7.10.2014

My Ragnar Story, Unfiltered

Caution: If you are ever offended by open discussions on bowel movements, don't read this post.

Many of you may have already seen the YouTube video of my first Ragnar experience. I think I've watched it 10 times. The terrain, the endurance, the smiles, the sweat--all of it makes me want to go back to the beginning of that race and do it again. However, the second morning of the race, I was sure I was done running for a while. Don't worry that didn't last long, but I think you'll understand why I initially felt that way when I tell you what happened.

The day was flawless. Or as I often say, it was just my flavor. I was enjoying Utah's tucked-back towns, the rolling green hills complemented by ragged mountain peaks, discovering new places, revisiting places where I made sweet memories and the company of 11 rockstars. I was anxious, twitchy even. An hour before the start of my first leg through Avon Pass, I was reverse hyperventilating. I was taking slow deep breaths, the kind of breaths that make your lungs feel like a balloon ready to burst. I just wanted to kill it and make everyone proud. It felt like just minutes later I was lacing up, inserting my ear buds, turning up Pitbull and stretching my hammies. I felt the snap of the hand-off bracelet on my wrist and I just went. The first mile was steeper than I imagined on a mud-dried trail, but I was thanking the heavens for cloud coverage at 3 p.m. I passed someone just a mile in and was feeling on top of it. The steep downhill full of loose rocks began and I soared. I met a clearing and saw the down into the most perfect valley, like a painting. I wasn't sure whether to speed up from the adrenaline or to slow down and take it all in. My team followed along cheering the entire way.

Soon after I landed on a flat road, and up in the distance I saw a white vehicle sitting perpendicular to the road. I didn't pay much attention, just kept plugging away, though I did start wondering how close I was to the end of this 7-mile run. I peered through the front windshield of this white car and saw a weird balding man with a really excited look on his face. Who was he waiting for? Then his head popped out of the driver's side window, and what do you know? It was my father-in-law, waving like a fool and shouting "We love you!" Dalton was in the back. How long had they been sitting there? Now, that's love everyone. My in-laws drove an hour out of their way to sit on the side of the road and wait for me to pass just so they could holler out the window. I was shocked and so happy. A few minutes later a passed a girl with very visible brown stains on the back of her running skirt. Yikes. Never, ever trust gas when you're running. Let's just say that when I was training, I ended up in park and gas station bathrooms a few times around mile 7.

6.22.2014

Basement Living

Most mornings are accompanied by the sweet sounds of the temper tantrum--sometimes more than one tantrum at a time--complete with murder victim screams and small bodies hitting the walls. No, we aren't stowing any children away in our closets, but we do live in a humble basement below four rambunctious little ones, and I'm sure at least two of them are going through mid-childhood crises. While some days I am tempted to pack everything up and find another basement to hide out in, I quite enjoy coming home to two little boys manning the side gate with plastic firearms in preparation for the zombie apocalypse. They make me feel safe.

Especially lately, people have been asking me why I'm living in a basement when I can afford to live in a house. Yes, it would be nice to have a few hundred extra square feet to walk around in. I wouldn't whine about having a few more closets and bathroom drawers. Because of the space issue we are experiencing, a set of golf clubs, a tarp, sleeping bags and tents are housed in our cars' trunks. And how fun would it be to invite more than two people over at a time? We could host backyard barbecues and my friends' baby showers. I want to read on a couch that is engulfed in the light from an above-ground window. I want to take a shower and leave the door open without the steam setting off the fire alarm. I want to drop by bags by the front door without blocking the entry way. I don't want to rely on a faulty antennae from Best Buy to pick up ABC so we can watch football. I especially don't want to play the "where should we put the antennae so it works today" game. And I don't want Dalton to throw any more fits because the reception is going in and out during important '49ers games.

But, let me be real about something. Buying a house or town home right now would be absurd.

We have had these conversations, but they end quickly. We have no idea where the world is going to send us when Dalton graduates next spring. So, this chapter in our book of life is going to have to be called "Waiting." We've also talked about renting a bigger place, spending another $200 a month just for a little more breathing room. But why? We don't need anything more than we have right now to satisfy our essential needs.

