An (Almost Contradictory) Sequel to a Previous Post

Apparently I have so many deep, meaningful thoughts swirling around up here that just one "reflection on married life" blog post just isn’t going to cut it.

I previously went off about how marriage hasn’t been different at all and how much life hasn’t changed. This stuff is all true. But with Brock being gone so much playing baseball, my situation often temporarily reverts back to “Single Carolyn”. Being "Married Carolyn" in "Single Carolyn's" life has made me aware of the presence of at least one small change...

I have always considered myself to be quite impulsive. A quick Target run for chapstick and gum once ended in a full fledged shopping spree; I left the store only after forking out half a paycheck for a new bedspread/sheet set, a church dress, shoes, shampoo, an air freshener, a lamp and some Flinstone gummy vitamins. (Which I’m pretty sure I polished off by the time I got home. I love gummy vitamins- they’re totally justifiable candy.) Oh, I also got the lip gloss and gum, in case you were wondering. There have been far too many instances like this in my life. And this impulsive behavior doesn’t only occur while shopping. One time I cut my own bangs merely ten minutes after watching a Neutrogena commercial that featured a cute, indy looking girl with blunt cut bangs. The result? I looked like someone got drunk and cut my hair with a samurai sword. Heaven forbid I wait a day and let a pro tackle the job for 10 bucks.

Well, I recently went shopping one solo afternoon to kill some time. I figured I deserved a little indulgence, being the strong, enduring baseball widow that I was. My drug of choice? Forever 21, of course. There is nothing more satisfying than finding the perfect gem of a shirt for $10, even if you have to spend hours rifling through piles of unorganized, bejeweled/tasseled garments first. Oddly enough, once I got to Forever 21, I couldn’t seem to get myself to actually buy anything. There were plenty of fine garments worthy of my purchase. Believe me, I wanted to go all out and spoil myself with this poor quality, but affordable/trendy crap.This was therapy, dang it! This was my loneliness coping mechanism! I puttered around the store for hours, my arms full of potential purchases, deliberating. I made a few unsuccessful attempts to try on a confusing drapey/pirate-ish looking shirt, but it was impossible to distinguish the arm holes from the neck hole on this thing. I somehow managed to put it on sideways about three different times, before aborting that mission. I finally gave up and dropped everything on a random shelf, making those Forever 21 employees work for their 7.25 an hour. I just couldn’t pull the trigger on those $1.50 necklaces! And as comfy as they looked, I just couldn't trick myself into believing that those $10.50 workout pants wouldn't completely change shape after one washing. This new found maturity and sensibility was really throwing me off. Since when have I not completely enjoyed spending money? The answer to that? Since I met Brock. Brock is the ultimate typical accounting major. Every transaction we make  is accounted for in a detailed spreadsheet. The fact that I am reminded of our bank account balance every time I log onto the computer eliminates that "out of sight, out of mind" spending mentality that I've always known so well. I love this about Brock and more importantly, I need this. Who knows what will happen with my bangs in the future, but I can confidently say that my impulse shopping habits have been (mostly) kicked. For the record, I did end up leaving with a pair of earrings, a tank top and some serious buyer’s remorse. Who would have thought I would feel guilty over a $13 purchase? Well, I’m proud to say I did.

When You Feel Really Cool, Only to Find Out Later That You Didn't...

I came across these lovely pictures from the time Brock and I went shooting over Thanksgiving break last fall.

This is what I thought I looked like:



This is what I actually looked like:


And here is a close-up:

And this was before we got married. I'm astonished Brock actually went through with it after seeing this little gem. I guess the thought of waking up next to a Biggest Loser contestant wasn't enough to completely scare him off. We now know that no matter what, Brock Sargent is officially not shallow.

Widow Weekend

I was officially a (temporary) widow this weekend.

Instead of losing my husband to death, however, I lost him to UVU baseball. This will happen about four more times until Orem's horrid weather shapes up and the team starts having games at home. I won't lie- I hate having him gone so much. But I'm trying to look for the positives. Brock's spot on the team is evidence of his athletic genes, which will surely aid in my quest to create a posse of genetically superior children. It's also exciting to watch him pitch out there (even if it's just via UVU's animated game tracker), knowing that my husband is numbered among a very small percentage of grown men who can actually throw a baseball over 90 mph. And of course, there's no way I would have been able to enjoy tonight's slightly pornographic, yet tasteful documentary on natural childbirth with Brock present. He'd have been throwing up five minutes into it, when it showed Ricki Lake birth a live baby in a swimming pool.

