My First Last Words

It was unusually gusty today.

The crisp winds of autumn mutated into the biting winds of winter, ripping droves of colorful leaves from their branches. I received a phone call from my mother:


"Kristi, Grandpa is dying. He probably has two or three days left."


The first sentence is not what caught me off guard. My grandpa has been "dying" of stomach cancer for the better part of two years. It was the second sentence that jerked the breath out of my lungs and words from my mouth.


I remember being in an airport a few years back. I don't recall where I was traveling to, but as I was standing in the security line, I remember seeing a sign with twenty-five faces on it. Five across, five down. Every third face was in black-and-white. The caption read "1 out of every 3 Americans develops cancer in their lifetime." I remember thinking "Wow, that's weird. I don't know anybody who has cancer."


Time changes things.


I knew my grandpa was in bad shape. Prior to this news, the most recent verdict given to us by doctors was three-to-six months. They've been saying that for two years now. They've been saying that through chemotherapy, radiation and surgery. You become numb to it after a while--hearing the same predictions again and again after the old ones are surpassed. But now; to have it cut down so drastically without warning. To have Death looking you straight in the eyes and saying "I'm taking him now whether you like it or not." To inhale and wonder if he's doing the same.


It's not like I thought my grandpa was invincible. I knew he would pass on eventually. Maybe I'd fooled myself into thinking that that cowboy spirit of his had a little more fight in it. I don't know.


Writing about him in past tense is macabre. Which makes sense, seeing as how he IS still alive. Yet I almost can't help doing it. Each "was," "had," and "did" pricks at my heart like a tweezer.


Upon hearing the news from my mother, my mind went ajumble. Should I drop everything and drive to Colorado or stay put? I asked advice. Mom was of the opinion that since my last indelible memory of Grandpa was of him healthy and happy, I should remain and Utah and let things run their course in Colorado.

There have been times when I visited my grandpa being certain that I would never see him again, but he always seemed to have one more life left in him (we joke that he's like a cat in that regard). The last time I saw Grandpa, he looked great and was full of vigor. Our goodbye was a happy one. A hug, a kiss, an "I'll-see-you-later" and shutting of the front door. I guess it's better to see a person for the last time not knowing it will be the last time.

Regardless of all this, I now had a very difficult task ahead of me. Since I would not be near my grandpa as the curtains fell on his life, my mother suggested I write a letter to him which she would read in the hospital at his bedside.


I would have to write my first last words.


Saying your last words and writing your last words are two entirely different things. When your words are spoken, you say whatever comes to mind at the moment and hope it's meaningful. If not, you may regret it, yes, but you always have the excuse of "How can you possibly know the right things to say in an emotional instant like that?"


When writing your last words, there's no such excuse. You have hours before you to collect your thoughts, create sentences and change words. Hours to weed out the unimportant and say what you truly feel. If you have regrets with what is said, the fault is yours and yours alone.

I sat down at the computer. How to even start? "Dear Grandpa?" Too generic. "To Grandpa?" Too sterile.


"Tick, tock. Tick, tock." That was it.


My fingers fluttered across the keyboard as I spent the next four hours condensing my most cherished memories into four pages. They were the most emotional four hours I've experienced in a long time, perhaps ever. To say that I was sent on a proverbial "roller coaster of emotions" is an understatement. My soul was rent from its bodily home and thrown into a drying machine; tumbling about in the heat of anguish, its buttons clanking in protest of my grandfather's passing.


This Letter to my grandpa wasn't an "I laughed, I cried" experience. I just cried. And cried and cried and cried some more. Every now and then my lips would curve into a slight smile upon the reminiscence of a fond memory, but the better part of the Letter was written in tears.


It came time to end the Letter. How can you possibly wrap up a lifetime of memories into a few meager sentences? How do you adequately express the extent of your love with several dozen intangible characters?


You can't write a kiss. You can't write a hug. You can't write a one-last-glance-over-your-shoulder.


I tried my best, and I'm satisfied with how it turned out. But that doesn't make things easy. Nothing does. I thought the fact that my grandpa has lived a long and happy life would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in heaven would make this easy. It doesn't. I thought the fact that I believe in eternal families would make this easy. It doesn't. Do all these things bring me some degree of comfort and relief? Absolutely. But even the best anesthesia wears off.


My grandpa is going home.

In my heart of hearts, I'm ready for it. Someday we'll see each other again, someday we'll laugh again (oh, Grandpa's laugh!), someday we'll do that little thingy where we

shake hands and

squeeze real hard and

try to outlast the other person but

I always give in because

he's about to break my metacarpals with

those crazy Marine hands of his

again.

Someday we'll talk again. Of this I have no doubt.

But for now, there can be silence. I'm done with my first last words.

A Halloween Nightmare

It's coming.

