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