A Series of 3 (unfortunate events)

As you may have noticed, our blog has been running a little dry as of late. Not for lack of effort mind you, but it appears that the universe had bigger problems to worry about than our never-ending tale of rejection. But fate smiled wryly on Tuesday as she delivered Austrie and I a cruel, ironic invitation. It came in the form of intense humiliation in the span of five minutes in the bookstore as every male that I've dated in the past few months walked past me, awkwardly avoiding eye contact. As Austrie and I laughed/cried our way to the cashier, we noticed a flyer sponsored by the university to attend speed dating. SPEED DATING. After the gales of laughter subsided, Austrie turned to me with wide eyes, and shrieked,"Let's do it!" Laughter attack round two ensued, with a determination that we would subject ourselves to the event that would guarantee at least one solid blog post. (We really go the extra mile for y'all)

>On Thursday<

After the longest day, with greasy hair and the film that settles on your skin after hours of CAD and classes, we trudged the walk of desperation as slowly as possible up to the Hinckley.

As we approached out destination, we saw something that made my heart turn cold, and weakened my commitment to the blog.  

>Bald, blazer, green socks with chacos<

Yes, he too was attending speed dating. It only went downhill from that moment. After a quick walk by, I literally wanted to run in the opposite direction as far as I could. The only thing that got me across the threshold was Austrie repeating to me over and over, "For the blog, for the blog!" And so for you, dear readers, we subjected ourselves to three-minute increments of torture for an hour and a half. There were some boys that you could tell were genuinely trying and were really, really shy, but for the most part, every stereotype that enters your mind when you hear the phrase speed dating is accurate. I even got to "date" bald-chaco, and was asked what I was told the most important question of my life: "How do you feel about Lord of the Rings?" The clincher of the entire night was the prayer, supplicating divine powers to allow temple marriages to be achieved through this evening. I. DIED. Not to mention the staff running the event was looking at Austrie and I  with total bewilderment, as if to say,"What are you doing here?!" And as we left, almost wetting ourselves with our laughter about what we had just experience, an idea was born. And here we announce that we have now entered a series post. Over the course of the next few weeks, you will be rewarded with posts that all have to do with the number three. 

Tonight was Episode 1: 3 Minutes. Stay tuned for part two. You're really going to want to  read it. You might even want to swipe right. 

Things You Never Say To a Spinster Pt.1

Old ladies at the temple are just the cutest.

I had just walked out of the dressing room, waiting for Corinne when a older sister walked up to me and said, "Are you waiting for you husband?" I laughed and thought, "Well, I guess you could say that..." I think I was dumbfounded.
It was around the same time when I was at the temple with my mom. A woman working there realized my mom and I had the same last name. Putting two and two together, I'd have thought she would quickly figure out it was a mother/daughter-thing going on. Quite the contraire. She said, "Is that woman your sister in law?" I gave her a puzzled look..."Her? That's my mom...." The woman left, only to pick up the conversation right where we left off a few minutes earlier. I could tell she was curious as to why I would be at the temple without a ring on my left hand. (As if that's the only reason deemed acceptable to be in the temple!) I went on to explain I had recently returned home from serving a mission. After a smile she said,"You hang in there...I didn't get married until I was 30!"
It's a good thing I don't get depressed easily.

B is For Backhand

It's a given law of nature that when competing predators see prey being pursued, they join in. In the English vernacular, we call this "coming out of the woodwork." When I was preparing to leave on my mission, all of the sudden every male within a 12 mile radius was knocking on my front door. Any time I'm dating someone exclusively, I experience this same phenomena. Hello?! Where were you three months ago when I awkwardly had a face-off with the guy who stood me up? I'm just saying, you're timings a little off dudes. That being said, the specimens that are expelled from said woodwork are usually....of an exotic breed. Take last Sunday for example. As a ward missionary, it's my privilege to teach the Gospel Principles class (learn more here) every other Sunday. When you know you're going to be standing in front of an audience, you try to make an effort to look your best-No sense in subjecting your class to an eyesore for an hour! Now, I'm not one to EVER toot my own horn about my physical appearance. If I do, it's out of a fit of facetious-ness. My best friend will tell you that I carry the lowest opinion of myself, but that's a topic for a Dr. Phil edition or something, not the Cat Lady. ANYWAYS, it's about as rare as finding Peter Pan's shadow that I will deem myself attractive, much less voice it. But on this particular Sabbath day, I would have given myself a 7. I was wearing my hunter-green pencil skirt, Nieman Marcus heels, and my hair was doing its usual voluptuous routine. As class began, I was excited to have seemingly eager participants, until I realized that one of them was that kid. You know the one I'm talking about; the guy who has to speak just to remind himself how beautiful he thinks his own voice is? He was becoming very distracting and disruptive, and finally winks at me and says,"I'm just teasing. Just ignore me." In typical Sister-Chidester-smackdown fashion, I retorted,"It would be much easier to ignore you if you would be quiet." A midst the muted cheers for my verbal lashing, our wanna-be Flynn Ryder looked somewhat abashed, and thankfully corked it for the rest of the meeting. After class ended, I gathered my things, cleaned up the whiteboard, and turned around only to find our antagonist about 6 inches away from my face. "Yes?" I said. "Do you have a critique for me or something?" He proceeds to grin like a goon and says,"No, but I do have a question; you said you're a designer, right?"

