail would take you right down into each town. After hiking we took the train back to Monterosso and fell asleep on the beach.

May 7-8

After Cinque Terre we took the train to Pisa and walked to the Field of Dreams.
These pictures were taken illegally. (Right after we were kicked off the grass).
From Pisa we got back on the train and went to Florence for two days.
In Florence we saw The Birth of Venus, The David, went to the Pitti Palace Gardens and climbed 483 stairs to the top of the Duomo.














This was Dan's best idea for a picture inside the Duomo.
It was meant to look like we were seeing a vision, but now it looks more like aliens are beaming down and stealing our faces.

Dan wanted to kneel down, but I thought we had been sacrilegious enough for one day.



























May 9-10

From Florence we went to Venice. Probably the coolest part of Venice (outside of scoring free tickets for the boat from and to the train station) was where we stayed. It was a little apartment just behind St. Mark's Square. The bottom floor was completely untouched, and on the second floor our room looked out to a canal.
The second coolest part of our trip to Venice was finding these hats...and listening to Dan say (with a very heavy lisp) "Come here Sailor Boy." (This also was an illegal picture. After we took these pictures we saw signs everywhere that read, "No Photos.")
The third coolest part of Venice was walking around for an entire day. We had planned on taking a sleeper train to Rome that left Venice at midnight...consequently, there isn't a canal or little street Dan and me haven't walked.
After walking for six hours we decided to get the biggest pizza we could find and eat with the pigeons on St. Mark's Square. (This again is an illegal picture because later we saw a sign that said, "No eating on St. Mark's Square." ...Tell that to the pigeons.)

May 11
From Venice we took a night train to Rome. I will never forget coming out of the metro from the train station and seeing the Colosseum at seven in the morning. The streets were virtually empty and the sun was just rising over this incredible site.
Since we arrived so early in Rome were one of the first in line to see the Colosseum. (And the ones who had to wake up half of Italy to get into our hotel at seven in the morning).Before we left on our night train back to Milan we took some pictures of the Colosseum at night.
Me with Rick Steves (my Italian crush...and guidebook) inside the Forum. I'm standing on something really old.

After a little nap we went to the Pantheon and scored a free explanation from an American guide. The description of the Pantheon = fascinating. The 150 Euro ticket he received to give it = more fascinating. (Apparently, you aren't allowed to talk loudly in a church.)
Our first night in Rome ended with an awesome meal from a huge Italian named Michelangelo, a walk to the Trevi Fountain and more gelato.

May 12
As I mentioned in a previous entry Dan was able to find us a private tour guide for the Vatican. In four hours we saw the private gardens of the Pope and went into St. Peter's Basilica and the Sistine Chapel without waiting in a single line or paying for a single ticket. The magical phrase was, "We're with him."
The entrance to the Private Gardens of the Pope.
A piece of the Berlin Wall was given as a gift to the Pope. (It was just sitting behind the summer home of the Pope...funny that's exactly where I would put my Berlin Wall also.)
While we were in the Sistine Chapel Feliche demanded that we take a picture of the ceiling. The picture isn't great, but you can see Feliche pretending to talk to me as we shielded Dan from the 20 guards who were there to stop idiots like us. Italian Guards - 0 Dan, Kate and the mastermind of Feliche - 1.
I know after the Vatican I should be raving about the magnificent art and history we saw...but what's just as cool was the best pizza I had in Italy. (It was a little place just outside the Vatican walls...and yes, it was a religious experience.)
At night we hung out at the Spanish Steps for a while. There were a bunch of German students there singing, dancing and getting drunk...it made me sad for college.

May 13
The last day we were in Rome it absolutely poured, yet in spite of the rain we had a very eventful day. One, I tried to talk an umbrella seller into giving me an umbrella for 1 euro (not because I thought he would do it, but more because it was sort of fun to see him get all frustrated.) Two, we found the best gelato in the world...cinnamon...I still dream of it. Three, we stumbled upon this angel in the last church we entered. I know it's a strange way to end our little photo gallery, but I think it sums up how we were feeling by the end of our trip...
Do you notice anything funny about this angel's hand? If not...well, then you are more mature than I am.