In order to keep myself busy, I decided to undertake a little craft project yesterday. And, if I do say so myself, I'm quite pleased with the results.

Presenting... my placemat pillows.
Yes, this craft project was probably at about a 3rd grade skill level. It literally requires purchasing a placemat, splitting one side open, stuffing it and sewing up the side. I think the windsock I made in 7th grade was probably more challenging. But hey, I can't help it- I am proud of how they turned out. I tend to be one of those people who gets all gung ho about a project, dives in without putting much thought into it, and then loses interest about ten minutes in. This makes for a lot of half done, sloppy finished products. I guess I am just happy that for some reason or another, my normally 7 year old attention span held out a little longer this time.

This is a close up. See? I even sewed in straight lines! My mom is so proud.

Once my house is all decorated and cute, I'm going to force a virtual picture tour on everyone.

I won't lie and say I am excited for next widow weekend, but at least it will be a good chance to get in some more quality craft time. Gosh, I really am such a typical wife. Blogging, crafting... soon I'll probably be posting pictures of my outfits before I leave the house each day. NOT.

Offical Marriage Report: 2 Months Down, One Eternity to Go

First off, I’d like to apologize for the horrid title of this post. It sounds exactly like something from “Saturday’s Warrior” or from the back of a t-shirt sold at Deseret Book. I didn’t realize it was that cheesy sounding until I re-read it and outwardly cringed a little. But I don’t want to think of a new title, so get used to it. (Keep in mind, however, that I am aware of how “Jack Weyland-esque” it sounds.)

I am officially an old marriage pro. I’ve been a wife for exactly two months now and I feel like some deep reflections/thoughts are in order. Try not to be overwhelmed by the complexity of my intellectual mind. Just kidding.

To me, the most surprising thing about married life is how incredibly not different it is.

I went into this marriage thing figuring I’d probably have to do a lot of adjusting. I assumed it would take me a while to comfortably share a bed, sheepishly reveal how quickly I actually burn through a box of Wheat Thins (seriously, even the family size box rarely resides more than 3 days in my cupboard) and resolutely start folding/putting away my laundry, instead of living out of the clean-clothes pile until it inevitably gets mixed back in with the dirty pile, causing lots of unnecessary wash cycles and the accidental wearing of stained shirts to work.

But surprisingly, married life has been remarkably similar to pre-married life. I get done with work and hang out with Brock just like before; but now I don’t ever have to go home. We wake up and Brock sees me with no makeup; but, for better or worse, that’s been a common sight since about a week into dating. Brock was already aware of my unique dance moves, atrocious driving record and tendency to wake up at 4 am to attend to unfinished business. (That all-important business being a partially watched Bachelor episode, of course.)Plus, our king sized bed could probably comfortable sleep a family of five, Brock eats as many, if not more, Wheat Thins as me and although my laundry habits aren’t yet where they should be, Brock has accepted the fact that for me, the hamper is a suitable and convenient place to store clean jeans. Mostly, I feel like the transition from Miss to Mrs. has been so smooth just because I have the coolest husband in the world, who (for reasons unknown) has fully accepted (even embraced, perhaps) all of my quirks and weird habits. Because I know he loves me no matter what, I haven’t felt the need to hide things, fake things, or hurriedly reform my personality.

This isn’t to say that I find it okay to accept my flaws, using the excuses that “I’m just being true to myself” and “this is just who I am.” I mean, if everyone had this attitude, the world would be ran by toddlers (which it actually kind of is anyway) and nobody would ever progress or improve. I full-well know that I need to continually work on myself and fix those things that bug me, disregarding the fact that I know my husband will love me unconditionally. This is nice to know though.

Basically, I am just really glad that Brock and I have both been so open and upfront with each other from the beginning. It’s not like either of us were harboring any deep dark secrets, or concealing incriminating skeletons in our closets. The shadiest moment of my life thus far was probably when I got caught calling my high school attendance office pretending to be my mom in an attempt to clear a handful (okay, a truckload) of unexcused absences. Unfortunately, I have the most distinct voice in the world and this pathetic act of delinquency cost me the student council election. (Although I still claim it was all “politics”-I won the popular vote, dang it! Just kidding.) Just knowing that Brock knows everything there is to know about me is so comforting. I never have to feel insecure, or worry that if he knew how I really was, he’d feel differently. Some would probably argue that I am too open. I mean, I did squat and pee in the trees by the Provo River on my first date with Brock. Ladylike? Definitely not. But hey, it sure helped break the ice! No “first time acknowledgment that you do this embarrassing, weird thing called going pee” situation there!