Halloween. The time for ghoulish fun, spooky antics and of course, dressing up like a slut with the excuse of “hey, it’s just a costume, okay?!” But who is it that deserves the coveted title of “all-around scariest person?” Who would you most not like to meet up with in a corn maze? Witches, warlocks, vampires (Edwin excluded of course, ladies!) goblins, zombies, ghosts, possessed demon children, escaped psych ward inmates, men with chainsaws? Ha! These folks might as well be the Easter bunny! For there is no doubt that the scariest, most chilling, bloodcurdling, send-shivers-down-your-spine, he-who-must-not-be-named person is . . .

BYU PARKING ENFORCEMENT.

Okay, okay. So it’s not really a “person” so to speak. It’s an entity . . . but the fact that there’s dozens of them working together makes them all the more terrifying! Driving around in their oh-so-tough Jeeps with “PARKING ENFORCEMENT” prominently displayed to instill terror into all those who dare park in an “A” lot! The grating chssssiicck sound that rattles the air as they tear off a page in their citation notepad! Those menacing neon green envelopes that have the power to suck every iota of joy from your soul!

Today, I did the unthinkable. I voluntarily visited the University Police and Campus Parking office. After a few minutes of deep breathing and a tranquilizer shot, I entered the lion’s den. I felt like a Roman gladiator stepping into the Coliseum: convinced of impending doom, but having the faintest hope that I might merely be ripped to bloody shreds and allowed to live a limbless life, begging in the gutters of the city for sustenance all the rest of my days.

I beheld my lion: a rather large girl sitting at the counter under a “PARKING” sign. I had come prepared for an epic battle: obtaining parking registration for my newly-acquired moped.

“Hi,” I said meekly, “I just got a moped, and I was wondering there’s any sort of registration I need for it.”

She looked at me with disdainful apathy, cocked an eyebrow and said, with the slightest “oh-no-you-di’nt!” head bob:

“To drive it legally in the state of Utah? Yes.”

I waited for a “Haha! Just kidding! I knew you weren’t ask me that! As a matter of fact you do need parking registration for a moped...” or something of the sort. But no. Apparently she thought I had the IQ of a brick and was coming to her to legally register my vehicle.

Hmmm don’t you think that if I needed to legally register my moped I would go to, oh, I don’t know...the DMV?? Hmmm I wonder what I type of registration I’m referring to when I’m standing in the University Police and Campus Parking office under the “PARKING” sign! Maybe PARKING REGISTRATION, perhaps?!

“Ummm no,” I replied, “ . . . I already have that . . . I meant parking registration. To park it on campus.”

“Ooooh.” (As if I should have had to clarify!) She rolled her eyes. “In that case, blah blah blah . . .”

Ahh just another example of the unhelpfulness that embodies BYU student employees! This case is an especially illustrative one because she gave me the classic I-work-for-BYU-and-know-
everything-and-you-don't attitude! And made a fool of herself in doing so! Love it! Perhaps though, as a minor suggestion, when BYU trains their student employees they might consider imbuing them with common sense and congeniality. Yes, yes. I believe that would prove beneficial to all parties involved.

I made it out of that office unscathed (save a slight insult to my intellect). It’s nice to know that I’ve officially survived the worst that Halloween has to offer. And the best part is that it didn’t cost me a cent! No ten-dollar corn mazes, haunted houses, creepy train rides, etc. Just a brief head-to-head with a BYU parking employee. Maybe next Halloween I’ll stand outside the office and charge admission? Then I could pay off my tickets for parking in the “A” lots.

Have mercy on my soul, I beg of you!!

A Little Loving

Langston Hughes once wrote:

Folks—

birthing is hard
and dying is mean
so get yourself a little loving
in between.

I love being married.

Yet the occasional pang of jealousy manifests itself when I hear of friends’ global exploits. France, Spain, Italy, Taiwan, England, Ireland, Greece, Ecuador, Israel, Honduras, India, New Zealand—in all these countries (and more) there currently resides at least one person knows Kristi Boyce. Provo is a great place and all, but if I had to choose between here and London? Well, you know.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than happy to be where I’m at. How could I ever be ungrateful to live in a country with so many freedoms, in a state with so much natural beauty, in a city with such good people and in an area that feels like home?

However, my passion for travel is ravenous. I am a lover of the world, of people, of cultures, of landscapes. Of restaurants, of art, of music, and of the faint yet raging current that flows beneath each city, carrying its vibe. New York, fashion. Paris, love. Hong Kong, business. Seattle, music. Each new place you visit resuscitates something virgin within you, a part of your soul you hadn’t previously discovered, and upon inhaling it you can never be the same.

The prospect of world travel would be much more plausible if I had mommy and daddy to pay my way. Yes, that would be nice. But seeing as how such isn’t the case, I’ve found ways to appreciate the world I’ve been given.