I guess Hobbit living isn't all that bad--until your little brother tells you that your living space is "precious" and that his mission apartment on the Mexico border is bigger and nicer. I don't take care of a lawn, it's not my problem if anything breaks (not that anything does break) and I only have to write one check every month that covers all of my living expenses. We save more than half of what we make every month. We can pay for plane tickets, medical bills and expensive car repairs without breaking a sweat. It's almost impossible to lose things in our apartment, because there aren't many places to look. Oh, and we never get solicitors. Ever. Luckily, the Girl Scouts still find us.

However, these few perks are the only thoughts keeping me sane when I'm kicking my shoes back into our itty-bitty closet. I've lived like a college rat for long enough. I think I've earned a garage of some sort. Maybe a laundry room that isn't in a closet?

Sigh. Well, when it does make sense for us to buy a house, we'll be ready. More than ready.

Now that I've said this, I know the next place we move will be some 500-square-foot studio apartment in downtown somewhere. How about we just fast forward to the part where I live in a 2-bed, 2-bath. That's all I'm asking.

6.01.2014

Tonight, This is Our Mountain


There is nothing more calming than a quiet, summer night snuggled up in a 2-man tent with my honey. The insects have stopped their humming and the wind has settled, giving the tree branches and their leaves a time to rest. I fall asleep listening to the crackle of dying coals. I am nestled in a heap of down on top of a one-inch pad that saves me from the sticks and rocks beneath. I am thoroughly enjoying my new fragrance--diethyl-meta-toluamide, ash and sweat. My body is overly warm while my face is perfectly cool. The sound of silence mixed with heavy breathing puts me to sleep. The woods feel like home to me, and it's not because I'm one of those barefooted forest hippies, it's because everything around me was made specifically for me. Every meadow and valley I've fallen asleep in was molded so that I could know God's love for me. It's for you too, you know. Nature is so intricate and inspired. It's a gift. I want to open it over and over again.

On top of a mountain, I take nothing for granted. I cannot walk into an air-conditioned room or order a Crunchwrap Supreme, so obviously, I take what I can get. And I'm grateful for everything I do get. There is nothing more relieving than a blast of cool wind out of the canyon onto my sweating forehead while hiking up the side of a mountain covered in wildflowers and sagebrush lizards. There is nothing more forgiving than flat land after you've hiked a mile at a steep incline with an extra 15 pounds on your back. Nothing feels better than taking my hot, pulsing feet out of my shoes after reaching our nesting place and letting them soak up the cool forest air. Every bite of rehydrated fettucine alfredo is the best spoonful of mush I have ever rolled around in my mouth. Every source of water found is nature's IV that restores me back to vitality. And you appreciate those cold sips so much more after you've spent a fair amount of time filtering it yourself while your tongue feels like hot paper.

As many of you know, I've been forcing myself to run lately. I started running on a treadmill in February and then I discovered how incredibly lame it is watching the evening news while running when you could be watching the evolving scenery as you run through a canyon. I can never go back to machine running. I drove to Sundance this week as the sun dimmed enough to make the sky gray. I was doing some downhill training and hadn't run this hill before, and really had only been to Sundance once or twice before. I didn't remember the drive. As I started running down the hill I was so taken by the rich green color all around me, the sound of trickling water, and the wings of these beautiful birds flying low, just skimming the tops of the pine trees. I disregard so many things when I'm driving; my windshield filters the true essence of my surroundings. When I'm breathing in so much life, I feel more alive.

"Beautiful things don't ask for attention." 

The most beautiful places I've ever found didn't wave me to them. In most cases, I had to sweat and ache to find most of them, whether I was running or hiking. Usually, when I push myself to go just one more mile when I'm completely exhausted, I find a waterfall, a lake, beautiful cliffs and a view so stunning I lose my breath. If you live in Utah and haven't wandered, shame on you. Acknowledge the beauty that was made for you.

5.11.2014

Happy Birthday to Me?

Remember when the entire year revolved around your birthday? Your mom came to school with sloppily frosted cupcakes and the class sang loudly to you as crumbs fell from their lips. Your mom then disregarded your siblings' wishes to make your favorite dinner and even let you off the hook from doing chores. And a few days later, the pile of mysterious, brightly wrapped gifts that you had been dreaming about suddenly appeared in your living room.

