Restaurant Review: uffet- al ou Can Eat

I’ve always been a good eater.

Ask my mom. She’ll proudly tell you that from day one, I have been her only child who consistently cleans my plate meal after meal. This is much more than can be said for my brothers. I have never encountered  pickier eaters than those three. One night when he was a toddler, it literally took Joel three hours to eat half of one bean (you know, from a Pork ‘n Beans can). A half a bean- that’s all my mom required! And our family still talks about the time when Kurt spent two tearful hours picking at a meatball sub before craftily stashing it on a beam under the kitchen table. Squished broccoli and carrot bites have been found countless times between the couch cushions and my mom long ago mastered the “mouth check” before excusing the boys to the bathroom mid-meal.  Yet throughout all this, I was always the one child who could always be counted on to not only pound my own meal, but to ensure nobody else's went to waste either. This probably explains why I have a higher BMI than all three of my brothers.

Fast forward to last night. After Brock finished the last final of his college career, we naturally decided to seize the opportunity as a good excuse to go out on the town for a nice meal.

Now if Brock and I were normal, a “nice meal” would be found at Texas Roadhouse, Happy Sumo or maybe some unique, hole-in-the-wall café, right? Maybe a trip up to Salt Lake or even a Café Rio run. Once there, we’d pose for individual photos with our respective untouched meals. Then mid meal, we’d stop for some “candid” eating shots then end with the night with the token “I’m so stuffed” shot. (“Very funny” sick faces while pointing to our empty plates/full tummies.) Keep in mind we’d be wearing fashionable coordinating outfits during this. I’d post these pictures on my blog, along with a  list detailing each item of clothing worn and where it’s from.

But Brock and I are not normal.

I think it’s a guy thing; sometimes Brock just craves quantity. Sheer volume of food. In this case, no regards are given to taste, nutritional value, or freshness. And what better place to find this spread of cuisine than a Chinese Buffet. I personally like buffets, as they typically house fabulous salad bars. I’ve always been a huge salad bar supporter. So yes, last night we celebrated Brock’s passing from college student to career holding adult at a restaurant literally called “Buffet”.

“Buffet” is located between the Provo ShopKo and Movies 8- a fabulous Provo hot spot. Although a few of its neon letters had unfortunately died, the glowing “uffet- al ou Can Eat!” was enough to get us inside the building. (Side note: just to give you a nice visual, we did not get “ready” for the night. Brock was wearing some sort of cut-off sweat pants and I was still rocking my sweaty gym clothes.)  

It was the worst place I have ever been. It's not like I have frequented many seedy dives in the past, but this place just wasn’t right. Upon entering, we were smacked in the face with a wave of humid fish air. Seriously, I quickly scanned the lobby for a vaporizer filled with tuna water, but all I saw were rows of candy machines and lots Chinese horoscope readings. However I was confident that the salad bar would come through for me and provide me the celebratory dinner I was craving.  Wrong. The “salad bar” consisted of a mixing bowl of shredded iceberg lettuce and a cereal bowl holding about a tablespoon of cubed ham. Oh, and there was a canister of corn water with a few kernels floating around. I decided to check out the dessert area next (salad>dessert>dinner, in my book). The cream puffs looked like plastic play kitchen food. And the jello creation was most likely shipped straight from the hospital. Moving on, I decided to just go for it and clog my arteries with the “Buffet’s” headline spread. I feebly loaded up a sad plate of items that looked like they had sat in a chafing dish well over a full day; most dishes were pretty picked over. You could tell because the oil component had separated from the water component in most of the sauces. And you know how it is with Chinese food- lots of sauces. We sat down and Brock immediately dug in. After all, there is no time to waste when quantity of food is the goal. The smell wafting up from my plate was obviously not affecting him like it was me. I lifted my fork a few times to take a meager teriyaki sauce soaked bite, but just couldn’t seem to follow through. What was wrong with me? I'm a good eater! As I sat there, I progressively grew sicker. I physically felt worse every time I inhaled, visualizing the oil infused air settling in my pores. Then in my arteries. Even good eaters have their limits.  I pushed my untouched plate away for the first time in my life.

“I’m sorry Brock, I gotta go sit in the car.”

His response?

