I Should Have Known Better

Brock and I are spending a few days with my family in FoCo before heading back to Provo for school. Seeing as how both of us are jobless (and, since our departures from Tucanos, sane) we've had to get creative with the whole making-enough-money-to-pay-rent thing. Being the go-getters that we are, we decided to take advantage of our time in Colorado and ask my mom if she had any odd jobs for us to do around the house.

I should have known better.

When we made this request to my darling mother, some of the "odd jobs" we had in mind were maybe, oh I dunno...babysitting, mowing the lawn, filing bills for my dad's Medicare patients, cleaning, etc.

But my mom is a smart woman. She recognizes cheap labor when she sees it, and, after all, beggars can't be choosers. So she decided that this week--the one week when Brock and I happen to be in town--would be deliciously opportune for her to undertake the most drastic landscaping endeavor the Thomas home has seen in years.

My mother decided that she doesn't much care for mulch; that she prefers river rock, and would love to line our retaining wall with said product. Enter Brock and Kristi. This job required us to remove all the mulch that was already lining the retaining wall, lay down tarp where the rocks would go (to prevent weeds and sinkage), and then transport 10 tons of river rock via wheelbarrow to the mulch's previous residence.

Yes, folks, 10 tons. I am not exaggerating.
(For those of you with arithmetic impediments, that 20,000 pounds.)

Did I mention that this is only one of the jobs assigned to us!? My mom also decided to build a new wooden entry deck to a door on the side of the house (have fun with that one, Brock!), suddenly became aware that our driveway was in dire need of caulking, and that it was time to harvest an entire ravine's worth of chokecherries to make chokecherry jam. Amazing how all this back-breaking work percolated and festered for years, but then suddenly erupted into the Perfect Storm of Labor rightwhen we arrive into town! Coincidence? I think not!

A word to the wise: the next time you're wanting to make a quick, easy buck, do not approach Holly Kern Thomas. You should know better.

Proof That My Little Bros Are Cuter Than Yours

So, in case you were unaware, I am the oldest of six kids. The two youngest ones, Caden and Connor, are five and four, respectively. Brock and I are currently babysitting all my siblings (minus Caleb, who's on a mission in NYC) while my parents celebrate their 20-some-odd anniversary in Aspen (cue the "bow chicka wow wow").

This morning, Brock took our lovely little dog Mojo out for a run on the beautiful Cathy Fromme Prairie trail. He came back and was idyllicly perusing the newspaper, dog in lap, on our deck that overlooks the prairie. Life couldn't have gotten much better...except Brock was in for a rude awakening.

[Connor walks on to the deck.]

"Hey Brooock, whacha doin?"
"I'm reading the paper."
"Why?"
"Because I like to know what going on in the world."
"Oh. But none of it's true."
Brock cocks an eyebrow. "What?"
"The newspaper. It's just all lies."
"Where did you hear that?"
"Um...on a TV show. Called...things that aren't true."
"Ooooh I see."

[enter Caden]

"Yeah Brock," he adds. "It's all just old stuff."
"It's stuff that happened a long time ago," says Connor. "Like, to the pioneers."
Caden nods in solemn agreement. "It doesn't even talk about Jesus."

An Ode to Peanut Butter Twix

It's beckoned me.

At every gas station, at every 7-11, at every vending machine. I've done quite well at resisting thus far, knowing full well that "just once" would open the flood gates for a new generation of junk food cravings, but yesterday--in a moment of weakness--I succumbed.

I walked into a 7-11. Why? I don't know. I went in for no reason in particular, although I do recall a strange, magnetic sensation propelling me through the revolving door. And there it was before me: the veritable apogee of all that is scrumptious. Chocolate. Peanut butter. Cookie. Crunchy, yet smooth. Rich, yet airy.

After weeks of denying myself, the temptation got to be too much. I'm not a nun, for Pete's sake! I eagerly paid for my wares and hurried outside to savor what was sure to be a glorious mistake.

I delicately opened the wrapper and beheld the apex of human existence: two four-inch long dark chocolate wafers, lightly glossed with peanut butter, enveloped in milk chocolate ecstasy. 

Indulgence.

Cherubim fluttered around me as seraphim sang heavenly praises to the God of All That is Tasty and Delicious: Mars, Inc. 

I always thought it was kind of lame how the Fall of Man happened over fruit and not like Belgian chocolate or anything. Or at least a Hershey bar, for crying out loud. I always thought that, had I been Eve, Adam and I would still be living in paradise surrounded by cute snow leopards or something. But yesterday, as I partook of myForbidden Fruit, I understood where Eve must have been coming from. I guess indulgence is relative.