May 14
After a night train from Rome, we flew to New York and then to LA. I think in total it was over 30 hours of traveling.

A Shell, A Bird and A Black Man

Well I'm back from the great land of Italy. I'm not sure how to sum up the trip in one entry on this blog...sooooo...be prepared for constant installments of our exciting adventure.

To begin with, we were gone for ten days, saw six towns (well, really seven because we got kicked off a train in Bologna) ate a couple of liters of gelato, took over 300 pictures and shot three hours of footage. It was in a word - amazing.


Probably one of the coolest things we did was our tour of the Vatican. We had scored a private tour with a man named Feliche Noveli, who has the prestigious position of holding the Pope's chair. For those of you (yes, I'm acting like I have numerous readers) who are Catholic that might mean something. To Dan and I - well, I'm not sure if we gave him the proper respect. I think we both said something like, "Oh, really? That's great." I don't know if that was like spitting in his face, but what can you expect from two Mo Mos.

Our tour with Feliche started outside the Vatican. Immediately, after shaking his hand he started to tell us the significance of the obelisk we were standing next to. I felt like I was back in Mongolia listening to some old woman tell me about her sheep. I could barely understand a word he was saying. As he turned around, I shot Dan a look and mouthed, "I can't understand a freakin' word." From that point on, poor Feliche must have thought Dan and I were a little "slow" because after every explanation Dan would repeat what he had just said so I could understand. It was truly like a bad game of "Telephone" or "Whisper Down the Lane." (whichever you prefer)

Anyway, as Dan was translating for me, one of the funniest things took place. While we were standing in the Pope's private gardens, Dan asked Feliche what was the current Pope's emblem. (It was a valid question because throughout the tour Feliche kept pointing out the different emblems of past Popes). To answer Dan's question, Feliche stopped and said, "The current Pope's emblem is a: shell, bird and a...black man." Immediately, I looked at Dan to translate what I thought I had just heard. Dan looked back at me, and repeated to Feliche, "So the current Pope's emblem is a shell, bird and a 'Black Man?'" Feliche, without any hesitation, said, "Yes, a shell, a bird and a black man." Holy crappers - I completely lost it. I had to turn around and shield my face because I thought I was going to erupt. I kept picturing a bronze emblem of a shell, a bird and some guy with an afro, holding a boombox on some beautiful statue. (sorry that's the image I saw...I know not very PC).

Anyway, after I recovered from that comment we toured the private gardens, walked in through the back door to St. Peter's Basilica, watched Feliche elbow every tourist imaginable and ruin just about every Asian's picture, walked into the Sistine Chapel without paying and took a picture of Michelangelo's masterpiece while Feliche stood in front of the guards. It was the total VIP tour.

My Mom Learned a New Word

Oh my mother...where do I begin? The woman is so refined and yet can be so freaking hilarious.

This past week I was in Utah for The B.Y.U graduation and work. On Monday night my mom and I decided to stay in and watch a little TV. I suggested we watch "The Bachelor" because it's always fun watching incredibly ridiculous TV with my mom because she, like me, loves to rip on the people. I would go on and explain the procedure of "The Bachelor," but then again those of you reading this blog hopefully are well versed on the show. If not, stop reading and go read a book or something.

Anyway, at the end of the show the Bachelor took the girl he didn't choose to this bench and sat her down to explain why she just wasn't marriage material. (That he had, of course, determined after two dates and on a reality TV show - it sounds like I'm judging and I'm not.) In the middle of his lame explanation the girl responded by saying, "I just don't understand how you could lead me on." (seriously, even I felt the chemistry) He then again tried to explain why he chose the absolute sex kitten, and then she cut him off by calling him a douche-bag. Now we didn't actually get to hear her say this because they bleeped it out. My mom then turns to me and innocently asks, "What did she say?" There I sat trying not to laugh, but wondering how could I explain to my sweet mom what a douche-bag is. Finally, I said something like, "Oh it's this new derogatory term that is catching on with teenagers and people my age." She accepted that definition and we continued to watch the show. A couple of seconds later, the Bachelor walked the unchosen girl to the limo. (Of course, this is the part where they break down and try to tell America that this is why they have relationship problems and where their walls come from. And we, as viewers, try not to laugh.) Anyway, apparently my mom wanted to get to this pathetic part and while they were walking to the limo my mom yells out, "Come on douche-bag, put her in the limo." Needless to say I absolutely erupted. It was a perfect execution of douche-bag and I was never prouder of my dear mother.