Brock has also gradually graced me with all of his finest quirks. Here are some of my favorites. First of all, Brock wraps medical tape around his glasses, to make them fit better. Not the nose bridge part, although that would be funnier and more cliché. He does, however wrap a nice wad around the ear hook part. I just make sure his hair is tucked nicely over it so our social lives are still okay. Apparently this next one is actually quite common, but Brock doesn’t enjoy pizza unless he stacks two pieces, cheese sides together, to make a sandwich. I always tell him it will be gone twice as fast, but apparently he doesn’t care. He is used to finishing his meals a good 45-50 minutes before me. Finally, Brock legitimately, in all seriousness, loves the hit LDS movie “Saturday’s Warrior”. I very regularly overhear him casually singing verses from it. Sometimes he substitutes Jimmy’s name with my own, making it very personal and fun. Ah, there you have it- the real reason for this post’s title. I’m sure my husband will love it.

Why Last Weekend Was Surprisingly Good...

I was not expecting this past weekend to be a good one. But in hindsight, it actually was.

1. Friday started out with a good gym session. Good gym sessions are rare for me these days. My gym attendance has actually been quite consistent lately, mostly due to my dedicated friends who’s company I apparently value much more than an elevated heart rate. I don’t seem to be able to participate in the day’s juicy convo and actually work out in my target fat-burning zone. I end up doing a lot of slow motion “elliptical-ing” and “stretching”. Once in a while some “weight training”. (This consists of me halfheartedly flinging around a 5 pound dumbbell for about 5 minutes. But Friday was different, thanks to a combo of “What About Bob” playing in the cardio cinema, and a certain guilty pleasure song I listened to 5 times on repeat. It may or may not have been by Will Smith. (Okay, I’ll admit it- “Getting Jiggy Wit It” has always been my go-to running song. I kid you not, I once ran 5 miles to that song repeated 13 times.) I stayed for an hour and actually worked up a nice sweat. Which did make necessary a shower before work, but I’m sure my co-workers appreciated it.

2. After work, I paid a visit to Orem’s most reputable chiropractor, Lowry Harris. By reputable, I mean under-the table. This guy literally charges $15 cash/$20 check to basically crack your entire body. And he does a dang good job of it. It’s the weirdest establishment- the guy literally doesn’t have any other employees. I’ve been there twice now- each time, I walked in to find this odd old man standing behind a counter-no receptionist or assistant in sight. He looks kind of like the old guy on the short clip before Toy Story- the guy who plays chess with himself. He handed me some sort of waiver/medical questionnaire but told me he only needed my first name and birthday on it somewhere. Then he started doing all sorts of weird number tricks with the digits in my birthday. Something about adding your age to the year you were born…? I don’t know, I was distracted by the Navajo looking figurines and dead plants decorating the lobby. After the math lesson, he took me back to this creepy little room where he expertly fixed my crooked hip. That part was quicker than the number games at the front desk. I was in and out in 5 minutes tops and my back still feels fantastic.

3. Friday night Brock and I went to Café Rio to celebrate the successful completion of a particularly hard test he’d been studying for/stressing about. Brock is one of those really good, dedicated students who makes studying a priority and won’t take a test until he feels confident with the material. Not surprisingly Brock is one of those students who gets really high test scores, which is saying a lot for some of these accounting classes. (The stuff he studies might as well be in Japanese- I’m just glad there are certain minds out there, Brock’s being one, that can grasp that stuff because I sure can’t. ) When I was in school I took more of the “pray-really-hard-and-have faith” approach… It worked.. sometimes…

4. Saturday afternoon my brave sweet mother decided to do something very daring. She let me highlight her hair. I am in no way trained to do this, but somehow I have managed to teach myself a few tricks and honestly, I am really not too bad. My mom is what I consider to be a perfectionist and I really think she was genuinely pleased. I also got to go to lunch with my mom and my friend Megan who I hadn’t seen in a while. Brick Oven’s salad bar got a run for its money, I’ll tell you that. I think I completed about 4 salad bar trips.