"Right," I reply. 

"Can you tell me what material this is?" he asks, holding out his suit coat arm. 

"Um...probably not, considering that's not my area of study."

"Please, can you just try?"

(pinching the fabric between my fingers) "My guess would be viscose and polyester." 

Grinning, he looks me dead in the eye and states,"Nope. That's boyfriend material." 

"..............................................................................................................................................................."

There was literally nothing to say to that. An incredulous laugh/gasp passed my lips, and then I walked off to talk to actual boyfriend material.

This Ain't a Fairytale

Would you be surprised if we told you we signed up for an elective together? We didn't think so. We feel very strongly that by living together and having all the same classes together, we were still lacking a quality-time ratio. Let me express to you the importance of choosing electives with the potential of meeting someone from the male species. There is one boy in our design classes. ONE. Electives are a legendary time in which the Clarke building unleashes designers into unknown territory, as if we have exactly one hour to spot a rare unicorn: AKA a man. So go ahead, close your eyes, imagine us walking across campus with the hopes of meeting only the cutest men enrolled ... and of course having them sweep us off our feet, and ride off into the sunset on a bicycle built for two.
Enter World Religions.
As we briskly enter room 111, (after a quick pep talk) we're on the prowl. Are those two empty seats in between two quite eligible bachelors we see? Dare we hope? There's no apparent glimmer coming from the left hand where the fourth finger meets the knuckle. So we stake our territory by strategically placing ourselves in said empty seats, and await the ringing of church bells.

HALT!

The universe has once again taken pleasure in conspiring against us. Dashed to pieces are our dreams of romance! Gone forever is the window of opportunity! I swear those rings just popped up, like daisies! Things can only go up from here ... that is until the next class ... when it happened again. 111 has become the new 666.
(Stay tuned for part 2)

It's Only Been 24 Hours....

And already folks, ALREADY, we have three delectable, horrifyingly classic tales to entertain you with. Reunited at last (and it feels so good) the Cat Lady Corner is already bustling with willing candidates to supply and endless amount of laughter and tears. Back at work, back into the swing of classes and co-eds. The following conversation that took place yesterday morning is theme track to our matching-sweater-lives.

(Austrie): How's work treating ya?
(me): Pretty good. We went to badger creek today
(Austrie): What is that?
(me): It's like a camp
(Austrie): Any hot co workers? ;)
(me): Yep. He's engaged.
(Austrie): Freeeeeeeeak. Typical

I Am

I'm not a stranger to the cruelty and callousness of the human race. Truth be told, none of us are. Each of us could fill pages with stories of the daggers others have thrown into the underbellies of our insecurities. The driving force behind this post is not to solicit empathy or pity, but to raise my voice and make my stand in regards to today's experience, and experiences past. Today I was told that I will make a great mother, but I'm not wife material. After finding my voice following a stunned silence, I asked this man what made him say that? His response? "You lack what it takes to get a man interested, let alone keep him interested." 

People: The problem here isn't that this happened to me. The problem here is that this is happening to boys and girls, men and women, every. single. day. The problem is that our society has become infected with the objectification of the sexes, breeding the ideology that our worth is completely contingent upon whether or not we are "sexy," "hott," or "gorgeous." To this man I say shame on you. Shame on you for trying to encapsulate all that I am, all that I have to offer, in my appearance. How dare you try to limit me by mortal conditions. To this man, I say you have no idea what a wonderful wife I am. I say AM, because everything that makes me wonderful, everything that makes me ME, is what will make me a treasure of a wife. I am fiercely loyal, but maybe you don't want a wife who will never speak ill of you? I am smart, but maybe you don't want a wife who can speak for herself? I am confident and spicy, but maybe you want a wife who lacks goals and ambition. I am beautiful, but maybe you want a wife who cheapens herself with revealing clothing and degrading actions? My mouth is soft and full of kindness, but perhaps you want a wife who speaks vulgarly. I am strong, I am faithful, I love deeply, completely, and thoroughly. I am funny, full of life, vivacious, hard-working, and full of the desire to serve others. So you're right. I'm not YOUR wife material. But I am somebody's wife, and I won't be "material" to him. To him, I'll be his dream, and he will be mine. How. Dare. You. How dare you try to take who I am away from me. How dare you try to stunt my potential. To any man, or woman, who looks upon another and seeks to rob them of who they can become, you should be ashamed of yourself. Love, true love, is seeing the potential in others, seeing what they can become. I know who I am. I am someone's wife, someone's mother, a daughter of God, destined to become a queen. 

Here's To You

Today we are departing from the usual zest and ping that the Cat Lady so freely offers you, and changing the key to a more serious note. What's this? you ask. Yes, you read right. We are now going to get serious. I'll pause to allow you time to collect yourself.....