I may not be chanting the Bhagavad-Gita in an Indian ashram, but I do pray every night within the walls of my own home.

I may not be studying art in Florence, but the other week Brock and I bought canvases at a local craft store and made paintings of our own.

I may not be volunteering in an Ecuadorian orphanage, but I do care for eighteen two-year olds in nursery at church each week.


I may not be strolling the avenues of Paris with my lover, but there were roses waiting for me on the dining table when I got home from work today.

In between: “a little loving.”

Not “travel extensively” or “live in a foreign country for a few months.”

My world, though not as far-reaching as some of my peers, is just as fulfilling. Maybe someday I’ll see all the countries I daydream about. Or maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter. I’ve found myself a little loving.

Why roam?

The Dancing Queen

“Flamer.” “Fag.” “Gay.”

Such were the eloquent descriptions used by the skater kids next to me. Their buttcheeks peeped over the edges of their sagging jeans like pumpkins on a fencepost. Skateboards in one hand, iPhones in the other, they clicked and saved the spectacle before them to “My Pictures.”

It was a beautiful evening in Huntington Beach. Down at the pier, a crisp autumn wind slithered through the palm trees as a farmer’s market bustled below. The ocean shimmered in the fading sun. Lovers ambled lazily along the shoreline, volleyball players dove in the sand.

And then there was this guy: a complete disruption to the beach’s aesthetics. He looked to be about fifteen or sixteen years old and wore a denim hat, denim shorts, long-sleeved blue sweater, white socks rolled down around his ankles and black slip-ons that looked like inbred Vans. Nothing too shocking, I suppose—in a touristy city, you expect to run into a fashion disaster every block or so. But you don’t expect them to be dancing.

His stage? First, imagine a pier jutting out into the ocean. Coming inland you have the beach and sidewalk. To the right of the pier, the ground slopes slightly upward onto a grassy hill followed by stadium-style concrete benches. From the grass there are two long benches, a concrete walkway that extends back for about twenty feet, and then five more benches. It was on the concrete walkway that this boy performed. Muffled giggles, wide eyes and pointing fingers surrounded him on the benches both above and below him, but he seemed too absorbed in whatever he was listening to (Whitney Houston?) to care.

This fellow wasn’t just dancing. He looked like he was auditioning for the latest Beyonce video. Hips shaking here, booty moving there, head bobbing everywhere. With each cartwheel his white, fleshy stomach flubbered out of his shirt. His favorite move was strutting (and I mean strutting…Naomi Campbell style) for about twenty feet and then shooting both arms high into the air, feet hip-width apart, like he had just won American Idol. Every three minutes or so he would change/repeat the song on his iPod, adjust his earbuds and start the process all over again.

Initially, I thought he was doing this just for attention—a fair assumption given the circumstances. But I questioned that as I continued to watch/gawk at him. He danced with absolutely no inhibitions whatsoever and never once acknowledged his audience. If I've ever seen anybody in "their own little world" or "marching to the beat of a different drummer" it was him. Could it be that he was dancing simply because it made him happy? Sure, he was in view of hundreds of passers-by, but maybe that didn’t matter to him. Maybe the reason he was dancing in that area was because it was beautiful. If so, he couldn’t have chosen a better location in all of America. With the rest of the country washing their faces and brushing their teeth in the dark, he was dancing to the last blazing minutes of the sun’s workday. Each thrusting hip and shimmy seemed to say “Well, Sun, thanks for the gorgeous day! Your rising and setting were first class! I can't wait to see you tomorrow! Sleep tight!"

Was he homosexual? I’d say there’s a 95% chance yes. But anyone who looked at him and saw just a "fag" missed the better story (see previous post). How much better off would the world be if we all had the courage to do what made us happy despite popular opinion? There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Flamer, alone in his joy though he was, was ten times happier than the scuzzy skater kids who were mocking him. They who were trying so painfully hard to be cool with their unkempt hair, name-brand clothes, and foul language, while he found satisfaction in merely being who he was and doing what he loved.

I’ll never know what purpose (public attention? personal enjoyment?) this unnamed flailing enigma was dancing for. It doesn’t matter. As I left the pier that evening, I glanced back for one last look at him. He was smiling.

And so was I.

The Best Thing I Ever Learned in My Linguistics Class

I arrived fifteen minutes late to my Linguistics 230 class this morning. I wish it had been thirty. We were discussing morphemes, phonemes, affixes and a host of other mind-numbing dialectal details. Needless to say, after approximately twenty seconds of this I was incurably bored.

Out of my backpack I pulled a book—Yann Martel’s Life of Pi. In 2001 it won a few awards and garnered some popular attention, but has since slipped down the ranks of bestsellerdom to make room for the literary masterpieces of Stephenie Meyer (joke). I made a half-hearted attempt to conceal my reading of this book under my desk, though had my professor noticed, I wouldn’t have cared much.