Is there a more perfect junction of palatable pleasure? Nay. The food industry has reached its zenith, for all future developments will most certainly pale in comparison to the Herculean achievement that is the peanut butter Twix.

A pregnant woman's dream.

One of the Perks of Being a Political Science Major

Sometimes when you're studying for finals, it feels more like you're reading a Dan Brown novel...

He was so close he could taste it.

Dr. Bruce Ivins was a breath away from discovering a vaccine for the anthrax virus. Dollar signs flashed before his eyes. The government would pay millions for it. Perhaps a Noble prize was in his future? The possibilities were both endless and alluring for a man with humble Ohio beginnings.

Unfortunately, the government placed strict regulations on testing anthrax drugs on animals. His research hit a dead end. This news did not bode well for Ivins who was, in fact, deeply mentally disturbed. He personally admitted to having severe issues with depression and paranoia...

I'm a little dream-self, short and stout.
I'm the other half of Bruce — when he lets me out.
When I get all steamed up, I don't pout. 
I push Bruce aside, then I'm free to run about.

Suddenly, in 2001, people around the United States started receiving anthrax in their mail. U.S. Senator Tom Daschle. Patrick Leahy. The news stations at ABC, CBS, NBC. People were dying.

Initially, Ivins was invited to be an investigator on the case, having himself obtained a PhD. in microbiology. For some time, the FBI focused its investigation on Steven Hatfill, considering him to be the chief suspect in the attacks. In March 2008, however, authorities exonerated him. 

After Hatfill was no longer considered a suspect, Ivins began "showing signs of serious strain". As a result of his changed behavior, he lost access to sensitive areas at his job. Ivins began submitting false anthrax samples to the FBI (to throw investigators off his trail?) and was unable to provide "an adequate explanation for his late laboratory work hours" around the time of the attacks, according to the government documents.

Late in July 2008, investigators informed Ivins of his impending prosecution for his alleged involvement in the 2001 anthrax attacks that Ivins himself had previously assisted authorities in investigating.

On the morning of July 27, 2008, police found Dr. Bruce Edwards Ivins unconscious in his home. He had overdosed on prescription Tylenol with codeine. Suicide. Two days later, on a bed in Fredericks Memorial Hospital, he took his secrets to the grave.

My Top 10 Facebook Grievances

Mmmkay. Full disclosure: I enjoy Facebook as much as anybody, but there are certain things people do on it, The Shining Beacon of TMI, that irk me beyond belief.

Under the banner of social decency, I have decided to list (in no particular order) my top 10 Facebook grievances (hey, Martin Luther must have gotten his start somewhere too, right?). If you have committed one of the following offenses: fear not. It doesn't make you a bad person. I just groan when you pop up (AGAIN) on my newsfeed.

1. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Woodstock was soooo 40 years ago. "Peace and love" are NOT religious views. Nor is "karma" a political view. If you're not a religious person, then just say so. If you really don't know what's going on in politics, there's handy little option for you: "moderate."

2. Needlessly taking quizzes. Now, don't get me wrong. I think some of the quizzes on here are fun. But when people take quizzes like "What temple will you get married in?" when they're ALREADY MARRIED, it gets a little ridiculous. Do you really need to take the "How well do you know so-and-so?" quiz when so-and-so is your mom? Nothing is more annoying then when your newsfeed is clogged up with one person taking 20 random quizzes. C'mon people.

3. Posting song lyrics as your status. I don't know why this bugs me so much. Maybe I'm just not up-to-date with all the new-age emo lyrics that people are into these days. But in my opinion, unless those song lyrics truly describe your life in that moment (e.g. you write "won't you pleeeease pleeeease help me!" as a burglar is about to stab you in the face) then say something else. 

4. Do you seriously have 100 favorite musical artists? You honestly couldn't whittle it down to say, ten-ish? If not, then kudos. You're more musically literate than I (which admittedly isn't hard to be). But I will always harbor a sneaking suspicion that you were really just bored on some idle Saturday with nothing better to do than update your profile.

5. "Deep" statuses (stati?). "Jane is: gazing heavenward...but sees only blackness." Hmm. There are probably more appropriate venues for you to express the metaphysical ramblings of your inner soul other than...a FB status. Just sayin'.

6. Stop taking pictures of yourself. Really. No amount of picture-taking will make you hotter than you actually are. And the whole taking-a-picture-of-yourself-standing-in-front-of-a-mirror: sooo passe. Oh, and you're not the first person to own a Macbook either, trust me. I don't need to see a full album of all you having fun with PhotoBooth. I've seen hundreds of bug-eyed fish faces. They're not funny anymore.