You see, the joy and unique accomplishment that the Cat Lady is wouldn't have ever happened without the inspiration and wit of my best friend, Austrie Messer. And since today is her birthday, I find it only fitting to celebrate her with a tribute, a soliloquy if you will. Why, just this evening I was telling my boyfriend (WHAT IN THE WORLD?! Sorry my dear friends, that's a tale for another day) at how I wouldn't have survived this last year without my red-headed sister. I'll spare you the mushy details, but the long and short of it all is that without Austrie, I really don't think I would have been able to pull through this past year. Austrie is the kindest, most patient, genuine friend I've ever had. I love her for so many reasons-too many to share, and most to personal for me to even want to. But what I can tell you is that my life is better because of her. What I can tell you is that it is an honor being her friend, a blessing to be able to love her. She sees the good in everyone, and I mean EVERYONE. She has the patience of Job-I've NEVER seen her get upset with anyone. She is hands-down one of the funniest human beings I know. She has this killer dry sense of humor that confuses most people, but if you know her well enough, you almost hurt yourself laughing with her. Austrie is consistent, and that may not seem like a big deal, but think about that for one minute with me: how many people do you know that always follow through, no matter the inconvenience, the exhaustion they feel, the stress in their life? In our world today, consistency is something we are lacking more and more. Austrie is one of the most steady constants in my life. I LOVE her for her goodness, her honest heart, her kind deeds, her willingness to always put me before herself. And if this is all starting to sound a bit too intimate for you, just remember that she and I are self-proclaimed partners for life. So here's to you, Aus. Thank you for being born. It will be a privilege growing old and decrepit with you. 

The Founder

You know how Facebook has that feature where you can view your own profile as if you were someone else looking at it? There are so many times I wish that was a real-life feature. I would love to see myself through someone else's eyes. It would probably encourage me to not be so stupid sometimes. Like when I ran into the sole founder of my nickname: Asstree.
I could have reacted differently. But the best part of the entire reaction was the lack thereof.

It was the last day of finals, Corinne and I were leaving campus for the last time of our Junior year, icecream cups in hand.
Proof:

Corinne may or may not have heard me mutter that I knew the people walking towards us. The next 5 seconds were a blur of confusion for some. I was staring at the ground, trying not to make eye contact. Corinne was wondering why this woman was staring at me. Does one need to explain why such incidents would rather be avoided? Although perhaps a conversation would have proved amusing...for the second time. Alas, we shall never know. I just hung my head in shame hoping there wouldn't be a repeat- another story to add to the humiliation of Asstree? I'm sure there's another in the making.

Am I Truman?

Have you seen The Truman Show? Am I the modern day Truman? I understand that you aren't allowed to blow the secret. In fact, I'm sure that my one true love is trying desperately to make it to me just in time to tell me my life is a tv show. You're all casting your vote via twitter on how I will live my next humiliating moment, right? Because there's no way it just happens like this. I do not know how such events continue to take place in my life. Modern day Truman is my only explanation.

Last week's homeboy made a special appearance again. Facebook was so kind as to remind me that it was his birthday. But it was one of those "I could wish you happy birthday on your wall but I don't want you to think that I'm giving you the time of day" situations. You know what I mean. So I didn't do anything. I was as the store with my mom, buying supplies for a party that night. (I feel the need to explain myself because I was shopping with my mom...but the truth is I do it all the time) The best part was that the phrase, "cheese curds! We should make poutine!" had seriously just left my lips when I turn around to see homeboy skillet walk up beside me. Our conversation went as follows:

Me: "ohhh hey!"

Homeboy: "hi.."

Me: "hey, isn't it your birthday?"

Homeboy: "yuuuup!"

My mom: "how old? 22?"

Homeboy: "yup, 22!"

Me: "Ya know...Taylor Swift sings a great song about being 22..."

Homeboy: "haha, ya..uhhh I actually do know that."

My awesome social skills may be one reason why I will be single for the rest of my life. My craving for poutine may be the second. Is the most pathetic part of this story the fact that two 20- something year olds are shopping with their moms at the local grocery store? Gah, I'm such a loser.

Struggles of the Wallflowers

The struggles of the wallflower lifestyle-what are they? Let us tell you. We were both laughing the other day when Corinne sent me a text talking about a date she had recently gone on. Our conversation went a little something like this:

C: "We went to dinner and then a formal dance-the first dance of my life that I danced every slow dance! It was great to know that I wouldn't have to stand around awkwardly during the slow songs. Lol!"
A: "Amennn! I was laughing the other day thinking about my senior prom and how I didn't know that you dance with your date the entire night. #struglife"

Nothing like a gym floor and dim lighting to make you feel like a 14-year-old again. (shudder)

You know, now that we have this whole "one-time-I-had-a-date-and-I-danced-the-night-away" thing going for us, perhaps the wallflower status we uphold at dances can be left in the past.

