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.

The Official Consummation of My Marriage (don't worry, it's not what you think...)

Well I guess this makes it official.

I am now a full on dinner-prepping, bed-sharing, (and most importantly) blog-posting married woman. Because after all, everyone knows that starting the token "married couple blog" is the real way to consummate a marriage these days.

I've been Mrs.Sargent for exactly 3 weeks now, over which weeks I've acquired the following:

4 crock pots
1,300 baking sheets
1 wallet that won't snap shut, due to the large volume of Target gift cards within (not complaining)
1 decent tan/sunburn
5 lbs of extra body fat (a sarcastic thank you to the Caribbean Princess Cruise Ship and its sugar and trans fat laced buffet spread)
57 kitchen appliances (and most importantly, a new found desire to use them)
1 Costco membership
2 sisters (this is a very exciting first for me)
0 UTIs (sorry to be graphic, but I proudly feel this is something worth noting)
1 new (and most importantly) normal last name

Oh, and most importantly- the best husband I could ever ask for.

I promise I won't get too cheesy here, but really- so far this whole "being a wife" thing has been amazing. I feel really lucky to be where I am in life. I guess I feel like getting married to Brock somehow validates every past decision-good or bad- that I have ever made. Because that combination of decisions led me here. And this is exactly where I want to be.

Now, to make things even. What did Brock acquire out of all this?

2 wedding bands (1 nice one, 1 cheap CTR ring for backup... or for when we meet the prophet and want to impress him with our dedication to the Lord and each other)
1 shower full of girlie products (and probably hair balls- I'm sorry ladies, but when it comes to bathroom cleanliness, I'm convinced boys are actually neater than us)
1 iTunes account full of Gossip Girl downloads
1 large dresser drawer full of lingerie
3.5 billion attempted accents, recycled jokes and strange sound effects, courtesy of his witty and hilarious wife


Like I've always told him, I'm really getting the better end of the deal here.

Proof it's Really Happening

13.1

I have never been so sore in my life.

Never did I think the day would come (before the year 2065 at least) that getting out of a car, going to the bathroom, and going down a small flight of stairs would be among the most daunting, physically exherting tasks of the day.

The weirdest part? How incredibly happy the current sorry state of my body makes me. My sore muscles are proof that I actually accomplished the thing I halfheartedly pledged to do a few months ago. I sucessfully finished a half marathon.

I won't lie; I don't necessarily love running. Or at least, I sure didn't when this whole marathon idea crept into my head. I basically just signed up for 2 reasons: First, because four of my friends were doing it and I didn't want to be left out. I suppose this may reveal a lot about me as a person; if Cara, Jeni, Aislinn and Kate had signed up for a group cliff-jump, I would probably have been right there, enthusiastically registering my life away as well. I also figured the $46 entrance fee might provide the forced motivation/willpower that was apparently crucial in getting my lazy, atrophied butt back into the gym. At that point, nothing short of the idea of throwing away almost $50 bucks (a decent lunch shift- I always think of money in terms of serving shifts) would have lured me onto that treadmill.

Two months, three monster sized blisters, several long canyon runs, and countless Kardashian viewing sessions (thank you Gold's Gym, for mounting TVs on those treadmills), it was October 30th. The Halloween Half Marathon, advertised on its website as "The Most Extreme Halloween Race in the World!" had arrived.

I'm not the type of person who likes to draw attention to myself in large crowds, so the idea of dressing up and running the race in costume didn't appeal to me. Luckily my friends were on the same page, so we all bundled up in our token spandex running pants- every girl seems to have a pair- and our skull adorned, long sleeved yet breatheable race shirt we picked up the night before. We also took that night's outing as an opportunity to binge (aka carbo load) on pizza. We had about seven different servers walk past our demolished, empty plate/pizza crust littered booth and ask with incredulous looks, if we needed more food. "Wow, you girls really put that down!" and "Nice job ladies, VERY impressive", were also among comments made. We made sure everyone knew we were athletes, and not a support group of bulimics.




The race began at 9:00 am, but we had to board the busses in the mall parking lot much earlier. In hindsight, I can easily say that the bus ride up was much, MUCH worse than the race its self. I have never felt so carsick in my life. I literally dry heaved no less than three times into the wrinkled manilla envelope containing my race bib number. Once we got up there, I felt fine. We were all anxious to start the race.