5. On Saturday night, I worked at Magleby’s Restaurant. I’ve worked there on and off (mostly on) for about 4 years now. It’s one of those job’s that emotionally attaches you, or at least it has with me. For some reason I just love working there. It’s probably a combination of fast paced serving shifts that fly by, my absolutely hilarious and awesome co-workers (some of which I’ve been friends with for years) and the great food which I freely partake of throughout my shift. On Saturday, I had the honor of serving Provo’s hottest celeb as of lately: Jimmer Fredette (sp?). I didn’t take a picture, as I wanted to appear cool and aloof to the fact that his name is currently being inserted into scriptures all over facebook. His family was delightful- they were legitimately so witty and funny. Plus, they all ate the buffet which is 1. Hardly any work for me and 2. The priciest thing on the menu. Hello grocery money for a week! I like working weekend nights at Mags, partly just because the extra income is much appreciated, but also because I really do enjoy serving. For some reason the restaurant work is legitimately enjoyable to me. Plus, Brock has now started traveling every weekend with the UVU baseball team, so it distracts me from the fact that I am a temporary widow every weekend. I’d rather work than sit at home watching E channel (I have embarrassingly stayed shockingly current in my viewing of the Kardashians and Holly’s World… eww) and eating a whole loaf of toast (yes, this happened last weekend).

6. Sunday was great. Brock came home and brought his sister Bailey to stay with us for a few days so she can go up to Logan and interview for a leadership scholarship. Between Bailey and Brandy (both of Brock’s sisters) I feel incredibly lucky to have such awesome sister-in-laws. The Sargents are great and have made it so easy for me to feel comfortable and, well… part of the family! I also spent the better part of Sunday evening eating an entire bag of M&Ms. Not an individual bag, not a king size bag. A family size bag. Hmm, sounds like perfect fuel for a gym workout. A good gym workout.

The Real Way to a Man's Heart?

I don't actually know. But as it turns out, it is not through his stomach. At least, not with my husband. If that were the case, he would have been off running (probably to the nearest bathroom or garbage can) almost a year ago. The first meal I ever cooked for Brock somehow tasted like a combo of burnt frying pan and "I Can't Believe it's Not Butter" spray. This meal was a bold (yet miserably failed) attempt of me to convince him that I did indeed possess good wife/mother material.

Luckily I've been able to display my maternal/nurturing qualities in other ways. I managed to gain a nice five lbs in just my hips, subconsciously illustrating my fertility. (Most of which lbs were frantically "elliptical machined" off in preparation for the wedding.) Last fall, I somehow found myself regularly babysitting a couple of little kids for literally $5 an hour. If this doesn't show a pure love for the little ones, I don't know what does. I've since been able to help decorate our little newlywed house with a charming mixture of repainted Craigslist gems and particle board Ikea specials. But the cooking thing? Sadly I still don't think I have it down.

Don't get me wrong here-I am not one of those girls who thinks she is too cool to cook. I don't consider it empowering to have so many other important things consuming my glamorous life that I can't possibly stoop to the low level of "kitchen". On the contrary, I love the kitchen. Probably too much. (I mean, my body automatically gravitates to the fridge every time I enter the house.)As much as I would love to put my favorite room of the house to good use, I seriously just seem to have the worst luck when it comes to mixing and heating simple ingredients. No joke- I ruined a salad last night. A salad! You can't tell me there is another human in the world who can somehow take some romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and balsamic dressing and make it taste like a battery. And our nice Sunday dinner last week? I must have had a little too much fun with the sea salt grinder, because our slow simmered pork roast was so salty we each guzzled three powerades before I admitted defeat and dumped it down the trash. I think there is still a charred quesadilla nesting in a bush outside our back door. I frantically threw it out the door the other night after it (and almost the hot pad I removed it with) caught on fire. Our house smelled like a seedy motel for days.

I am not giving up though. This determination comes from a combination of a true desire to develop a useful talent and the sad realization that we can't afford sweet pork salads every night. Luckily where I lack in cooking skills, Brock makes up for in eating skills. And more importantly, kindness and politeness. And a non-existent gag reflex.

How I Might Have Broken International Law... And Other Tales from Our Honeymoon

So I guess I have to face it- I am that girl who just can't say no.

This isn't necessarily because I have no spine, self-esteem, or father figure in my life. I personally like to think my eagerness to please people stems from a deep rooted, Christlike love I innately have for people. Ha ha.

Or maybe I am just a total sucker.