The Homeboy

You move over 600 miles away from home thinking boys from the valley you grew up in are out of sight, out of mind. Wrong. Sometimes the amount of times you end up running into them on campus is uncanny. I must warn you beforehand- That's when they ask you out. 
1 It is usually done through a Facebook message.
2 You end up driving yourself to the location of the date.
3 He ends up talking about the girl he went out with last week and how he really wants to go out with her again.
4 You will probably think, after 90 minutes, that the show you're at is over. However, it's just the intermission. (it took 90 minutes to get to intermission?!)
5 Just so you can prepare yourself, you're in charge of making 100% of the conversation.
6 Over 6 hours later you're wished goodnight with an awkward smile as you walk yourself to your front door.

Fast forward a month when you both walk into your singles branch back home. And then asked to team teach. What's a girl to do?

The Moment I Said It

Remember this guy? Well, turns out he's a glutton for punishment, and he keeps coming back for more. Or maybe he just enjoys getting a front-row seat to my apocalyptic episodes of social embarrassment. Who's to say? Regardless of his reasoning, he's become the catalyst for the latest slew of comically tragic actions in days gone by, and last night was no exception. There he was, just sharing some fun facts about his love of newspapers and how he holds a subscription to the New York Times so he can do the crossword, when a four-lettered kamikaze flew out of my mouth before I had time to eliminate it's doom's day effect. That's right: I said the L-word............................................................................................................

I. WAS. MORTIFIED.

I'm STILL mortified. I turned SO red, and tried desperately to explain through my stuttering that I didn't mean it that way, but, oh gosh, there was no saving that blunder. Meanwhile, just to prove what a stud he is, he laughed good-naturedly and said,"This sounds like material for the blog." "Too soon!" I cried. "It's too soon to joke about!" Needless to say, at that moment, I would have been perfectly happy to allow the earth to swallow up my pathetic carcass, never to terrorize the world again.

One Request

Ever been on a date that you weren't sure was a date?

Yeah, me too.

Ever been so self-conscious on said non-date-maybe-a-date that your sensitivity to other's glances and remarks are heightened? 

Been there. 

Been there as recently as last Saturday. There I was, standing there with my I-wish-I-understood-more-clearly-if-this-is-what-I-think-it-is partner, waiting for a table at Eclectic Cafe, one of the most fun, original gems of Tucson, when the hostess turns to me and informs us that she's going to seat us in the booth for nine. Without missing a beat, I look at her and say,"Are you saying we're fat?" Poor, poor child. She was so unprepared for my sass that cracks like a whip sometimes.... she didn't even know what hit her. I tried to console her and take back my overreaction to the heightened situation, but in the end, just turned to face the canyon that was to be our table. After sitting down across from my contemporary (so far that email would have been the only sufficient means of communication) we both slid the length of the Mississippi river to the middle of our booth and tried to make ourselves look as small as possible. I ask you, Universe, could you cut a girl a break? 

Las Vegas Bachelors

Have you ever been walking with your mom and someone mistakes you for being sisters? Not too uncommon, right? If it hasn't happened to you, it's happened to someone you know. BUT how about getting hit on with your mom?

Never in my wildest dreams. 

I was in Las Vegas for my sister's volleyball tournament at UNLV. In between matches, my mom and I took a walk around campus. Being Saturday, campus was pretty dead...except for the few random creepers that kept her pushing me to the far end of the sidewalk to avoid contact. As a missionary, you get used to people like that. Heck, some may call them golden contacts ;) So when they say hi to you, I'm pre-wired to respond. Note to self: think twice. You're not in Rexburg anymore.
It was a prime example of when you can see someone coming your way and it's just destined to be interesting.

Enter Snoop Dogg's shady cousin. 

Complete with red paint on his cheek and fake blood staining the front of his shirt, he was truly one of Vegas's finest. After giving us the up-down look (please let me crawl under a rock) he says, "Mature ladies, Mmmm"

Mature ladies?

I really do not enjoy this interaction with you, Snoop Jr, but to be called a "mature lady" isn't exactly my first choice. Where is he learning his pick up lines? Bingo? Really.
The probability of us not being able to run away was low, considering if Snoop Jr. tried to waddle any faster than a penguin, his pants would be around his ankles. So there we have it folks, at a ripe, young age of 23, I now fall under the category of a "mature lady." Along with my mother.

Right About Now

What did y'all think about Austrie's last post? Pretty good, huh? That girl always has me laughing. Imagine how many muscles we've pulled in our spastic gales that we have daily. Go ahead...imagine it. I'll give you a few moments.
...................................................................................................................................................................