I have had every cheesy, random birthday party you never thought of. I had the "spy" birthday party, the "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" party and the "superstar" birthday parry, complete with karaoke and a recorded cooking show starring me and a few other buck-toothed friends.

And then you turn 24. It's isn't a milestone year of any kind, and quite frankly, you don't care about becoming one year older. You wonder if anyone else really does either, because how ridiculous is it to expect a celebration for yourself right in the middle of a hectic week? It's just not right. And it's not like I'm going to put off my birthday until the weekend because I'm throwing myself a bangin' party. Like I said, is this really necessary?

Despite the fact that birthdays are not necessary, and no one really has time for these things, the people in my life readjust their priority list to accommodate me on the day I took my first real breath and started my journey in this thing called life. How incredibly kind of us to celebrate each other for simply being alive. Now that I am older, I see birthdays as yet another holiday of gratitude. And this is why my 24th birthday was so perfect for me.

May 7th was a rainy day. I love rain. I think that was my present from God. At 12:05 a.m. I received a text from my mother-in-law who was the first person to remember me on my birthday. She called again before 7 a.m. Right after I thanked her for being so sweet to me, Dalton's Uncle Blake called from a cornfield in Idaho while he was riding on a tractor. His endearing twang and the simple fact that he took the time to call me that morning made my day, and it was still early. I arrived to work before my coworkers to get a head start that day, but I was greeted 20 minutes after my arrival with a beautiful vase of flowers with balloons and a few cards. It was a busy week at work preparing for projects and events, but my coworkers still set their loads aside for more than an hour to take me to a delicious Thai restaurant, my favorite. My birthday could have stopped here and I would have been thrilled. Balloons? Curry? Happy birthday wishes from a tractor? I couldn't want anything else.

And then there is the Facebook factor, which is overwhelming to say the least. I am tempted to remove my birthday from all social media sites so that people from my past and present don't feel the need to type "happy birthday." A hundred "happy birthday" messages later from grade school friends, teammates, college classmates, church leaders, and so on, I had thought about each of the people who decided to send me a message on that day. I thought about what they meant to me at whatever stage of my life we were connected, and I was so full of love! Sure, typing a few words and hitting "enter" only takes seconds, but no one had to do it, yet they did anyway. I loved each simple message.

A few hours later, Dalton walked through the doors with unwrapped shoebox as I cleaned the house to keep my myself occupied. I hadn't been expecting anything from him until the weekend because he has busy days with his internship, not to mention having to drive to and from Ogden. When I saw the shoebox, I knew exactly what he had been up to. Remember how I told you about my irreplaceable black pumps? Well, he found a pair that is almost identical. I was able to drop my tattered pair in the garbage on top of banana peels and wilted lettuce. Inside the shoebox there was a shirt that Dalton picked out from Bohme--one of my favorite stores--and it had Catherine written all over it. We must live together or something. The last thing in the box was a letter he wrote listing some of the things he loves about me. He knows nothing means more to me than the written word, especially when its in his ALL CAPS handwriting. The only thing that would have made it better was if he had done it on graphing paper like he did with the letter he had me read before he proposed. When something is written, it suddenly becomes more real to me. It's because sound disintegrates. Ink stays.


It all ended with Dalton taking me to Mountain West Burrito. Nothing finishes the day off quite like a heaping cup of guacamole. Like I said, the guy knows me. I was perfectly content to come home afterward and watch Man vs. Wild until midnight. It's always important to stay on top of your game as far as wilderness survival goes. There is a chance that I will need to bite a live frog's head off in order to stay alive, so watching this show was a gift to myself.

Now that I am terribly old (let's be honest, I'm a child), this birthday meant something different to me than the 23 before it. As life gets busier and we struggle to make time for our relationships, I was so grateful to have so many reach out to me on a day that is really just a day. I now understand, though, that birthdays are not about celebrating getting older. They are about celebrating life, celebrating that you and I are here right now in this miraculous, complicated world. And I'm willing to celebrate anything if guacamole is present.