A Real Accomplishment

I always thought I was a Rock Star, but today my sister-in-law did something I couldn't even imagine doing...SHE RAN THE FREAKIN' BOSTON MARATHON!! Unfortunately, she didn't get first place. Apparently, some Kenyan, Ethopian, Ivory Coastan (some very skinny man who can run way too fast) took first, but my girl was right behind. I can't even say how impressed I am.

I think it also rocks that her girls were able to see their mom accomplish such a huge goal. I hope when I have three kids I'll be taking on races and kicking some butt. A Marathon!!! It makes my knee hurt just thinking about it.

I suppose I find it such a feat because of my following day: I haven't showered yet, it took me until 1 in the afternoon to brush my teeth and my biggest accomplishment was that I not only made my bed as soon as I got up, but I took my vitamin. I don't know why that is so hard, and I why I feel so accomplished when I take my vitamin. I guess I feel like an adult with all that extra iron and calcium running through my system...even when I'm sitting at my computer pretending to work in my pajamas.

CONGRATULATIONS G. LOVE

Mormons Don't Swear

For some reason wherever my husband goes trouble seems to follow.

Last night we had our last lacrosse game of the season against USC. This was already going to be a heated game because the following season they beat us in overtime by one goal, we were coming off a fabulous showing of 17-0 loss against UCSB and, and, and well we were in the hood of LA where heat and violence reigns. (okay, so I couldn't think of a third reason).

Anyway, I had asked Dan to stand behind the goal and take pictures of our seniors. Next to Dan was one of our player's boyfriends, who decided his mission of the game was to make the opposing team's goalie cry. Therefore, every time someone scored, this classy boyfriend would yell out some derogatory comment in regards to her "lack of saving ability." I had noticed this going on, but to be honest, I found it a little funny and wasn't in the mood to make it stop.

Fast forward to the second half and all of the sudden USC starts to come back. Eventually, the score gets to be 10-7 and we haven't even gotten close to scoring for fifteen minutes. Outside of getting too cocky, our offense was having a hard time hearing the plays, and of course, when left on their own our team doesn't display much creativity or initiative. Therefore, I grabbed Dan and told him I needed him to stand behind the goal (inconspicuously of course) and call out our plays. (I would give him a signal (1 finger, 2 fingers etc.) and he would call them out. ) I thought this was full proof.

The first time our girls came trucking down the field I held up two fingers and Dan yelled out, "Bomb!" Immediately, the USC coach screamed that he wanted Dan off his sideline and called for security. He started screaming that Dan was swearing at his goalie and players. I ran over, with the refs, and tried to get the coach to settle down. I kept saying, "He's my husband and...we don't really swear." The USC coach would not listen and a cop had to come over and calm everyone down. I don't know what was the funniest part:
1. Dan being almost kicked out of our lacrosse game for yelling one word.
2. Dan being accused of swearing at a 19 year goalie.
3. Watching the USC goalie try to tell the coach that it wasn't Dan.
4. The game coming to a complete stop.
5. Me trying to convince everyone in a heated moment that Mormons typically aren't allowed to swear due to it being unbecoming and effecting our ability to feel or be susceptible to the spirit.

Anyway, we won the game. Go Waves!