“Okay, I’m gonna get a few more plates. Here are the keys. I’ll be out in a while.”

And that is how I spent Brock’s graduation dinner in front seat of the Mazda while Brock enjoyed his quantity fix by himself. It was probably quite pleasant for him. He got to eat all the egg-fu-young he could handle, un-judged, while reading news articles on his phone.

We had a good laugh when Brock finally returned to the car, sick, satisfied and smelling slightly of deep-fried wonton. We agreed that even Chinese Buffets should be held to a higher standard. No more “Buffet” for these good eaters. No, from now on we’ll only be dining at the finest of establishments. Namely, China Buffet on State Street in North Orem. Perhaps a Sizzler run every now and then. And maybe we’ll even take pictures.

Spring Cleaning

For many, Easter is a time of renewal, hope and refined sugar. 

After waking up this morning with what can only be described as an "excess sugar hangover", I have decided I am in major need of my own "rebirth". As part of this, I'd to use this post as an opportunity to get some things off my chest. As Usher so wisely put it back in 2004,
                                                                         these are my confessions.

5. I am an addict. I have recently acquired a mild addiction to "Desperate Housewives". (But I can quit any time, I swear.) This little indulgence began when Brock was on the road all the time for baseball. No matter how lonely those weekends got, my 4 best friends from Wisteria Lane were always there for me. Now that Brock is home more often, I'm not about to subject him to the drama and scandal I've began to crave. Instead, I've been getting my fix on my phone via Netflix while at the gym. Seriously- it's the best time killer! I hop on that stupid bike, start pedaling and one episode later, I've burned over 400 calories. I just hope those frequent drops of sweat don't cause water damage to my phone. This is where the embarrassing part comes in. So far I have watched 74 episodes. At 42 minutes each, that is 51 hours of viewing. I have literally spent over two days of my life watching a glorified soap opera. I'd say that is a horrifyingly large investment! No wonder I get so worked up over these scandals. I realized this was becoming a problem when the characters started making appearances in my dreams. But hey, for now I'm just grateful for my gym buddies. As long as they help me get through my workouts, the scandalous vixens of Wisteria Lane are here to stay.

4. I am incredibly sick of the weather. Seriously, a high of 36 degrees is great in February. Not at the end of April. I'm pretty sure "April Showers" is supposed to refer to rain, not snow, sleet and hail. (Yes, I do remember all 4 major forms of precipitation, thanks to PBS's "Bill Nye the Science Guy" and an 8th grade teacher who apparently got paid to pop in a recorded VHS just about every class period.) I have always hated the mentality held by almost every Southern California native; it seems like everyone I've met from down there is always complaining about Utah weather and whining about how much they miss home and how much better everything is there. As much as I hate this, I have to admit that deep down I must be jealous; I think they might be right. I'm loving the idea of year long warm weather and Brock is all about high schools with prominent athletic programs. The beach is a definite plus. I think I'd officially like to live in Southern California someday. There, I said it. Laugh it up, Belmont South Ward.

3. I am NOT a saver. In a fit of therapeutic "Spring Cleaning", I literally threw away 2/3 of my clothes. And I feel great about it. There is no use congesting my already small closet with heaps of rags that either don't fit, are covered in stains, or are associated in my mind with an "ugly day". (Sometimes all it takes is one day of feeling ugly while wearing a particular shirt, and it's forever ruined for me.) Brock says all of my clothes look the same anyway. He can supposedly take one look at the Banana Republic (Factory Outlet, of course) rack and before the fact guess what I'm going to pick up. Apparently it is easy, because according to Brock, everything I like is gray and "pirate-ish". I realize I may now be alternating between 3 shirts, but you better believe they are solid (gray pirate) shirts.

2. Speaking of not being a saver, I am currently trying to sell my wedding dress on KSL/Craigslist. I have a few people coming to look at it this week, and I'm crossing my fingers that it will sell. I got really close to pawning it off in January, when a bride-to-be showed some real interest. However, I'm pretty sure I scared her off by hovering over her the entire time and aggressively peppering the already forced conversation with compliments and the product's finest selling points. My new strategy? Let the dress sell itself.