7. Girls: slutty pictures of you acting lesbian with all your friends. I don't wanna see pictures of you squeezing your friend's boob, or like having your tongues jutting out towards each other, or giving each other lap dances. It's not sexy. It's nasty. 

8. Updating your status every five hours. If the only person showing up on your wall is YOU, consider easing up a bit . . .

9. Getting invited to events when I don't live ANYWHERE NEAR YOU. It would be great to celebrate your 21st birthday at the Drunken Monkey, but I don't live in Fort Collins anymore. And I don't drink. And if you're unaware of both those facts...then why are you inviting me to your birthday party??

10. When people's random box is waaay too random. "I would pay to see a life size animatronic dinosaur show. I really would." Yes, I'm talking to you Sierra Robinson :)


The end.

What Dante Omitted: PTSD (The Eighth Level of Hell)

Most of you have probably heard of “posttraumatic stress disorder.” For those of you who are unfamiliar with this or whose only exposure to it has been via the glowing rays of color emitted from your television during an episode of CSI:Miami, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can occur after you have been through a traumatic event. A traumatic event is something horrible and scary that you see or that happens to you. During this type of event, you think that your life or others' lives are in danger. You may feel powerless over your circumstances. Feeble. Afraid.

What you may not know is that PTSD is actually a generalized term that originated from a more specific type of disorder. My friends, Posttraumatic Stress Disorder was actually once known as “Posttucanos Stress Disorder,” but the term has since been broadened for the sake of the general public.

Posttucanos Stress Disorder is a debilitating disease that regularly affects more than 200 people worldwide. Symptoms include intense irritability, frustration and manic rage. These symptoms are often taken out on the spouses of those who suffer, leading to marital distress and—in extreme cases—lack of libido.

The road to PTSD is winding and varied. Listen to what the following PTSD sufferers have to say about their journey into the abyss:

It was a Monday night. Slow, as usual. I was in the pit. Suck. I had come to grips with the fact that I was going to make no money, but then—a glimmer of hope. My manager told me he was going to put an 8-top in my section. Yes! I thought. An 8-top meant an automatic 18% gratuity…it wouldn’t save my night by any means, but it would lessen the sting. Little did I know that this 8-top was comprised of two adults with their six young children (all under the age of six). Everyone got waters. And they had a birthday card.
-Anonymous

It was a Saturday night. Busy, as usual. I was in the 40s. Sweet. My managers told me to brace myself—a 30-top was coming in at 5:30, and they were saving my whole section for it. Big money!! 5:30 came. 5:30 went. 6:00 came. 6:00 went. 6:30 came. 6:30 went. They finally waltzed into the lobby at 7:00, and the entire party sat down all at once. I was prepared for this. Boom, boom, boom I got their drink orders and went back to the bar to get everything. That’s when I realized that nobody had been stocking. We were out of ice. Out of carafes. Out of sours. Out of tumblers. To make matters worse, the 30-top was NuSkin. We only had 3 wine glasses. And they all wanted separate checks.
-Anonymous

I knew I was in trouble when my table didn’t speak English. To add insult to injury, it was a 5-top and therefore ungratable. I watched in agony as they ordered lobster, a shrimp skewer, and gallons of booze. Their check was over $300. They left me $5.
-Anonymous

I was stoked when I got phased at 8:30. Little did I know that we still had mountains of sidework. I figured there’d be people there to help me soon enough, but at 8:30 we got a huge rush. Everybody’s sections were full. I peeled two 50-lb bags of potatoes and rolled three crates of silverware. At 10:00 I went to get my print-out, but the bar was behind on closing checks. I figured it would give me some time to do my closing sidework, so I looked up at the chart to see what I had to do. The drain. A half-hour later I finally got my print-out and gave it to a manger so he could change my numbers. He told me “just a minute.” It’s now been three weeks. I’m still at Tucanos waiting for my numbers to be changed. I think they’ve forgotten that I work here.
-Anonymous

Situations like these happen every day at Tucanos and, as you can imagine, PTSD is rampant amongst employees. Fortunately, there is a cure. It’s called Getanewjobyrll. This FDA-approved medication is covered by most insurers and can drastically alleviate the symptoms of PTSD. As with any medication, there are side effects to Getanewjobyrll. These include restlessness, insomnia, headache, tremor, dry mouth, confusion, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, nausea, constipation, menstrual complaints, rash, dry mouth, urinary retention, blurred vision, weight gain, weight loss, diarrhea and inability to achieve an erection. If you are unwilling to accept the risk of these side effects, PTSD has only one other known solution: faking your own death.