29 "Dad's Favorite Day"

Yesterday, I woke up and called my dad. He picked up and the following conversation took place:
Kate: "Hey Dad, good morning. How are you doing?"
Dad: "Not good. I got a head cold and I can't seem to shake it."
Kate: "That's no good. How did the move go in St. George?"
Dad: "Not good. I just didn't feel well."
(Five minutes later of hearing about his ailments and the fact that he wasn't going to be seeing the Beach Boys in concert)
Dad: "So what's new with you?"
Kate: "Well, I was just calling to say 'Thanks for having me.'"
Dad: "'Having you?' We haven't seen you yet."
Kate: "No Dad. 'Thanks for having me' in the sense 'Thanks for making me.' Today, is my birthday."
Dad: "Oh crap. Of course, Happy Birthday. Katherine, that was one of the most memorable days of my life."
Kate (inner thought) "Huh?"
Dad: "How old are you now?"
Kate: "29."
Dad: "When are you going to start a family?"
Kate: "Is Mom around?"

Nothing like a special birthday wish from your father.

I would have to say that 29 was one of my favorite birthdays. I woke up late and got to snuggle with my Danny, talked to my Dad (which we already discussed as one of my favorite moments...much like my birth for him), rode 40 miles, got a massage and had dinner at one of the coolest restaurants I've ever seen. It's called Yamashiro and it's tucked away in the hills of Hollywood. From the entrance you can see the Hollywood sign, the skyline of downtown LA and out to the ocean. It was absolutely breathtaking.

After dinner we headed down the hill to see "Wicked." I felt like for a brief moment I was walking into some type of cult or sub-culture. Everyone was wearing "Wicked" t-shirts, singing the songs and critiquing who would be playing the main roles. When the show started it was like Christmas morning for the audience. I seriously think I heard people finally breathe when the main character appeared on stage. Oh the anticipation.

Okay, mocking, kidding, pointing fingers (what have you) aside - it was an awesome show. We had seats three rows back and I felt like I was literally on stage. (And so did a lot of people around us, as they mouthed the words and clapped a little too soon...okay the mocking will eventually stop).

All and all it was a perfect day. If this is the beginning of what is to come - bring it.

Can you beat this?

The other day I got a message from a girl I went to high school with reporting on our 10 year class reunion. I was unable to attend, but deeply curious about my former Indians. Most of her report I found "typical" until she mentioned the fateful name of Jeff Miller. Just seeing that name in print makes me cringe. Why? Well, for many high school students Prom Night is supposed to be the crowning moment of their adolescence years. Many lucky individuals are able to say that Prom Night was the night they lost their virginity, drank for the first time and felt like an absolute princess. For me, I wouldn't say it was the "crowning moment." Instead, I would call the night simply unforgettable.

Two weeks before the Prom I didn't have a date. I can't remember exactly why I was in this predicament, but I think it had something to do with the small fact that I wasn't going to be completely wasted at the end of the night. Anyway, to be honest, I wasn't too concerned about finding a date. However, my parents were a little more troubled. I remember one night at dinner my mom asked if I had found a date yet. I replied no and watched as my parents tried to sneak a glance at each other. They then started to suggest some lucky guys, and then finally told me that if I had a dress (which my mom and I had already painstakingly found) I HAD to have a date. Therefore, to appease their worried minds I got up from the table and called one Jeff Miller. Fortunately, he didn't have a date and after one humiliating question we were on the road to being the next Prom King and Queen.

Now let me take a moment to describe Jeff Miller. I had known him since first grade and he was completely off my radar until my senior year. We sort of started to date in February and went to the Spring Dance together. I wasn't really interested in him, but I wanted to date someone and he seemed like a cool guy. Going out with him was alright, but the biggest problem was the fact that I could never find him before our dates. He was always "playing the guitar" with his friend Baker. Now Baker has to be mentioned because we were usually mistaken for each other. He had long blonde hair and was about my height. Consequently, more times than I would like to admit, someone would try to get my attention by screaming, "Baker!" I don't know who should have been more offended: me being mistaken for a feminine looking guy or a guy being mistaken for a girl?