1. I am seriously considering going to hair school. I have secretly always wanted to do hair. Ever since I was a little girl, I've wanted one of those styrofoam heads with style-able fake hair. I used to mess around with my "Crimp 'n Curl Pony" for hours, meticulously styling that wire-laced yarn mane. High school was spent sacrificing my own head of hair (and the heads of all my friends) to the cause of mastering the foil weave method. All this practice has paid off, however, because by now I have actually gotten pretty good! My mom is a very straightforward critic, and even she admitted that I did a great job on her highlights and bang trim. I have also come to accept that I officially hate desk jobs. I despise sitting in front of a computer screen. I tire of working the same hours every day. I don't enjoy corresponding only via phone/email. But... I do love talking to people in real life, doing things with my hands, and having a creative outlet. Styling hair is something I could do in order to make a little extra money should we need it, yet also stay home with our future kids. The thought of getting paid to do something so fun seems unreal. I guess having a job that is less than fulfilling has made me realize how much I don't want to (or have to) be stuck in this situation forever. Anyway, it's fun to think about and hopefully I'll get it all figured out soon!

Baseball Musings and a Promise to Be More Dilligent in Blogging

I'm sorry. It has been just shy of a month since my last post. Do I have a good excuse? Of course not. I'm still parked here in my cubicle 8 hours a day, my face literally 12 inches from the monitor. Yes, I promise I get work done here. But I also get a lot of Craigslist searching, blog stalking and online shopping done too. (By online shopping, I mean filling up shopping carts at various websites then quickly abandoning the page when my hand starts twitching and reaching for my wallet and that oh-so-easily accessible debit card number.) So obviously I have no excuse- it is high time I get a post written, even if it is completely free of substance and wit. Here are some very important updates on our lives as of lately. (And by very important, I mean vaguely noteworthy tidbits that may or may not be worth your time reading.)

1. I have officially survived baseball widow-dom. UVU baseball is all but done traveling. I will now have a husband seven days of the week instead of three. Furthermore, graduation is fast approaching. The UVU library is my most vicious competitor for Brock's time and attention, so I'll be thrilled to claim victory on the 28th of this month when my competition will be stomped out forever. Or at least until grad school starts.

2. Along with this decrease in team travel time, there will also be a dramatic increase in the number of baseball games I will be attending. This will be good, as it will test/improve my patience (3 hours is usually standard, but 5 or even 6 is not unheard of), clothing layering skills (gotta love Utah Aprils- 70 degrees one minute, 20 the next), and cheering skills. You would not believe how hard it is to cheer at a baseball game.  There seems to be an actual language, developed solely for this sport. Words like "kid" and "babe" "hey now" are strung together in creative combinations and thrown around at speeds that would make an auctioneer jealous. I've actually heard these phrases shouted: "Throw 'em a chair!" and "Put 'em in the books!" Huh? Like, where did those come from, and how is a relatively new spectator supposed to know when to use them? I experimented with a cautious, feeble "Throw 'em a chair Brock!" a while back and have never felt so foolish in my life. So these upcoming games will definitely help improve my baseball chatter.

3. Unfortunately, actually watching Brock play may or may not be in the cards. Brock tore his MCL at practice last week. It was a grade 3 tear, which means the ligament was completely torn in two. What bad luck huh? Not only is it the worst kind of tear, but it happened in practice! That MCL could have at least decided to tear in a victorious moment of battle, maybe during the bottom of the 9th inning in a close winning game. But no, it decided to give out during a set of punishment drills that were doled out as penance for losing to BYU. We're trying to be optimistic though. Best case scenario? It heals quickly and he's back on the mound in two weeks. Worst case? Six weeks of icing, ibuprofen, physical therapy and no playing for the rest of the season. We try not to think about this, because a ligament torn in practice is really no way to end a 20 year baseball career.

Here are some of Brock's baseball pics. I like to show off how athletic and sexy and talented my husband is. 

I really do plan on getting better at this whole "regular, timely posting" thing. I also plan on getting better at actually taking my camera to events, so I can document things. I mean, my life is so fabulous, I wouldn't blame anyone for doubting the validity of my stories and demanding pictures. Although, I've made this "I'm gonna be a better blogger!" promise many a time before, so I don't blame anyone for not taking it seriously. Oh well, I can try, right?

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.