Th race isself basically started off as a herd of oddly dressed people stampeding down a mountain, and ended up the same; only the people were a little more sparsely situated along the trail and a whole lot sweatier. I found myself getting oddly competitive during the race and credit my faster than anticipated finish time to a man in jeans. A small group of runners had unofficially banded together, since we were going about the same pace. One of which was a man in jeans (maybe a cowboy?), who I was determined to beat. I'm sorry, but I couldn't let someone in DENIM beat me. I was also secretly racing a Lauren Conrad lookalike, Legolas, and a Hispanic Elvis. I am proud to say that my determination to beat these costume clad athletes, an ipod full of sick rap beats provided by Ice Cube and Juvenille, and a whole lot of adrenaline brought me to the finish line in 1 hour and 59 minutes. I officially ran 13.1 miles in less than 2 hours.

Yes, even 2 days later, my hamstrings are still permanently on fire. Yes, I still have to walk backwards down the stairs. I don't know how I am going to get through tonight's work shift. But the finisher's medal is amazing (and also misleadingly reads "Provo Marathon", creating the misleading impression that I ran a full marathon. I would do it again in a second. Well, probably not a second. More like 2 hours. But maybe a little faster...

Things I Will NOT Do to This Blog Once I am Married...

As you may or may not know, I will soon be taking a giant step down the path to responsible, mature adulthood. No, this step does not include my personal forsaking of Lil' Wayne beats, Gossip Girl and Marshmallow Mateys. Sorry mom, I am nowhere near THAT grown up. No, I have actually managed to recruit someone to agree to marry me. So come December 17th of this year, these hip hop listening ears and teenage drama watching eyes will belong to someone's wife. Brock is absolutely perfect and more than that, he is perfect for me. He is the one person who can not only put up with my seemingly endless personality quirks, but he actually seems to sort of like them! He, on the other hand, comes fully loaded with all the features/qualities every desirable husband needs- responsible,hardworking,athletic,love of budgeting spreadsheets etc. Anyway,he is fabulous, I got dang lucky, and eventually this blog will have to change a bit. Here is what I promise NOT to do:

1. I promise I will not change the title to anything including the word "love". People don't need the "clever" title of a blog to be reminded that we are in love. If we weren't, would we be married? I think not. This means no "Love and Memories" and no "All Because 2 People Fell in Love". I will also not use the word "est". As in "Sargent Family: est. 2010". I will also not use a "witty" combination of both of our names, ie. "Brockolyn". We'll save that one for People Magazine.

2. I promise not to post what I call "jumpy pics". Jumpy pics commonly litter the facebook albums and blog posts of Utah Mormons everywhere. They are usually comprised of either a line of girls, or a newlywed couple, at the high point of a synchronized jump. Arms and legs are flailing and an open mouthed, surprised look is usually on the subjects' faces, not unlike the gaping mouthed look I assume a salmon would have, when hooked on a fishing line and being reeled in from the high seas. Quite frankly, I have toyed with the idea of doing this, but Brock and I couldn't even summon up the mental strength (nor physical ability) to do it in jest. I am nowhere near coordinated enough, and I love my future husband too much to strip his manliness away from him in that manner.

3. I will refer to my husband by his name, which is "Brock". I will not downplay his importance as a human being by only referring to him as "husband", like he is a nameless accessory for me to cart around town. (Example: "Handbag" and I went to the mall today...) When I use the word "husband", it will be prefaced with the word "my". I will not call him "lova boy" or "babe" or "Brockers"

4. My posts will have substance. Or at least, as much "substance" as they do now. (Some may argue here, and would probably easily win- my posts aren't all that deep.) I will not post 13 pictures of me in my new Anthropoligie church dress, followed with a cheery "I just LOVE Sundays!!!! Have a LOVELY day!!! This does not require thought to write, nor does it provide entertainment to view.