Anyway, the day of the prom came around and I had my hair done, eye brows plucked and make-up applied. (So, I sort of got the princess part down) However, I couldn't find Jeff. I called his house and his mom said, "he was playing guitar with Baker." Awesome. Finally, Jeff made it to my house for some awkward pictures. It was strange, here I was all dressed up, and I really felt like if given the opportunity I would feel no remorse hitting this guy in the face. I guess you can dress up a girl, but you can't dress down a growing attitude. Needless to say I wasn't overly excited about this night.

After pictures at my house we went over to where Baker and his "date" (some other poor girl stuck as second string to his guitar buddy) were taking pictures. Before I could smudge my make-up for the tenth time Jeff and Baker were holding onto each other and asking for their moms to take their pictures. This was getting incredibly bizarre.

Finally, the photo shoot ended and we drove to the Prom. As soon as we entered I went to find my friends and he went to find...well, come on do I really need to write it? I have to admit as soon as I got away from Miss Miller the night actually turned fun. As to be expected most of my friends were regretting their date choices as well and for the rest of the night we all danced together. Things were going well until I looked up at the large screen showing all of us dancing. Right up on the screen was Baker and Jeff dancing together. Dancing...close. My friends all started to laugh and pointed at me yelling, "Your Prom Date is Gay!!" Again, awesome.

After the Prom we had to go the After Prom party. This is the parents' attempt to keep their kids from getting completely loaded until "at least" four in the morning, spending ridiculous amounts of money and working for absolute no thanks. As we entered the After Prom Jeff turned to me, and while hitting me in the arm, said, "Well thanks for being my date." I almost wanted to come back with a left hook, but decided to go find my mom instead. She was working the After Prom and after a disastrous night I couldn't imagine another person I wanted to see. I remember I walked into the Athletic office where she was directing kids to change, and I said, "Mom, turns out Jeff is gay." She just looked at me and started to laugh. One of the other saddest parts of the night was the fact that I had to get up at the crack of dawn to go play in a lacrosse tournament the following day. So, I told my mom, as she continued to laugh, I was going to go hang out for a few hours and then head home.

This is the part that probably makes me most depressed. Remember how I said all my friends left their dates at the actual Prom? Well, somehow, and maybe due to some alcohol, they were completely hooked at the hips when we entered the After Prom. So, there I stood: way too many hair pins digging into my head, blisters burning from my "elegant" shoes and a strong desire to kill a suspected gay high school student. Fortunately, I ran into an old friend of mine, who had graduated the previous year, but somehow got hooked into working this amazing event, and we played Black Jack for an hour.

Now if you aren't fully depressed yet, there's two more fun parts of the story. After an hour of playing Black Jack it was announced that the band was going to start playing. "The Band" was not a group of musically talented people, but five guys who attempted to play covers (without a singer...never do you become aware of how boring a song can be until you listen to the same chords over and over). Anyway, because I'm such a strong person I followed the masses congregating around "the Band." As I approached I instantly noticed something didn't seem right. All the "boys" had make-up on and had teased their hair. It was the most pathetic "hair band" attempt I had ever seen. In the middle of this 1980's flashback was Jeff. Awkwardly he stood in his tux with eye liner, mascara AND the lip stick my mom had given me in hopes I would fall in love with make-up and re-apply all night long. (Instead, I had handed over the lip stick immediately to Jeff and asked him to hold it for me...my first mistake). As Jeff and I made eye contact he reached into his pocket and tossed me the used lip stick. I don't think I caught it. I think it actually hit off my chest and landed on the floor. (I don't know - something inside of me just didn't want to touch it anymore.)

With the realization that, yes, I had asked a gay man to Prom, I decided to cash out and head home. It was about three in the morning at this time, and I couldn't decide if I was completely depressed, shocked or annoyed. I got into my Volvo station wagon and headed out of the high school parking lot. In broad daylight I used to run every stop sign. It somehow made up for the fact that I didn't smoke pot in the bathroom or drink on the weekends. However, at the last stop sign I saw a cop sitting across the street. Undoubtedly, he had seen my reckless driving and I knew I about to end this night on a real "high." For about a mile he followed me and then finally turned on his lights. It was the first time I had ever been pulled over and all I could hear were my friends telling me to start crying. Sympathy was the name of the game. Instead, I was past the point of crying. I was more in the stage of hysterically hitting someone.