You're welcome. I know you enjoyed that. It is in the spirit of Austrie's last epic post that I now bring to you one of my many moments of glory. The week was finals. The day was Tuesday. I hadn't slept more than four hours, and stress levels were approaching critical condition in light of my hard drive completely crashing the night before, with projects due to in two days. (try to ignore the dramatic panic music that is now playing through your head). I had worn a dress that day because of a presentation I had given, and I rushed home to change clothes and return to the Clarke for a long night of drafting. The chosen uniform was yoga pants, an oversized mens-ware shirt, and my week-long, unwashed mane in a turban (Go ahead, you can applause such an accomplishment). As I walked into the Clarke, looking like some white-trash version of Chiquita Banana, who do you think I ran directly into? No, not my best friend who could sympathize with my pathetic outfit. Nope. I ran dead-on into Royce, the projector tech for the third floor of the Clarke who got my number at the beginning of the semester with the promise of dinner, never to be heard from again. Fan-flipping-tastic. And as I tried to act like I am too cool to care that someone sees me in a hair turban, inside I was thinking,"It would be an act of kindness if someone would snipe me right now."

Abort! Abort!

This has become one of our favorite phrases as we try, oh so very hard, to get out of a sticky situation we can see coming our way. For example, boy of whom you let off lightly... only to ask for his roommates number, is walking towards you on campus? Abort! Abort! 
Or maybe you go in for a hug from a guy you served with on your mission, only to admittedly enjoy it more than you thought you would...Abort! Abort! 
Either way, a situation of such stature never ends well. But it always does make for a good story...

The semester has come to an end, finals are actually over and you think about the crazy nights you spent up for hours working on your final projects (resulting in a haggard appearance). This may also mean you're cleaning out your cupboards and trying desperately not to spend any more money on blasted groceries. This may call for the desperate measure of having Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner. The. Entire. Box. (Stop it. Stop judging me right now). Alas, errands must still be run and last-minute items procured for final projects, even if you feel like rolling over in your grave. On this particular occasion, the item needed was gold spray paint.

So here I am, a woman on a mission, picking up way more things than I came to Walmart for in the first place, but life is good because I'm finally headed to the check out lane. Hold up. In the distance is Mr. Stallion. Remember him? Great. Abort! Abort! I duck into a nearby aisle, heaving a sigh of relief coupled with the comforting thought, "Here I will be safe." Or so I thought. Just then, he rounds the corner. ABORT! ABORT! It's too late. "Heeey!" But I suddenly feel a little bit better about myself because I'm not the one holding a loofah back scrubber. People use those? Boys use those? I laughed. We carried on a conversation about groceries, internships,  and summer plans. We say our goodbyes and he says, "This should happen more often."

This should happen more often?

Boy, I can show you exactly how you can make this happen more often.

Tomato, Tom-ah-toe

Every now and then, perhaps only once in your life time...I'm not getting my hopes up...you go on a date that is fun, chill, and you feel like you can be yourself. Dates can be awkward. Dates can be painful. If you've read our earlier posts, you know we're living proof of that.
Years ago, I think I was in high school (yes, that was years ago) I wrote on my "bucketlist" that some day I was going to go to a dance with a live jazz band, playing Frank Sinatra-esque classics, at the top of a ritzy skyscraper. A girl can dream, right? We all know that Rexburg is not home to ritzy or a skyscraper. However, once a year they do have a live jazz band dance. And, once a year, I tend to get asked out. And this year, I went! It was  fun! So what was so blog-worthy about this date? I'll tell you my friends. I'll tell you. Amidst the sparkling cider in plastic cups, the knowing eye-brow raises from the town founders, and the heart-palpitations threatening a CPR session, I was introduced to the good folks of Sugar City.

AND.....

I got called Ass-tree. 

ASS-TREE.

BY HIS MOM.

.........Austrie, Ass-tree, tomato, tom-ah-toe...

His mom? you may ask. He's from these parts- it was a community thing- his family was there. He obviously talks about me profanely when I'm not around. I kid...I kid...I kid......? No matter. At our wedding, his mother better have one oustanding wedding gift. Anyways, I've got to go. I'm in the middle of blending our photos together to see what our future children will look like.

I Was Right the First Time

Have you ever had the intense pleasure of saying, "I told you so?" Feel pretty good, doesn't it? It feels even better when that feeling is accompanied by a deep, gut-trusting sense that the facts being relayed to you couldn't POSSIBLY be correct. To mix things up for you a bit today, we have a small, tragic short story, accompanied with first-edition illustrations. Enjoy my friends. Enjoy.

It Feels Like a Perfect Night...

It feels like a perfect night

to write a blog post,

to make up for our absence

>uh-huh, uh-huh<

It feels like a perfect night

to sit on our sofa

and bemoan our dating lives

>uh-huh, uh-huh<

YEEAAAAHHHHH! 

We've done our shopping, bills, and our feasting

>Oh yeah, uh-huh<

YEEAAAAHHHH a-ah

We're fabulous, full, and in our prime. 

It's time, oh oh! 

(yelling)

I don't know about y'all

but we're going through withdrawals! 

All the men are ducking our tries

to get to the gates in white! 

Little do they all know

that we'd never say no. 

With our bio clocks ticking on

We ready to get it on!