If you would like to personally donate to the cause of PTSD, please call 801-224-4774 and make a reservation at Tucanos. Be kind and courteous to your server, as they will most certainly be the same to you. Have class and show appreciation by tipping them 20% of the original amount of the check (i.e. pre-coupons). To make this easy for you, follow this rule: look at the first two digits of the bill, stick a decimal point between them, and double that number.

Your check is $45.67. Pay attention only to the 4 and 5. Stick a decimal point between them—4.5. Double that number. That means you should leave a $9 tip.

If your check skyrockets into the triple-digit range ($100 and up) follow the same rule, but instead look at the first three numbers and stick a decimal point after the first two. Then double that number.

Your check is $175.23. Pay attention only to the 1, 7 and 5. Stick a decimal point between after the first two numbers—17.5. Double that number. That means you should leave a $35 tip.

If your check exceeds the triple-digit range and is over $1000, then you are really freaking rich and probably have a black American Express card and already know how to tip. Therefore, no advice is needed.

If the makers of Getanewjobyrll and the general public work together, the sufferers of PTSD will be sufferers no more. As a victim of PTSD myself, I thank you for educating yourself on this incapacitating disease and hope that you will do your part in the future to prevent it.

How to Know if You've Married a Dork

Ladies of the World,

It's a Wednesday night. But not just ANY Wednesday night, mind you. It's April 15th, 2009. Yes, yes, yes, it's El Dia de Taxos, but it ALSO marks the official end of classes for BYU students. Nothing's due today! Unforeseen hours lay unscheduled before you! And what will you do with this time, Ladies of the World? You there, in the back. What would you do? What's that? A night out on the town with your husband? Your amazingly good-looking, funny, charismatic husband? Well, naturally!

What shall you do? Dinner? (Don't worry--you've gift cards aplenty!) A movie? (Dollar theater!) Perhaps a candlelit rendezvous in your sleeping quarters mmmmm??

No.

If you're married to MY husband, your school-free Wednesday evening will include idling away the hours at Barnes and Noble.

His idea. I swear.

Quote: "Hey! If we're lucky those comfy chairs in the business section will be open!!!"- Brock Boyce 4/15/2009

Why, exactly, is my husband so bent on going to Barnes and Noble, you ask? Get this: he wants to "brush up on his calculus." Yes, my friends. He wants to go to Barnes and Noble with his rented-from-the-Provo-City-Library-old-edition calculus textbook and READ IT.

?!?!?!?!?!?!

April 15th, 2009. I had my suspicions about Brock before, but today they were confirmed: I'm married to a dorkasaurus.

HAHAHAHA!!!
(Brock probably thinks this is the funniest picture ever.)

First in Battle

He was turning 88.

His wife—an elegant, poised, seemingly majestic woman—sat across from him. Surrounding the rest of the table were their children and their spouses. One of his birthday gifts sat directly in front of him: a huge carton of RedVines. (I guess the man was known for his sweet tooth.)

Some co-workers and I came out to sing the Brazilian “happy birthday” song to him. His eyes glimmered and an infectious smile crept across his crinkly face as we butchered the Portuguese we were singing in. My mind was elsewhere. Refills to table 13, bring check to table 25, dessert tray to 15, ring in lemonades for 24 . . .

The song ended. I said a quick, customary “Happy birthday, sir” and went off to take care of the rest of my tables. But as I turned to leave, the old man caught me by the arm.

“Young lady,” he said.

My heart quickened as he pulled me closer.

“You go home and tell all your friends that this was the day you were kissed on the hand by a Marine! “

He gingerly lifted my hand to his lips, as if he was about to sip from a cup made of fine China. Looking directly into my eyes, he softly kissed the front of my hand and then slowly brought it back down to my side.

“And that’s how you do it!” he beamed. There was that smile again. “Would you like to hear a poem?”

“Of course I would!”(As if I was going to say “no” to that!)

It was a love poem. Not an overused classic like Sonnet #18 or a soliloquy from Romeo and Juliet—it had a different tambour to it. It sounded like something a soldier would write to his wife waiting back home. Or lyrics to an old Sam Cook song. I glanced over at his wife. She’d heard it before.

So there I was, standing face-to-face with a member of the greatest generation our country has ever seen. Having a love poem recited to me, no less! Had Brad Pitt sat down at one of my tables I couldn’t have cared less.

 The poem ended, but I didn’t want to leave. I searched for a conversation-starter:

 “My grandpa was a Marine, too. He fought in WWII and Korea. Which wars did you fight in?”