Yann Martel recalls the true life experiences of a man named Piscine (Pi) Molitor Patel (as recounted to the author by Pi himself). Pi grew up a God-loving boy in Pondicherry, India. By the time he was sixteen, he was a practicing Hindu, Christian and Muslim. At that age, his father, a zookeeper, decided to move the family to Canada (due to political turmoil going on in India at the time). Their ship departs India on a beautiful summer day, brimming with the hope and anxiety of new beginnings. It sinks hours later. Pi then must fend for himself on a small lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean—with a 450 pound Bengal tiger as his crewmate.

Morphemes. Breaking down words in to their smallest constituent parts. Grand+mother. Holi+day.

The sheer beauty of this novel lies not with the fact that it’s an incredible true story. Rather, it is to be found in Pi’s journey of faith. Hinduism, Christianity and Islam are seemingly discordant religions to most, but Pi finds peace and harmony in each one of them. Yann Martel illustrates this process with poignant eloquence.

Phonemes. Breaking down words into their smallest constituent sounds. M of mat. B of bat.

“My Arabic was never very good, but I loved its sound. The guttural eruptions and long flowing vowels rolled just beneath my comprehension like a beautiful brook. I gazed into this brook for long spells of time. It was not wide, just as one man’s voice, but it was as deep as the universe.”

Affixes. A word element, such as a prefix or suffix, that can only occur attached to a base, stem, or root.

“I can well imagine an atheist’s last words: 'White, white! L-L-L-Love! My God!'—and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeastless factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying 'Possibly, a f-f-failing oxygenation of the b-b-brain,' and, to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.”

I learned more about linguistics from the ten pages I read this morning that I have during the dozens of hours I've sat through lecture.

If you truly want to learn anything at all, get out of the classroom and immerse yourself in great literature. Don’t miss the better story.

October: The Bane of My Existence

Any ESPN watcher is well aware that "there's only ONE October!"

On behalf of the wives of America: thank goodness.

For us, October is the most dreaded month of the year. Not because the warm summer months have officially departed. Nor owing to the fact that the Halloween smorgasbord of candy completely derails our diets. No. These things are of petty significance. What we're really concerned with is losing our husbands . . . to baseball playoffs.

It happens perennially. The first chilly airs of winter whistle through the air, leaves tumble from their branches, and our husbands become mindless MLB zombies, glued to Sportscenter. To women out there who have not yet experienced this bizarre event (single, engaged, just married, etc), allow me to offer you some advice:

Throughout the month of October, don't even try having a normal conversation with your husband--unless, of course, "normal conversation" to you involves pinch-runners, RBI's and batting averages. If not, get used to blank stares paired with pre-recorded responses: "OK, sounds great, no way, whatever, psch. OK, sounds great, no way, whatever, psch."

When his response-track becomes disjointed from your question-track, communicative errors ensue.

"Honey, can you help me move this piece of furniture?"

"No way."

"Darling, let's go out to eat."

"Whatever."

"Baby, I'm in the mood."

"Psch."

Also, be prepared to answer dicey questions from neighbors who are concerned over the recent escalation in yelling they hear from your home.

"Hey uh . . . how are you and Brock doing? Good? Oh, no reason. Just wondering. Um . . . if you ever need anything Kristi--ANYTHING--just let me know okay? My door's always open."

Little do they know, the incoherent screaming they're eavesdropping upon is not from martial disputes, but is instead a response to professional athletes who apparently don't know what they're doing.

"NOOO!! YOU'RE SERIOUSLY GOING TO WALK HIM?? DON'T YOU KNOW THE LINE-UP? AAAH HIT HIM HIT HIM HIT HIM HE'S STEALING SECOND!! THROWW!! IDIOT! YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!!"

Losing your husband to baseball is made even worse by the fact that it's all he ever talks about. It's like he's having an affair and won't shut up about how cool his mistress is. Say "sayanora" to discussing life goals, political issues and feelings. Stimulating conversations don't exist in October. Get used to hearing about the curse of the Billy goat, endless rants on why the Red Sox suck, and the history of the Dodgers and Vin Scully. The irony of Manny Ramirez playing for Joe Torre. How Coco Crisp really does look like the Cocoa Krispies monkey when he squints at bat.

Luckily, there is light at the end of the tunnel. With the handing out of the last piece of Halloween candy, November--and a new era--begins. The final game in the World Series has been played and at last your husband's focus can return to you. No more Angels, Red Sox, Dodgers, Cubs, Phillies, Brewers, Rays or White Sox. Only peace.

25 days and counting. I can't wait.

And go Angels.