4.30.2014

We Need to Need Others

The teeth chattering started on Saturday morning while I was walking through the mall in order to avoid sitting in the awkward Big O Tires waiting room for three hours. I was wearing a fleece-lined jacket, but blamed the goose bumps on walking through a cavernous mall during a never-ending rainstorm. Because I have the sweetest husband in the world, he came to keep me company and give me a hoodie to wear under my jacket.

Fast forward 24 hours. I am actually shaking uncontrollably on the couch while attempting to the read the newspaper. I hobble back into bed where Dalton is still sleeping. He is a human space heater, so I snuggle up as close as possible to his back and pull the duvet up to my chin, still shivering so hard I was sure the entire mattress was rattling. All of the commotion was enough to wake Dalton up. Instinctly, he put hand to forehead, then hand to cheek. Once I was warm enough, he hopped up and retrieved the thermometer from the cupboard. The white stick beeped 103.2. I thought it may pass within the hour. This is how I think. My head throbbed so hard it required effort to open my eyes. All my back muscles tightened as if they were trying to keep the heat from escaping.

The next things I know Dalton has his church clothes on. He is reading the lesson, he is bringing me ice water, he is putting damp cloths on my head, he is fetching the Ibuprofen. No questions. My first reaction is to say, "No, no, no ... I just need to close my eyes for second. I'll make it to church. No, don't worry, I can go get another blanket."

Dalton didn't give me the option to do any of the things that were part of my usual routine. This fever routine happened five times total before the beast decided to leave me a lone. My fever would break, I would sigh with relief, and then I would groan in anger each time the shakes started again. Husband wasn't bothered. In fact, I think he was delighted that after a busy school year, the tables had turned and he was in control of the house and my well being. I should have known he would have been happy to take care of me no matter the circumstance, but we just get into these endless routines and life goes by so fast you forget to need other people when you can't function on your own. Looking back, I couldn't be more grateful that a slew of fevers forced me to get over myself and allow the person who loves me most to show it. And it was so effortless.

I was even lucky enough to come home to Dalton on Monday for my lunch break as the shakes were in full force, you see, his internship was originally going to start this week, but was pushed to next week. Someone is looking out for me.

It's because of experiences like this that I know getting married is the healthiest thing I've ever done. Yes, it's been great for my physical health--I have a built-in hydration service when I' not feeling well--but it has been even better for my mental and emotional health. Throughout the 6 years that I've known Dalton I've developed an understanding of deep love, which, to me, is Christ's love. I have also slowly realized that I am capable of being loved on this level, and I have learned to apply this deep love to myself, though I've struggled with this for the better part of 20 years.

Those that know me fairly well will agree that I don't ask for help if I know how to do something on my own, even if it means slipping into madness to complete a task. While I know I need help, I don't want to be a burden or make anyone put their plans aside for my benefit. But when I do allow people in, the definition of love is made clear to me again.

I also know that by allowing Dalton to be needed, he is fulfilling an immense purpose in this life. Some of my worst days are those where I accomplish nothing and I go to bed unsatisfied. And I know Dalton is the same way. In my experience, the people who are most unhappy feel unneeded in this life. So please, need people. Then let in the people that need you. You'll find your deepest purposes in life this way.

4.28.2014

A Farewell to Black Pumps

CIRCA JOAN & DAVID; Size 8.5; Texture: REPTILE; Color: BLACK

After seven years, it's time to say goodbye to my solemates.
The problem is, I can't find another pair of shoes to fill their shoes.    
OK, not more bad puns. I promise.

As a junior in high school, I purchased a pair of $100 shoes that had a backbone. I needed them to be tight enough so that I could run in them if needed, but loose enough so that I could flick them off as soon as I sat down at a desk.

They have been everything a person could ask for in a pair of shoes. They have traveled across the country and across the Atlantic Ocean. They've taken me to every interview that has ever meant anything to me. I've worn them on days when I felt like hiding in my closet and watching terribly depressing movies. They made me stand straighter. I truly believed that if I wore any other pair of shoes, my chances at landing a new job or internship would be shot. I received a few terrifying church callings wearing Joan & David. They seemed like no-nonsense names enough for me.