 “Really, now? I was in WWII y’see. I was at Iwo Jima. You know what Iwo Jima is?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Got shot right through here,” he pointed to his left thigh, “and still got shrapnel floating around in here,” he patted his right shoulder. “Y’know what they say. Once a Marine, always a Marine! Them Navy guys are always out on the water, them Air Force guys are always out flying around, and then you got them Army guys on land doin’ who knows what. But we Marines are always first in battle, y’see. Just like our song says.”

 

From the Halls of Montezuma
To the Shores of Tripoli;
We fight our country's battles
In the air, on land and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom 
And to keep our honor clean; 
We are proud to claim the title 
of United States Marine.

 

This man was part of a diminishing generation of great patriots. It’s a shame I only knew him for five minutes. Unfortunately, patriotism like his is often frowned upon these days. It seems to be in vogue to criticize, belittle and even feel ashamed of our country. Just ask Sean Penn, Gwenyth Paltrow, or a host of other high-profile celebrities. For those of you who wonder why I’m stuck in the old-fogey traditional mindset of years past: this Marine is the reason.

 He didn’t step on the battleground of Iwo Jima so that moral relativism could pervade our society

He didn’t get shot in the thigh with the hopes that future progressive thinkers would have the “freedom” to hate America. I recently saw one of these progressive thinkers, the leader of an anti-war activist group call Code Pink, on a news show. This group desperately protests for the removal of U.S. troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. Instead, they call for “diplomacy” and “peacemaking.”

With the Taliban. Interesting. I hope that works out for them.

Such people are so jaded by their idealism that there becomes a gray line between good and evil. That way, everyone can do what they want and be happy, right? We all deserve the opportunity to exercise our freedoms! Our rights! It’s what the Founding Fathers wanted! (If a Utopian free-for-all is what you think the Founding Fathers wanted, then you’re in dire need of a history lesson.) If there truly is a gray line between good and evil, the Marine who serenaded me wouldn’t have war scars all over his body. If there truly is a gray line between good and evil, 3000 people would still being going home to their families tonight after their workday at the World Trade Center.

 My point is that you can’t be “first in battle” if there’s nothing to fight for. I know it. This Marine knew it. And the 144,000 troops deployed in Iraq know it too. If America is to remain a beacon of democracy, her citizens need to be proud of their heritage and fight for the good.

Semper fidelis.

 

Babies, Babies, Everywhere

Wassup Nadya! Or should I say Angelina? How are those octoplets treating you? Oh, they're still in the hospital? Some of them are in the ICU? Wow, that must be expensive. $1 million and counting? Dang. Hopefully your husband has a a good job! What's that you say? No father in the home? Oh. Great. California tax-payers are footing the hospital bills and welfare? Hmmm. How are the other six kids? What's that? You don't know? Your mother is their primary caregiver?

Alfie! Wow. When I was thirteen I wanted to go see A Goofy Movie at the dollar theatre, not be a parent. Where were your parents the night you impregnated your girlfriend? Well, nevermind. I guess that doesn't matter anymore. 13. Shoot. I didn't know little boys' whistles even worked at that age. But I guess they work enough. How does it feel knowing that you'll be just 31 years old when your kid graduates high school? That is, if he DOES graduate high school. Having a 13-year old dad and 15-year old mom could really mess someone up, you know. But I'm sure you guys know what you're doing. After all, you're in LOVE right? And parenting is nothin'.

To quote Marvin Gaye: what's goin on???

Has everyone taken crazy pills lately? The 10 o'clock news has turned into a circus! Babies here, babies there. Nadya Suleman, Alfie Patten, Bristol Palin, Jamie Lynn Spears, on and on and on. For those of you who are unaware: parenting is a HUGE deal. It is NOT a trend. It is NOT something that just anyone can do at any time. Having a child and knowing how to care for one are two ENTIRELY different things.

To all my friends who are sexually active: if you're not looking to have a kid, you better be practicing safe sex or else I will find you and kick you in the face. If you ARE looking to have a kid, I pray to God that you know what you're getting yourself into.

To all my friends who aren't sexually active: if you're smart, you'll stay that way until marriage.

If you're in the difficult position of going through an unplanned (unwanted?) pregnancy--panicked by the daunting responsibilites that will soon be upon you--I congratulate you. At least you have some idea of what parenthood entails. I also invite you to watch a commercial the NBC rejected to air during this year's past SuperBowl: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2CaBR3z85c

We're currently in a war with Iraq, the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression, and our educational system is in need of dire reform. Yet none of these dilemmas hold a candle to the effects of the degeneration of the traditional familiy unit. You want REAL problems? Then watch what happens when families deterioate. $787 billion won't do you jack.

Husband-wife-child.

Not boyfriend-girlfriend-child.

Not fiancee-fiancee-child.

Not mother-child.

Not father-child.

Please, people. Let's get it right.