A Strange Encounter

“I’ve discovered a phenomenon,” he exclaimed.

The statement seemed directed at me, but I had never seen this guy in my life. Was he speaking to someone behind me? I looked around...

Nope. I was the unfortunate target of what was to become a dreadfully awkward exchange.

“What’s your phenomenon?” I probed wearily. Can’t a girl just walk to class in peace?

“My knees are sweating.”

(Apparently, this sentence negates the socially-accepted norm of introducing yourself to a stranger.)

I tried hard not to balk at my nameless acquaintance. “Your KNEES are sweating?”

“Yes,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I’ve never had it happen before. Do yours ever do that?”

“Um . . . sometimes if I go on a long run outside in really hot weather the backs of my knees will sweat.”

“But it’s not the backs of my knees. It’s the fronts.”

“Oh . . . uh . . . maybe you have hyperactive knee-pores or something?”

“Maybe. I wonder why that happens.”

Of course, I didn’t have the heart to suggest that this “phenomenon” could possibly be attributed to the fact that he was drastically overweight—the obvious answer. Instead, I bumbled through the next thirty seconds offering various explanations and searching for a way out of this bizarre conversation. I pretended I had a class in the next building.

“Well, this is my stop—good luck with those knees!”

“Okay,” he said. I briefly saw the light flicker out of his eyes upon realizing his attempt to hit on me had failed. “I’ll see you later then. Have a good one.”

He seemed like a nice guy. Really, he did. But honestly, if “my knees are sweaty” is your line-of-choice for picking up women, you’ve got some serious self-evaluation to do.

This conversation taught me an important lesson: never underestimate the lengths a desperate returned missionary will go to. This fellow obviously hadn’t been on a date in a long time (if ever).

I feel for the guy though. After all, dealing with sweaty knee-balls is no picnic (so I’ve heard). Perhaps the side effect of this medical oddity is vision loss. Or, in particular, the inability to perceive stones of a precious nature. In the form of rings. On left hands.

They're cute when you're little. Not when you're 25.

My Addiction

I’m addicted to my planner.

I freely admit this. It’s a Gooseberry Patch planner with colorful pages, charming illustrations and “fresh-from-the-farmhouse recipes and simple ideas to welcome you home!” I love this planner as if it were my offspring.

Flashback: when I was a toddler, my father wasn’t watching me on the playground and I bonked my head on the edge of a metal slide. I had to get stitches, and now there is a slight scar on my right eyebrow. My father still feels guilty to this day. Those are sentiments that I can now relate to, for one time I spilled water on my planner. The scars are visible on its water-warped pages…a constant reminder of my carelessness.

I know these feelings are unhealthy, and I know I need help. How it came to this, I don’t know. It was a gradual process, I suppose…

My senior year of high school is when I first remember using a planner hard core. I wrote in it with different colored pens for different classes and drew cute doodle and illustrations. Precious. However, I was still a mild user at this time. There would be weeks where my planner was a nuclear warzone of pen, checkboxes and highlighting, and other weeks where it resembled a peaceful forest clearing. I guess you could say me and my planner had an on-again, off-again relationship. Think Kid Rock and Pam Anderson.

During my freshman year of college, things escalated. My planner became my everything. Every single little iota of information regarding my life was recorded. At times, I literally wrote down my daily schedule hour-by-hour. Pathetic, I know. Hundreds of X’d-off boxes dotted the pages. You know you have a serious problem when you create boxes for things you’ve already done just so you can get the high off of X-ing them off. Brush teeth? X. Make bed? X. Q-tip my ears? X. Obviously, this relationship had become an unhealthy one. Think Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards. Well, actually, think Charlie Sheen and anybody.

However, good did come of it. Due to the obsessive documentation contained in my 06-07 planner, it now functions as a journal. I keep it in a special black box along with every love letter/note that Brock has ever written me. Yes, my planner joins those ranks. Sad, but true. Nowadays, I refer to it quite frequently just for fun. I get some sort of twisted satisfaction from knowing that on the day Brock and I had our first kiss, I went to a physics lab.

I’m at the point where I feel like I’ve got my planner addiction under control. It always sits patiently in my backpack if I ever need it, but if for some inexplicable reason I leave it home, it’s not like I need to go pop a Xanax. Yet I am by no means fully recovered. About a month ago, I ran into a line of planners for women called “The Success Choice.” These planners have monthly values that you’re supposed to work on (dedication, integrity, charity, etc) along with checkboxes for everything imaginable. You name it. Monthly, weekly and daily cleaning tasks, your five daily fruits and veggies, eight glasses of water, exercise. Inspirational quotes line the margins! There are even pages for weekly and monthly self-evaluation!!!!!!!!!