5. I will not post pictures of every time we go out to eat. I don't look charming and dainty when I hold my burgers up to my mouth- I look more like a ravenous troll. Plus, there are only so many shots you can take of a Costa Vida chicken salad, or a Little Ceasars Hot-N-Ready. If the occasional restaurant pic shows up, I can assure you it will not be a typical "posed candid" of us enjoying our scrumptious fare. And I will make these pics few and far between.

Basically I strongly believe that life should be blogged about, but not lived to be blogged about. If that makes sense. I don't plan on living life with this blog in the back of my mind. Obviously blogs do tend to focus on the good aspects of life; the fun days, the more photogenic moments, etc. But in all reality, life is life, and I don't plan on painting mine to be some glorified, perfected version of it.

Hopefully I didn't hurt any feelings.

Have a LOVELY day! XOXO

Just kidding.

Low Self Esteem on Parade

Last week my boyfriend and I decided to venture out for a night out on the town to the Big City (why, Salt Lake, of course). The city hosts free concerts in a public park once a week, to give back to the greater Salt Lake community and ward off the crack fiends that otherwise occupy its premises. Most of the featured artists aren't very well known amongst mainstream,un-artistic,uncreative radio listeners as myself... (I will be the first to admit,I seriously have the world's worst taste in music- in fact, this idea deserves a post of itself, which I promise will come very soon.)Last week's rising star was some DJ named "Girl Talk", who's musical talent seemed to consist soely of splicing together hip hop songs by pressing "play" on his iTunes and dancing around onstage with toilet paper guns. I wasn't too worried about not being able to follow along with every word; so what if I'm not a legit, merchandise carrying fan? The main reason for the outing was the fabulous people watching opportunity it presented.

If anything, my "people watching" expectations were exceeded. To be put quite honestly, I have never seen such a concentrated bunch of freaks in my life. (After Venice Beach, of course, but hosting complete freaks is its claim to fame...) Here is where my rant begins:

I was shocked at how much time and effort people seemed to have put into looking so homeless. Seriously, so much thought and planning was invested in each trampy looking outfit. This was made apparent by the mold that seemed to be adhered to; the criteria that was met in every single outfit. These so called indie hipsters all claim to be so original. They all claim to be "expressing themselves", right? Well then why do they all look EXACTLY the same? Why does EVERY SINGLE skinny, methed out guy have the SAME scoop neck stripey tank top, wayfarer sunglasses and baggy beanie sloppily thrown (although actually meticulously placed) on the back of his head? And EVERY SINGLE girl seems to own the same baggy fringed vest and miniskirt combo. As for the tattoos: you know what,I'll be open minded here- go ahead and be creative; "express yourself", whatever, I guess it's your body... But I just find it interesting that so many different girls all coincidentally expressed their inner beauty with the same bear paw print on each boob.

For a demographic of people who pride themselves on their "individuality" and "creative expressionism", everybody sure does look and act exactly the same. It is like bad self esteem central; a group of young adults who weren't popular in high school, so upon graduation decided to reinvent themselves and get that craved attention amongst the burnouts, who accept anyone willing to fork over money for pot, and gain inner confidence by appearing "intimidating". Well I'm tellin' ya, I have never encountered a less threatening bunch.

I realized that I must be getting old when I witnessed a particularly young, novice looking group of tramps walk by. I literally turned to my boyfriend and said "that little baby girl is getting pregnant tonight"... I sounded just like someone's mom.

Whereas even a year ago, I probably would have loved the situation at hand, mostly just because of its comedic value, last week we only lasted about 20 minutes. Maybe I'm just not as funny/carefree/open minded as I used to be, but honestly, I was disgusted and repulsed by the absolute lack of dignity/personal hygeine present. So much that it began to depress me. I know that I haven't been exposed to as much, being from Orem Utah and all, so I guess that probably explains the shock factor, but I am not naive; I know that sadly, this represents a big chunk of the adolescent/young adult population in America. On the bright side, that night's free artist (some DJ named "Girl Talk", who's musical talent seems to consist soely of splicing together hip hop songs by pressing "play" on his itunes and dancing around onstage with toilet paper guns) has provided me with a great running mix. Hopefully after enough miles on the treadmill, I will be skinny enough to pull off the baggy fringed vest look; it will show off my bear claw boob tatoos nicely, I think. Just kidding. I promise.;)