The Hand of Shame

I feel like the Taylor Swift of the blog world. (I'll speak for the both of us because I'm pretty sure Corinne would agree. Plus we both love us some T-Swift) You know how she writes songs about boys and no one knows who they're really about? Except the boy who was involved...poor boy. Perhaps these posts are what's scaring any guy from asking us out... Perhaps there's a hope that if they do they'll end up on our blog (hahahaha I laugh at the thought that would EVER happen) Anyways, not that any of that matters. I have a story for you.
I don't go on many blind dates. And by blind dates, I mean any dates... A couple of weeks ago, our stake had this "stake date night" where they match you up with someone from another ward in the stake. The only comment I made was that I would like someone tall. :) It was a lot of fun, what I imagine a typical fun date would be like: dinner, frozen yogurt, games at my place, him meeting my best friend, her stamp of approval, etc. He was cute, a total gentleman, tall, had a nice accent, and knew how to rock out to Katy Perry's Dark Horse. WHAT? They just don't make them like that in the States. The next week, my faithful wing-woman Corinne accompanied me to his basketball game. True friendship right there. While she was busy yelling at the refs and commenting on the lack of accuracy in free-throws, you know, actually watching the game, I was busy with the eye candy. Heck, at one point he waved from the bench. That's flippin' Disney movie magic right there. Fast forward 2 weeks.
Corinne and I are enjoying lunch at the Crossroads (yes, we're both together, would you expect anything else?) We take a seat, at a prime-people-watching table of course, and start talking. No less than a few minutes later I look over at the table across from us and there he is. The guy from the date. Covering his face. You know, when you set one elbow on the table and place your hand over your eyebrows as if to hide from someone. So tell me how someone can go from waving at you from a bench on court at a basketball game to "hide yo kids, hide yo wife" status? We had a good laugh. Still laughing actually. Is this an appropriate time to hashtag? #storyofmylife

It Keeps Getting Better and Better...

Y'all, the Duke of Cruel Irony has been working overtime in my life today! All throughout the day today, Austrie and I continually had to put our eyes back into our head as they bugged out over one ridiculous incident after another. Prepare yourselves, for what you're about to read happens to most people over the course of several months, not hours. Are you sitting down? You sure? Have you buckled your seat belt? Ok. Here we go...

It all started at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m. Yes, you read that correctly. A.M., as in before the rooster is even crowing. I blearily stumbled into the doors of the gym, glasses haphazardly hanging on my face as I pulled my hoodie over my head and began a short warm up before my circuit training. There are pros and cons to working out so early in the morning, but one of the great perks is that typically I have the entire gym to myself. Translation: no waiting for slow pokes to get off machines, I always get my favorite treadmill or bike, and I never have to fight for the dumbbells. Today, however, the Sultan of Satire sent my ex's twin to the gym at the exact same time. Now, to some of you, this may seem like a big so what? kind of moment. I ask you, dear reader, to place yourself in my shoes for a moment: There you stand, drenched in sweat like some kind of sumo-wrestler that just got done with the all-you-can-eat-hot-dog-challenge, morning breath that was the inspiration behind the title The Desolation of Smaug, and looking like you're missing your prairie bonnet because your soaked hair has begun curling all around your ears. Now, before you run away shrieking, add upon this already nightmare of a role-play running dead-on into someone who looks exactly like the love of your life who doesn't love you anymore. Are you rocking in the fetal position yet? Perfect. So you can imagine my horror when this exact scenario happened to me this morning, made exponentially more awkward by the dead-lock stare of 12 seconds because I felt like I'd been punched in the gut with the visual shock. Needless to say, high levels of comfort were demolished, throats were cleared, and a speedy exit was made. You would think the Fates would cut a girl some slack after watching such a dismally pathetic display of social grace, but I think instead they rolled out the popcorn machine and called some friends. In just a few short hours, I had an email from my stake president informing me that my mother had importuned him on my behalf for a date. My mother. She might as well saved herself the time it took to type the email and just sent me a paper bag to put over my head, all for the price of .45 cents! As I walked from devotional to class, still laughing over the events of the day, my date from the previous week walked right by me, made eye contact, and then, with less couth than a cockroach, quickened his stride to five steps for my every one. I couldn't stop the laughter, and literally looked heavenward, exclaiming,"It just keeps getting better and better!" all the while, supporting Austrie from the laughing attack that almost left her crippled on the gym floor. But the day wasn't quite done yet; I know: you can't imagine what else could have happened after such an epic amount of opposite sex failures, but don't worry, the universe saved it's piece de resistance for the very end. Around five pm, my phone rang, with a woman on the other end, who excitedly exclaimed,"Corinne, I have a young man in my office who is looking for something to do tonight, and I told him I know a nice girl!" Hold the phone please. Let me look in the mirror to see if I have a sign that says "I'm now a placeholder for bored males at the last minute." Hmmmm.... (looking in the mirror) nope. Don't see the sign. You might want to check Tinder though-I hear there's lots of shallow waters there.

In the words of one red-head,"It's UNCANNY!"

Marriage Should Come With An Invisibility Cloak....