I used this planner feverishly for about a month, but had to make myself stop. I went cold-turkey. I figured I was already enough of an anal, Type-A micromanaging psycho-organizer, so I followed Thoreau’s immortal advice (“Simplify, simplify, simplify…”) and did the unthinkable: I threw The Success Choice planner away. Well, actually, I recycled it (heaven forbid I go certifiably insane and throw a precious recyclable into a garbage can!!! bahahahaha!!!!).

I’m feeling much better now. Back to my old, trusty Gooseberry Patch. I’m getting a little antsy because the year is slowly coming to a close and that will mean choosing a new planner. The Success Choice lurks in the dark recesses of my mind. Ordering it would be quick and painless: 30 seconds and a few mouse clicks.

Resistance is difficult, but I have faith in myself. Who knows though? I may be calling you for moral support on December 31st, so do me a favor and keep your cell phone charged.

Curse you.

Rachael Ray: LIAR

Dear Rachael Ray,

I have a bone to pick with you. You have been quoted as saying:

"Tired of making the same old same old week after week after week? How about a brand new 30-minute dinner every night for an entire year? It's amazing what a half hour can do for your tastebuds!"

Ooh wow Rachael Ray! That's what I want! Let me run to Borders and buy all your cookbooks! Gee, I wish the speed limit on University Avenue was faster so I could get home and start cooking right away!!

Oh, wait. I forgot.

Your recipes make me want to kill myself!!

I have yet to make a meal of yours that has taken me less than an hour. Mince the yellow onion, seed and chop the jalapeno, dice the garlic cloves, season the chicken....AND POKE MY EYEBALLS OUT WHEN I REALIZE THAT I HAVEN'T EVEN GOTTEN TO "STEP ONE: BOIL THE WATER" YET! Are the titles of your books severe editing mistakes? Were they meant to be called "30 minutes of prep and then give up and order take-out meals?" That seems more appropriate.

And what's up what your "everyday ingredients?" 1/4 cup dry sherry eh? Hmm lemme go into my pantry and pull that off the wine shelf. Oh here it is, right next to my head of radicchio and three cups of cubed sourdough bread, how convenient!

Have you walked into a normal person's pantry lately? Normal people don't have fennel bulbs and kielbasa just lying around. How bout making a recipe with something I do have my pantry? Like Frosted Flakes, peanut butter and black beans? Let's be practical, here.

Also, what's goin' on with the cutesy little things you say on your show. "Yum-o!" Calling extra virgin olive oil "EVOO?" Real creative, Rach. Sandwiches are now "sammies?" Pack up your stupid sayings and low-cut shirts and get off my Food Network. Life was so much better when it was just Emeril.

And what's the point of cooking something of yours when I could have dinner at an upscale Parisian bistro for LESS MONEY? Why does every recipe of yours call for like, a pound of cheese? Are you aware that a pound of any given cheese costs like EIGHT WHOLE DOLLARS?! That means I have to put in an hour at work just to be able to afford the cheese for my Southwestern Chicken Bake. You know what that is? Pretty messed up, that's what. Pretty dang messed up.

Shrimp and Crab Fritters with Chopped Salad and Roasted Red Pepper and Pickle Vinaigrette?

Oh yeah let's make that for the kids they'll looooove that one.

Lemony Crispy Chicken Cutlets and Roasted Tomato Salad with Pine Nuts and Blue Cheese?

Pine nuts, eh? That's funny because last time I checked, I was a human. Not a chipmunk.

Involtini all'Enotec'Antica with Gnocchi?

Newsflash. THIS IS AMERICA. We speaky-ehspeaky English, yah?

Am I being too picky? Is it wrong for me to just want something quick to fix for my husband and I after a long day of classes? Apparently so. Until then, I guess I'm stuck with Broccoli Frittata with Goat Cheese and Pumpkin Polenta.

Sincerely,
Kristi Boyce

Go away.

Greetings from 24 Hour Fitness!

Dear New 24 Hour Fitness Member,

Thanks for joining our gym! It's commendable that you've made a New Years Resolution to get fit and have subsequently shelled out several hundred dollars to our company!

There are a few things you might like to know as you begin your journey on the road to a healthful (that's how we say it here...yes, we know it bugs you) lifestyle.

1. Our gym will be extremely crowded during the month of January. Hey, you're not the only one wanting to shed those extra pounds! We get dozens of new members at the start of the year, and even dozens more suddenly remember they have a gym membership! Never mind those people who've been coming religiously for months! There is no such thing as gym etiquette, so do as you please!

2. Girls: You absolutely MUST go to Victoria's Secret and a pair of booty shorts that say "PINK" on the derriere. Cellulite or no cellulite, you have to fit in! And while you're at it, pick up the latest, pinkest pair of Nikes that you can. Fashionable, expensive gym attire says "I'm serious here!" and is SURE to help you lose weight even faster!!