When the cop came up to my window he simply said, "Are you serious? Four stop signs in a row." I then reminded him that we were in the middle of farmland, that it was three in the morning and I didn't think anyone would be on the road. He then asked, "Have you been drinking?" With an absolute straight face I said, "No, but my Prom date was gay." He looked me in the eye and told me to go straight home and follow every traffic rule. I nodded, put the car in drive and went home.

So there you have it. The reason why Mr. Jeff Miller will always cause a bit of tremor through my body. I have forgiven him, but I must admit there was a small piece of joy I felt when my friend told me he was recently divorced. (Insert "guitar playing" joke here)

A Healthy Relationship of Trust

So, my husband is a "little" ticklish. Okay, a lot. If I even get near his armpits or stomach he will completely crumble like a little girl. I must admit it's probably one of my favorite things to do. There truly is no greater joy then sneak attacking him and watching his face go completely red. I also enjoy tickling him when he says something overly sarcastic, or doesn't respond exactly the way I want. Again, I know using this weakness against him is cruel, but again so much fun.

However, probably the worst part about this whole game is the fact that I'm not even a little bit ticklish. Nope, not an ounce. I think when they were passing out the "tickle gene" my sister volunteered for all of it. She, like Dan, is a complete tickle disaster.

So, for the past year Dan has been trying to find something to combat my constant assaults. He's tried running his finger up my feet, blowing on my neck and screaming at me to become ticklish. Unfortunately, all of these attempts have been met with more tickling, laughing and a lame effort at an apologetic face on my part.

However, the other night I think Dan made a breakthrough. We were watching the cinematic masterpiece of "Invasion." For those of you who didn't see it opening night it's basically about these possessed individuals who vomit on each other to spread this bizarre disease. I know, it was truly awesome. Anyway, let's just say I'm not so "good" at scary movies (even if they are completely lame...I will still believe in the possibility of vomiting, possessed people). As the movie got worse (not in story line but in my level of fear), I started to hold my legs and watch the movie through my hand. During one scene of absolute terror, Dan grabbed me and screamed. Consequently, my ball of tension broke, I jumped up and it one fatal swoop punched him in the arm. Dan had found my achilles heel. Now to fight off my urge to tickle him Dan has decided to scare the crap out of me each night.

Lately, the strategy goes like this: Dan and Kate will read in bed for a little while, turn off the lights, say their prayers and get into bed. As soon as Kate is comfortable Dan will say something like this..."What would you do if you woke up in the middle of the night and a homeless man was standing over you and making weird breathing noises?" Kate: "Would he touch me?" Dan: "Possibly." Kate: Silence.

Result: Kate has stopped tickling Dan and Kate doesn't get up to pee anymore during the night.

So yes, the marriage is going well...

1 Year Left

In just about a week I'm going to be 29. 29. That's old. Right? That means I have one more year to do the following:
1. Continue to hit the snooze button on the biological clock until it explodes a year from now.
2. Talk about my days in college like they were just a "few years ago."
3. Write notes during sacrament meeting with my husband.
4. Read Perez Hilton about as faithful as I do my scriptures.
5. Run without stretching (well I really should stop that one now)
6. Sleep with my retainer.
7. Randomly hook up with strangers.
8. Lie about randomly hooking up with strangers to my husband.
9. See pizza as a balanced meal for not only dinner but for breakfast.
10. Laugh at Helen Keller jokes. I don't know why, but they get me every time.

So there you have it...the count down is on. One year to make the most of it. Alright I'll give up half. And don't ask me the one about the circular room and sitting in the corner. I've got to grow up.