By popular demand, I've brought forth this gem of an experience for you all to relish in. Drumroll please ladies and gentlemen...........

Today, I made a fool of myself....SHOCKER. I broke out my "Welcome Winter" outfit: Amethyst tee, with cerulean/navy damask sweater....SO PRETTY. I even went to the extreme length to let my waves embrace the crisp air by finger-setting all my curls. Anyways, the point? I looked good. This hypothesis was further proved earlier this afternoon when I went to a forum in the Taylor Chapel. Trying to slip in unnoticed, I sat in the back, in the first empty seat I could find, which just happened to be next to an attractive boy. Now, usually I am the first one in a situation to chat up those around me, but to my surprise, this boy just jumped all over me and was peppering me with questions, not letting me get a word in edgewise. Pretty soon, we were joined by his roommate, who kept leaning over his buddy to touch my knee, shake my hand, blah blah blah. Now, let's be clear: I could hear a hallelujah chorus singing, because this is the type of thing that NEVER happens to me. Here I am, getting chatted up and flirted with by not one, but two boys! Whoa. But, what's this? A THIRD BOY YOU SAY? Why yes, I did. That is exactly what happens. While I'm being romanced by these two competing roommies, a third boy sits in the empty seat next to me, and quickly begins to dominate the conversation. He puts his arm around the back of my chair, is extremely flirtatious, and then starts ooo-ing and ahh-ing over my sketchbook, another thing that NEVER happens to me.

So, let's recap:

As the forum begins, I find myself surrounded by three attractive men, all who seem to be vying for my attention. As I sit and take notes/sketch, I decide to take matters into my own hands. Of the three boys, it was the third that captured me the most. Sitting there next to him, knowing I might never see him again, and yes, possibly letting my eternal companion slip through my fingers (pathetic, I know. I'm gagging as I write this), I decided that I would give him my phone number on my way out the door. I quietly HAND-LETTERED my name on a piece of paper, with my digits underneath, and prepared to hand it to him like I was some kind of smooth babe or something. Now, for those of you who are not designers, hand lettering is pretty much the "leopard bra" of design. It's like saying, "Oh yeah, you see how amazing this handwriting is? There is plenty more where that comes from." So, as the forum ends, my heart starts beating faster, and I'm getting a little nervous. But then I remind myself that the worst thing that could possibly happen is he never calls me. But, I would forever be the incredible girl who was confident enough in herself to pass on her number and then strut out the door. So, I coolly gather my things, stand, and say to the fellow on my right,"It was so nice meeting you. Here's my number. I'd love it if you'd call." TO MY HORROR, this man looks a little embarrassed, and then proceeds to tell me he's MARRIED.

MARRIED!!!!????

Bad form sir. You should be totally ashamed of yourself for shamelessly flirting with me, and stealing my attention away from the two SINGLE boys that were sitting next to me! Gah! And this dork's poor wife! She will probably find my number in the remnants of his bag, and then forever have a vendetta against me, an innocent bystander in the line of fire of her hubby's chocolate pools of attractiveness. So, it's official. At the time of marriage, both partners should receive invisibility cloaks, so as to end all this ridiculous confusion on campus, and put an end to all the I'm-Trying-So-Hard-To-See-If-There-Is-A-Ring-On-Your-Finger-Without-Being-Obvious-ness.

Those Moments

Have you ever seriously considered what kind of superpower you would like to inherit? I have. Too many times to count. For the most part, I always settle on being able to hear people's thoughts. Not all the time, just whenever I tap into my well of power. Living in a world where too many people are too afraid to tell you how they really feel is frustrating, and it would un-complicate a lot of things for me if I could just read their minds and move on with it. But sometimes (and by sometimes I mean at least three times a week) I find myself wishing that my power would be the ability to disappear. That's right: Poof! Vanish! Presto! Gone! All those moments that you relive at night before sleep claims you, those moments that make you cringe with how uncomfortable they were? Those would be completely eliminated by this ability! Like that moment when your ex's twin catches you staring? Or that moment when the worst blind date of your life sees you in the Cross Roads when you look like an orc who escaped from Mordor, and decides now is the time to acknowledge your presence? Or the time you awkwardly run into the boy you dumped as gently as you could, and in an effort to escape, make a dash for the nearest classroom door, only to discover it is locked by having your full body weight rebounded against you?! OR perhaps, just maybe, it's that moment when your dear friend who wants to be more than friends asks if he can come by your apartment with a friend to introduce you to. And maybe, just maybe, you agree, although you're somewhat puzzled. You puzzlement quickly turns into shades of anxiety as he arrives with a little china-doll-just-graduated-high-school-brunette, and announces that they're engaged. Your emotions fluctuate from total shock (because who gets engaged in two weeks?!) to hoping with all your might that she doesn't know who you are, and what roll you've played in her new arm candy's life. And maybe, just maybe that moment becomes almost crushingly unbearable when said fiance then asks you if you can come to the wedding? And all you want is to disappear in the floor, to hide in some obscure part of the world and never have to smile through the stilted introductions while you hope that this sweet girl doesn't know that you're the one her man has been pursuing for the last year of his life. Or maybe this is one of those hypothetically-speaking moments. Maybe.