3. Take all the time you need on the machines! Really, be our guest! Get those thumbs moving and text ALL your friends in between sets on the leg press! Reading helps a lot too, so bring along your copy of the latest Stephanie Meyer book! Read a page or two in between sets on the shoulder press....you're not inconveniencing anybody!

4. Guys: Be sure to look at your muscles after EVERY MOVEMENT. This is of utmost importance. Nothing helps build sexy, cut muscle like staring at it. Also, grunt as loud as you want at the bench press--let everybody around you know how terribly hard you're working! And don't forget to bring your buddies to the gym with you and hit on all those girls who have "PINK" on the butt of their shorts. Most importantly: look like a douchebag! Wear those tight wifebeaters and puff out your chest. Put on that shirt with the arm holes cut down to your waist . . . gotta flaunt those tris! Give others a daily dose of inspiration by sporting your high school basketball shirt . . ."We work together. We play together. We succeed together. McKinney Heights Varsity Basketball '02." Truer words ne'er were spoken, my friend!

5. Whatever you do, DON'T SWEAT. Walk out our door looking the same as when you walked in. Girls, don't muff up your ponytail or makeup! And heaven forbid you pit out your shirt. Who wants to see that cute new iPod Nano on a sweaty armband? Not us! The gym is SOCIAL TIME--not kick-your-own-butt time! Talk to your roommates, call your mom, text your significant other, but whatever you do . . . don't work out TOO hard.

Well, that's it for our tips! We're so excited to have you here at 24 even though we don't expect to see much of you when you realize you're still fat in mid-February! Maybe by then there will be a little more room in our gym to work out for those who are truly committed to fitness. Above all, remember: it's a great day to get in shape!

Warm Regards,
The Management

A gym necessity!

Speak English!

For those reading who are not LDS: "RM" is short for "returned missionary."

To the guy sitting next to me in Biology 100:

“Como estas” this “Me encanta esa cancion” that. Okay, WE GET IT. You speak Spanish. You served your mission in Mexico or Chile or Nicaragua or something like that.

Welcome home—it’s English time.

This happens a lot at BYU, where 8 out of 10 students are bilingual due to missionary service. It’s pretty cool, yes, but I think many would agree that there are some mildly annoying side effects. Mainly: people being bilingual and wanting everybody around them to know. This happens primarily with guys.

FYI, girls aren't dumb. We all know you’re just trying to impress us when you stand in the middle of the Cougareat talking loudly in French on your cell.

Newsflash: 99% of eligible BYU bachelorettes are seeking returned missionaries and, as a result, pretty much ASSUME that any marriagable guy they flirt with is bilingual (unless you served state-side, which is cool too). Go ahead and chat away on your cell in French/Russian/German/Mandarin/etc with your voice a decibel or two louder than normal. Or you could just make it easy on yourself and say "Hey! I've been home for almost a year and am still single! Date me PLEASE!"

So Bio 100 guy, stop flirting in Spanish with that girl behind you. If she’s at BYU taking a science class, she probably speaks English too. And if the reason you’re talking in Spanish is because you want to keep the conversation private, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but chances are that 60 of the 100 guys in our classroom served Spanish-speaking missions just like you. And they all understand exactly what you're saying, just like me (Spanish 205, baby. Fall semester. A-. Eat it).

On a closing note: when you RMs see an old comp walking 50 yards away, it isn’t necessary to get his attention by shouting “Hu chin pao!” or “Oye!” or “Kauao na’talii!” for all to hear. A simple “dude!” will suffice. You’re both white guys wearing Hollister shirts. Speak English.

Sorry, fellas. These days are over. Welcome home to the states.

Things I Hate About My Major

So I work in the BYU preschool, and every Friday me and a few other girls have to work on the little kids' project books....basically, a huge collection of stuff they've made throughout the summer that we throw in a book for them to take home. Precious. Anyways, so we have captions for each project we do. Por ejemplo . . .

July 16, 2008

After Miss Theresa taught us about bark, we looked at bark chippings with magnifying lenses and drew what we observed.

We mount these captions on colored paper. Then we mount the actual project (usually a picture) on to the same color of colored paper (careful!! Cosmic Blue looks an awful lot like Lunar Aqua, and heaven forbid you get them mixed up!!!) Rubber cement them to some Solar Orange and BAM you've got yourself a good looking page, right?

Seems simple enough. Well, today we were told that the mountings on the captions were thicker than the mountings on the pictures, so we had to re-do a HUGE stack of them. Are you kidding me?? Will Josie's mom really come tramping into the preschool, furious over the unevenness of the mountings on Josie's BARK RUBBINGS???

So I'm irritated. This is a total, complete waste of my time. Wouldn't it be more helpful to learn about classroom strategies or discipline, maybe?? But anyways, I go along with it. Some of the pages do look a little messed up (emphasis on A LITTLE) so I'm like whatever.