These shoes exuded characteristics I wanted in myselfunderstated yet powerful, elegant yet feisty, playful yet contemplative.

It took seven years of stomping, tripping and light jogging, to cause a tear. I wore them so often that the simple bending movements of my foot wore them down enough to rip the skin. The balls of my feet rubbed the gold paint until it splintered and, in some places, disappeared.

Rainy days give me hope. So, on one of the gloomiest days I've ever experienced in Utah, I headed out into the gray to find a replacement pair. It wasn't good. Everything was cheap looking or too expensive or too boring or too eccentric or too high or too low or too narrow or looked like it had shuffled out of my great-grandmother's closet.

I compared every pair of shoes to Joan & David. In a sea of heels, I thought about my poor friends that were waiting by the door for me, ready to give a day at the office another go. I simply gave up after an hour or two, and came home with a new outfit instead. Oops.


Joan, David and I have been through so much together. I've sweat profusely in them while under a tight deadline. Instead of smelling like gym socks, they dried up just in time for the next day, completely erasing the sweat assault from the previous. I've assumed some of my most effective power stances while wearing these shoes. I have successfully run a mile in them through a busy city while trying to find a kind citizen with a phone charger. I also entered the temple to receive my endowment while wearing them.

How can I possibly dispose of them? I'm scouring the Internet for the exact same pair with no luck. Perhaps the shoe to the right is close enough?

No. No, no, no. It's just no the same. Dalton's reply to this entire charade I'm pulling is, "Oh look, you are sentimental after all!" Well, this is just a little different than the concert tickets and silly knick-knacks we've collected.

4.23.2014

When you marry a football fan ...

... you become a football fan, whether or not you realize it's happening.

As we endure baseball season and anticipate the beginning of football season, it's only right that we reminisce about chip dip smorgasbords and yelling at the television.

This is my baby football helmet
 that a good friend and co-worker gave me.
It keeps me company at work to remind
 me what's really important in life. (That's a joke
 for those of you who are unfamiliar with
my sense of humor.)
I admit, I whined about Dalton's football fanaticism for about a year. You want me to sit on this couch for how long? Can't I just watch the end? Then I surrendered. I memorized all the team mascots. I knew who the quarterbacks were on the "good" teams.  I watched every YouTube video about Colin Kaepernick. But I was so torn! I liked cheering on my former Aggies that were killing it on the Seahawks. But, oh well.

Lucky for me, Dalton's favorite team (the Niners) fit me well. If I was going to cheer on any team, it may as well be the team closest to the city where I grew up with a quarterback that played for UNR. And no, the Oakland Raiders were never an option. Just for a little background, Dalton's '49er fanaticism started at birth. It's deeply rooted in who he is. Seriously. He was born on Super Bowl Sunday in 1990 as the Niners were beating the Broncos. Actually, "beating" isn't the right word. "Wiping the floor with" is probably more accurate.

Some might describe this as fate. And I think a few things were rewired as he was coming into the world during this victory. His emotions are somehow attached to that team. The players are the strings and he is the marionette. When one of the players gets arrested, he doesn't want to talk about it. When they lose a game, you don't talk to him about it. When they win a game, a permanent smile is fixed on his face until they lose again. There is an awesome photo of Dalton at age 6 standing proudly in front of the fire place all suited up in a miniature Niner uniform.

I didn't understand how it was possible that an individual could connect so deeply to a few dozen freakishly meaty men they have never met who tackle each other for a living. Boy, was I naïve.

This is the first year that I have genuinely missed watching football. I miss that anxious feeling when there are a few minutes left in the game and it's tied up. I miss having a reason to wear my '49ers T-shirt every week. I miss getting into arguments with people about why Colin is the man.

Anyway, I realized one day that I can wholeheartedly embrace football, or forever battle Dalton for the TV remote--a battle I will never win.

4.20.2014

Tradition Withdrawals

On Easter day I'm supposed to wake up and find an Easter basket outside of my bedroom door with a few little gifts and one egg that hints at the color of all the other eggs waiting to be found throughout the house. Then, after church, we journey up Mt. Rose Highway to Grandma's house. Now, my house Grandma's house may not be what you picture--a little cottage with knick-knacks lining the walls. Her house is like her. Elegant, open and naturally lit. I was always in awe walking into her closet as a little girl; it was bigger than my bedroom, and twice as tall.