Spuds Over Studs

Would you walk into a men's restroom to make it look like you nonchalantly ran into someone? Ya, me too. (Austrie speaking here)...and that totally happened. If you don't know me, you probably think I'm a bit of an introvert. If you do know me, you may still think that. I'm not one to be put out of my comfort zone or to cry attention to myself. Please. I'm great at turning all shades of embarrassing red. Any "guy story" I have most likely turns into something we can all laugh about for weeks later. Let me tell you one. 

Rewind to November

I'm on campus one Friday afternoon, with Corinne of course,(what Friday am I not with her?) and we're just working in the Clarke as usual. Days before I was telling her about an old friend that would be visiting Rexburg. Our drafting studio overlooks one of the main quad areas and I see him. From the 2nd floor, like 50 yds away i'm like omg! That's him! She's like "where?!" She starts panicking, thinking that I've spotted the unicorn we saw at the grocery store the other night ... but alas, it wasn't the mythical, single, ringless, tall-drink-of-water that we saw...ahem...stalked...at Broulims. So we run over to the window and he starts walking into the building. At this point, my eardrum has practically burst with her shrieks of, "You have to talk to him!!!" And good ole' introverted, shades-of-red-me…I'm like "psh naaaaah it's all good." The next thing I know she's running out of the room down the stairs, in hot pursuit of my happily-ever-after. You know, just another spinster lookin' out for her sister. So what do I do? Like any normal, healthy, tragically date-deprived woman, I sprint after her, yelling in my scariest warrior voice, "If you embarrass me, I will KILL you!" I hit the landing of the stairs just as Corinne oh-so-coyly passes said instigator on her way to the drinking fountain, providing me with my window of glory. He immediately recognizes me and he gives me this big hug (be still my heart!) and then the magical words, "I was hoping I would run into you!" Meanwhile, I'm suddenly noticing how cute he seems to have become, and blubbering like an idiot, when my wing-woman appears from the watering hole. Introductions ensue, and like any loyal spinster cohort, she starts in on the gushing. "Oh my gosh you're sooooo lucky- Austrie is such an amazing person…blah, blah, blah" and he says (and I quote) "I know! She was such a stallion in the mission." A stallion? What does that even mean? I'll tell you what it means. It means I'm too fast for anyone to keep up with. Right?....... yeah, that's it for sure.

Fast Forward a few months.

(a few long, lonely months)

It's another wonderful day at BYU-Idaho. I've had a couple of run-ins with you-know-who, he who shall not be named, since the semester started. We walk in, and amidst the sea of testosterone, there he is. I think about ignoring the opportunity but it seemed too obvious to ignore. So Corinne goes to save our seats (alone, typical) and I quickly come up with that nonchalant plan I mentioned earlier. I do a big U turn but end up at an awkward spot so I go to the bathroom to wash my hands.

PAUSE. 

Whoever space planned the BYUI center is a sweet spirit I'm sure, but I would appreciate a better sign that marks the boys bathrooms from the girls bathroom (the stick figure with a dress didn't cut it for me). I'll let you decide what happened. But before you judge me too harshly, ask Corinne about her confusion with signage. With a help of a nice man I was guided to the women's bathroom. But, despite the traumatic turn of events, my plan was still going strong. I walked right past Mr. Stallion and cha-ching! It worked! He left the people he was talking to and talked to me! I thought the plan was golden, and perhaps it was. Until I asked if he was waiting for someone.

>Insert facebook update that night.< 

Totes has a girlfriend. Sweet. Idaho, you've been so good to me. Please don't ever stop.

Public Service

Peanut butter just wouldn't be the same without his jelly, Jerry wouldn't be as cute without Tom, cookies just boring without milk. Each of them good alone, but together, a whole new level of awesome is achieved. It was with that mindset that Austrie (fellow blogger, sassy red-head, and best friend) and I decided to bring our two blogging worlds together into one epic, intensely humorous, URL domain.

>pause for the angelic chorus<

You're welcome. 

For all intents and purposes, Austrie and I may as well be dating each other. We know one another perfectly, have each other's class schedule's memorized (not to mention 3/4 our classes are together), share groceries, spend almost every Friday night together, and just about every other sentence out of our mouths is an inside joke. We share everything, including our bone-dry, famine-for-40-years, all-of-our-friends-are-getting-married, we're-some-of-the-oldest-people-here-at-BYU-Idaho, dating lives. The thing is, MTV is really missing out on cutting us a check; while they're busy following around the children of Jersey Shore and Beverly Hills, the real drama is unfolding right here, in Rexburg, Idaho. And, as fun as it is to be the sole beneficiaries of these momentously ironic events, we've decided it's really a shame, in all honesty a crime, not to share them with you. How are we still single? Nobody knows. So fasten your seat-belts kids; you're about to find out why Reese's just wouldn't be the same without peanut-butter.