But the two girls next to me start to like, stress out maaaajor. Agonizing over PAPER!!!! "Is this even?" "Is that border too thick?" "Should I crop this a little more?" "Is there any way to smooth this out?" "Will the rubber cement stain the page?"

I start goin' crazy. I mean, I don't wanna say anything to these girls but inside I'm like you have GOT to be joking me! They are seriously having a cow. I mean geez if are stressing out over THIS how are you ever going to function in the real world?? Do you even know what the real world is?? (Mind you, these are girls who watch only G-rated movies and have never kissed a guy).

I walk down the hall to grab some rubber cement. The preschool's secretary is Facebooking and reading people's blogs. Wonderful.

Back in the room, the song "I Kissed a Girl" comes on the radio. "This song has an awesome hook," I say. "It gets in your head."

The two girls are obviously disgusted by the fact that I find the mildest of enjoyment in a song promoting lesbian activity. "This song is disgusting. I hate it" they say. Well allllllllrighty then!

I try to strike up another conversation. "Where are you from?" I ask one of the girls. "South Jordan," she says bluntly. No further comment. No "where are you from?" back or ANY elaboration on the conversation. What the shiiiizzz!!!! Have they no social skills whatsoever?? AM I THE ONLY NORMAL PERSON HERE??

"GUYS," I finally say. "Is Mr. Brad (our teacher) really going to be scrutinizing these pages THIS closely? I'm a perfectionist myself, and these look totally fine. I mean, this is ridiculous."

So what do these girls do? The mature thing of course! SHUN ME. It's horribly awkward for the rest of the time we're working. They won't make eye contact or talk to me. Not like they were before or anything.

As much as I hate to admit it, the stereotypes are true: most (not ALL, mind you...but a good percentage of) El Ed majors are just "sweet spirited" girls who could never survive in the real world. Does it REALLY matter if I put twelve drops of red dye into the play-doh instead of ten? If I accidently set out tangrams instead of puzzles for the kids to play with, will the world be set ablaze with unquenchable white-hot flames of DOOM??

Unfortunatley for these girls, it will. And unfortunatley for me, I have to work with them. And that's why I can't wait to get OUT of school, AWAY from Utah and live in the REAL world doing things MY way.

And unlike most other El Ed majors, I'll look daaaang good doing it too.

Typical el ed major.

"Screw this, I'm going to TJ Maxx"

Have you ever found yourself saying these magical words?

Yesterday I was hopelessly searching for a place to park on campus. Unbeknownst to Al Gore, the reason why there's this mondo hole in the o-zone layer is 'cause BYU students emit enormous amounts of toxic emissions during our daily search for parking.

This was a particularly bad day, which I found peculiar seeing as how it was a Friday. Lots of students avoid Friday classes, and because of that it's usually the easiest day to find parking. Imagine my surprise when, alas, my trusty 400 East lot was completely full. And the one on 300 East! Between those two lots, I can almost always find a parking spot. But not today.

I ended up having to park all the way down at the PROVO CITY LIBRARY. 600 South?? Are you kidding me?? As if that wasn't bad enough, the class I had to get to was in the JKB!!!!! Canada is closer than the JKB.

I turned off the engine and began to cry.

I'm not kidding. No really, I'm not. While this is more-than-slightly embarrassing, I blame it on the emotional instability I was suffering from at the moment: I had not gotten enough sleep the night before and was STARVING because of a two-week Ramadan fast I was doing for my world religions class. Eating from sunrise to sunset wasn't allowed, and sunset was a bleak ten hours away...

"Screw this, I'm going to TJ Maxx."

The thought came to my mind like a heavenly message. I looked around, expecting to see my great-great-great grandmother dressed in white, declaring these glad tidings.

Nope. I had thought it myself. The little red devil on my left shoulder was tempting me to skip out on class and give in to my carnal desires.

Could I really do it? Could I, Kristi Boyce, *gulp* DITCH class for retail therapy?

This moral dilemma lasted all of two seconds. Before I knew it I was in the TJ Maxx parking lot at 9:15am waiting for the doors to open at 9:30.

What's better, I wasn't the only person waiting there.

Ninety minutes and $50 later, I was healed. I think most women out there (or at least the other three who were out waiting in the parking lot with me) will admit that TJ Maxx has some serious homeopathic abilities. Acupuncture? Seaweed wraps? Massages? Forget those. Gimme a gift card.

I went on to have a fabulous rest of the day, even if I totally did cheat on Ramadan (the first and only day I've done so!). Jena brought HOMEMADE OREOS to work. Talk about temptation! I have some serious willpower, but a girl's only human y'know. I devoured four of those suckers.

My love.