Before we'd arrive on Easter afternoon, she would hide dozens more eggs in the bushes, rain gutters and rock walls. However, only a few of these eggs actually had candy inside. Grandma would save almost all the change she collected over a year's time and stuff them in these plastic eggs. I earned enough money this way to care less about allowance until mid-June. I would have spent what I'd found in the eggs on a few beanie babies and decks of Pokémon cards. No, I couldn't play the Pokémon game, but I'd buy the packs hoping I'd get a shiny card to show off to the boys at recess.

When I was too old to enjoy this tradition, I still looked forward to watching my siblings get excited about it every year. When I was in college I forgot Easter existed outside of church. Then I got married, and just like every other married person in the world, everything changed. And because my family doesn't live close by, I was thrown into an entirely new world of tradition on holidays, and at first, I felt that I couldn't help but compare my family to Dalton's.

Now, I've been in love with my in-laws since the first time I met them. I can still remember it. They were incredibly kind from the moment they let me into their home, and they've been close ever since. I've learned from them more than anyone else how important family time is, even if it's just sitting in the same room together watching a football game. They really get the "time" concept, and they are never in a rush to get to the next thing. I truly don't deserve my in-laws. This weekend, my mother-in-law scheduled massages for us at a swanky spa, and she always buys new flavors of Ben & Jerry's for me to find in the fridge when I come over. These are just two of hundreds of things this lady does for me that she doesn't need to do. I'm the luckiest.

At first, since I wasn't used to their family gatherings, I often found myself disappointed, thinking about what I was missing out on by not being with my own family on holidays. But was it really the traditions themselves that was getting my down? Were they really that important to me? I didn't feel like they were, but still, something was definitely missing for me.

And suddenly, I figured it out. I was lonely. With Dalton's family, I was in a room full of people that  I loved, and I knew they cared about me, but they wouldn't say more than a few sentences to me when I was around, and they'd known me for some time. Is this how it's always going to be? I didn't want to be bummed about family get-togethers.

And suddenly, again, I figured it out. The problem was 99 percent me. I wasn't trying. So I started making an effort, developing the same relationships I had in my own family. I was waiting around for someone to make me feel like I was right where I belonged, but that's not their job! It's mine. Now, I'm just as excited for the in-law pool parties, food spreads, and their crude birthdays cards and jokes.

4.16.2014

I found my running legs

I was born with a swimmer's body--a long, craning torso and compact, powerful legs. Naturally, I have a mean backstroke, but no matter where I run or how fast I run, I always feel like I'm running up a sand dune. And on a Monday in November I decided I was sick of my attitude. I stepped foot on a tredmill wearing my 7-year-old Mizunos, cranked it up to 7.0, and didn't even run a half mile until I felt the prickling, radiating pain of an old friend--shin splints. I remembered exactly why I hated this monotonous ritual.

I pushed it until I got to one mile and was in serious pain. There is no way I could do this. And then I remembered all the sissies I've known that have completed half marathons. I figured there had to be a cure for me, and I quickly realized the root of the problem was at the root of my body. The cushioning was worn down to tissue paper. I may as well have run barefoot. Within seconds, running shoes shot to the top of my Christmas list. Just one week later I found myself in a runner's paradise with my mother-in-law. Shoes were stacked high on the wall, perched like tropical birds with their striking colors. After learning that I walk with perfectly balanced weight on all the surfaces of my feet, I was assured that the shin splints were caused by nothing other than my lousy old shoes. I told the man who was helping me to pull down one of everything that would work for my arched feet. I had 13 boxes stacked in front of me and went to work. The first box had a pair of Mizunos that were the trendier version of what my father bought me as a young high school student. They would have done the job, but there is no way I was going to stop there with so many options in front of me.