Happy Easter Mom

My mom completely cracks me up. She called me on Easter and asked, "Has the Easter Bunny shown up at your house yet?" I replied, "No. Have you seen him?" (I'm not sure why all the pagan images created to celebrate religious holidays are men...connection?) Anyway, she said slightly annoyed, "No I haven't seen the Bunny either and now I'm supposed to go teach a lesson about anger. How am I supposed to teach a lesson about anger?...Hell, I'm not superhuman." I replied, "No one expects you to play through this pain." She then wished me luck on my Easter and I wished her the same.

It ain't gonna happen...

I can't say two years ago I ever pictured my life this way. I'm a wife. I live in California. I coach. I make dinner. I sleep next to a boy. I contemplate procreating. Nope...I never pictured this. For the longest time I saw marriage as the end. It's the end to happiness, freedom and independence. Yet, after almost a year and a half of this gig I can't imagine or think of a happier time in my life. I literally laugh everyday. I don't just laugh a little chuckle, but a serious outburst. I love that. I also have never experienced love like this. Sure my family and friends love me - but I have never felt something so intense as this. It's sometimes indescribable. I have never wanted to be near to someone, touch someone, talk to someone or be with someone as much as I feel now. I sometimes wonder what I was doing for the beginning of my life. How did I walk around without this energy and love in my life? (What can I say the romantic is out tonight)

Probably the funniest thing about my marriage is how it all began. For as perfect as I feel my relationship is now - I can't imagine a more disjointed, "never gonna happen" beginning.

In the spring of 2004 I decided to go back to Duke to visit some friends and see a game. Somehow, and truly I don't remember, I was set up with this guy named Danny Hick. (or Hicks - as I first thought). Before I went to North Carolina we talked on the phone one night. From the very beginning I remember nothing that resembled fireworks or a glimpse into my future. All I remember was we talked about Duke basketball and other random stuff as I paced the old apartment my parents used to own on South Temple. I do remember (and I'm not inserting this for future posterity) that I found him easy to talk to. However, I must also admit that I had become jaded after a year of blind dating to the guys who "seemed cool on the phone" because they were usually the guys who needed the good "personality."

Anyway, when I got out to Carolina I tried my best to act excited, but to be honest I wasn't happy about this long distanced match-making. I mean seriously, did everyone involved truly believe something would happen? I lived in Utah, he lived in Carolina blah blah. It wasn't gonna happen. Our first date was nice, but again, I was already checked out. The next night he came over to watch basketball and again I thought everyone is trying hard here, but the effort is a little misguided. Finally, I went back to Utah and thought, "well I hope this danny, dan, hick, hicks guy has a good life - because again it ain't gonna happen." (i know long thought)

So here I sit on a Sunday night. My husband, Dan, and I just got back from the grocery store where we got in a fight over which ice cream to buy. I say fight, but really it consisted of two grown ups laughing and pushing each other as the other one tried to antagonize the other over the decision of fat free vs. the real stuff. It ended up that Dan bought two types of ice cream, ran out of the store and I ran after him screaming, "Stop that man!!!"

Life - I can't explain. Happiness - I can't explain. All I know is I hope life continues to surprise me.

The best quote ever...

Okay so I've been a little MIA for awhile, but a girl has got to make a living. So, I had to document one of the coolest things I've ever heard.

A few weeks ago i had the pleasure of attending August Rush with my good friend Emily Karen Madsen. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of seeing this cinematic masterpiece let me give you a small synopsis. First, we have a young couple, who loves music and stumble upon each other after their individual performances. As you can imagine, they do the deed, get pregnant and the child is put up for adoption. Now this is where the story really gets started. For the next ten years this "put up for adoption" child goes on a quest to find his parents through...yes of course, you guessed it...music.

Turns out this little guy is a music prodigy and ends up at Juilliard (but of course) and composes his own symphony. During the concert his parents are drawn to the stage and somehow know this kid is theirs. Oh, and while walking through a crowd of about ten thousand the once lovers also find each other. Brilliant writing.

However, I think the best ending of the movie had to come from Ms. Madsen. While the credits were rolling she leaned over and said, "That's so strange...the same thing happened to my cousin." Now that was brilliant.