I’ll start at the beginning. For our honeymoon we were able to go on a 7 day Caribbean cruise, made possible by Cruise.com's "hot December deals", my dad's generosity with his frequent flier miles, and the little stash of cash we were able to save by only going to Cafe Rio once a week during the month of December. (A sacrifice, I know.) The cruise ship was absolutely amazing; never before have I enjoyed the presence of so many rich foreigners or soft serve ice cream cones. Our ship’s first stop was on the island of St. Thomas. It was beautiful. But since its main tourist attraction consisted of a rock covered in iguanas and a strip mall of duty-free handbag shops, there wasn’t much for Brock and I to do. Even tax-free, Gucci and Prada purses are a little out of my newlywed price range. (I did however purchase a solid $10 pair of “Mary Kate Olsen-esque” orange sunglasses at some French named boutique on the ship. Much more at my level.) We also went to Aruba, Grenada and Bonaire, where we were entertained aboard a glass bottomed boat by a chain-smoking Dutchman who literally told the same joke at least seven times. He was a gracious tour guide, however, and even provided us with some little melty cheese things and some sort of weird Salmon wrap creation.

The next island, Dominica, was where my refusal skills were truly tested. Dominica is one of those islands where the tourist industry is pretty much the only way for the natives to make money. The island has this beautiful pair of waterfalls which they have whored out completely, turning it into a merchant filled tourist trap. And man, are these merchants aggressive! Most normal people just say no or ignore these people completely when attacked with watered down cologne and novelty keychains. But I always feel the need to stop, humor them and pretend to be interested in the crap they are selling. I don’t know why! I always just feel so bad… I bought a $1 paper flower from a woman who had only about a third of her teeth. Her sales pitch-“it’s for the children!” – is what got me. We somehow ended up in a crucifix adorned tour van, and after being shown the island’s waterfalls, hot springs and random medical school, we thanked our guide and driver with a tip. This is when the driver asked us for a favor. Of course I said yes before even knowing what it was. (See, SO Christlike, right?!) They wanted us to go get them a drink. I figured they probably wanted a Pepsi or Sprite or something. Those tour vans were pretty hot, after all. Then, after looking around and ensuring no eyes were upon us, he sneakily slipped us $18 with instructions to get the large bottle of Bailey’s Original from the duty-free liquor store. The store that the island natives are forbidden to enter. I should have just given back the money and refused to participate in this illegal, immoral transaction. But instead, I just nodded and dragged my astonished, disgusted new husband across the street to the liquor store, while our thirsty tour guides waited anxiously in their van. I’m pretty sure Brock was contemplating a marriage annulment throughout the entire transaction. Who knew his wife had such a lack of integrity? Buying alcohol for our tour guides? Well, maybe if I weren’t so naïve, I would have realized that the phrase “buy us a drink” only refers to Pepsi in Provo, Utah.

Luckily the little exchange went off without a hitch and we were soon back on the cruise ship, sailing away from Dominica forever. Brock still loves me, despite my momentary lack of sound judgement. So far, no customs authorities have tracked us down. Let’s just hope this blog doesn’t fall into the wrong hands, huh?

It's time to face it. I am now a mature, married grown-up. I am somebody's wife, for heaven's sake! It's high time I learn to "just say no."

Here are a few (possibly incriminating) pictures of the honeymoon:

Brock kept wanting to take pictures of the cruise ship. Every time it docked. Because you know, maybe one of these times it's going to suddenly look very different.

My cute husband and a not so cute iguana.

No, I didn't feel the need to wear makeup that day. Or any other day, come to think of it.

Snorkeling. The Dutch guy with the crappy jokes and salmon snacks took this picture.

Glass bottomed boat. It was advertised as once belonging to a friend of Jacques Cousteau. Probably the most claustrophobic, yet scientific, I have ever felt in my life.

Brock posing by ye olde historic artillery. I sheepishly discovered recently that I have been using the word "artillery" wrong my entire life. No, it is not a ranking you earn in the military. Actually, the sheer fact that I have been casually incorporating "artillery" into conversations is also quite embarrassing.

See the dollar bill in this snake charmer's hand? I told you- Dominica has literally whored out all natural beauty their island has to offer.

Turns out, fake coconut is much better than the real stuff.

Dominican waterfall. This was right before I fell off a slippery rock.

And post slippery rock. This picture doesn't do it justice. It was quite the battle wound.

And finally, caught in the act. In case any former/present church leaders, parents or particularly saintly acquaintances see this, I DIDN'T DRINK A DROP! And I'll never support anyone else's consumption either. Promise.