I flipped open the lid of the second box and was hit by a fluorescent traffic sign of color. Dang it they were beautiful! It's strange how different shoes speak to different people. I'm sure plenty of people would grimace at the sight of this sexy pair of Brooks that spoke to me. I tied them to my feet and began to pounce like a begging poodle. I couldn't help it; they were so springy and light, and hugged my foot in all the right places, if you know what I mean. I jumped on the treadmill tucked in the corner of the store and ran, bumping the speed up every 10 seconds. I was an Olympian! ... and then I got tired.

Christmas morning couldn't come soon enough. It was a long month. I imagined myself running down State Street like an antelope in a stampede of minivans and four-doors.

On the second Monday in January I got all suited up and shoved a fist full of almond in my face for fuel. I even downed a few supplements to kick my endurance levels up a notch. I stood on the treadmill watching Vanna White make emerald boxes white with her fingertips. Nike spandex pants. Check. Tabbed socks. Check. Ear buds that don't fall out of my ears. Check. Breathable, razorback running top. Check. Ponytail with headband. Check. Kick-butt Brooks Glycerin rocket shoes. Check.

And so it began. I ran all the way through Wheel of Fortune. Not fast, mind you. I was running about 10.5 minute miles, but I was steady. When I started to get bored, I told myself that I can do anything in the world for five more minutes. I started to sweat, but was well-equipped with a clean hand towel draped across the hand bar. Before I knew it, Jeopardy was halfway done. I was afraid to see how far I'd gone, because I didn't want to feel like I had permission to stop. I guessed that I hadn't run very far and kept going. My knee started to grind on itself as it was unfamiliar with the rocking movement. It hurt, but not enough to stop. Every time I was about to hit the stop button, I would tell myself "you can do anything for five for minutes."

And I could. When I finally stopped I looked down and saw the digital numbers read 5.8. That night I didn't sleep, I hibernated. I'm not even sure I was breathing. Sleeping was luxurious.

A few weeks later it finally hit 50 degrees and I was ready for a real run. Just me, my music and the elements. I wore my '49ers T-shirt for good luck, strapped my Camelbak on and headed toward the lake. I was freezing at first and my legs started cramping up, but I kept running because I was listening to Black Betty, and you can't stop while listening to that song and still respect yourself. You just can't. I gave it another 10 minutes. In the middle of Vineyard, Utah, I was on a street so close to my house that I had never seen before. The chilly morning was sweet relief to my neck, underarms and forehead. I made it to a field of shriveled hay where the road stopped, but I kept running through the soft, yet slightly frozen mud. I ran until I reached a wall of reeds that looked like tall wheat. The antique cream color of the reeds against the freezing blue lake was striking. Mandolin Rain was soaring through my ear buds. I believe listening to songs that inspire you is just as effective as listening to fast-paced pop songs. I felt beautiful inside and out through all the sweat. It was quiet. Just me and the stillness by a vacant lake house on a deserted pathway.

I felt it. I understood a runner's love. My legs moved, I journeyed, I crossed train tracks four or five times and waved at passersby. My muscles were engaged; I felt every one of them. I enjoyed every refreshing sip of water from my Camelbak and dramatically mouthed the words to each song on my playlist. Together, the rhythm of my feet hitting asphalt, my inhales and my exhales, was a song of its own. Before I knew it, I was approaching my driveway. I looked down at my phone; 8.5 miles, and I could have kept going.

I felt shocked, then thrilled, then liberated. I remembered how just four months before I was telling people "I'm just not a runner." What I really should have said is "I'm just out of shape." I had to find what worked for me, and not compare my results to anyone else. Set goals and take them seriously, then figure out how you can make runs more tolerable. I only enjoy my runs at certain moments. It isn't the funnest thing I do every week, but it's one of the most rewarding. Start a run without expectation. Along the way, play a game with yourself to see how much farther you can go. Keep telling yourself "I can do anything for five more minutes," when your legs feel like lead. If you are treating your body right, I promise you will make it past the fifth minute.


4.14.2014

Married Friend Woes

I will never forget the first time I was thrust into a situation with Dalton's mission homies. I also remember feeling incredibly degraded by one of them after I was nice enough to make him dinner. Another one didn't make eye contact with me until the third time I saw him. Most of them grew on me, and then they got married. I like most of their wives very much, but there are a few that seem to live on a different planet. So let me tell you how much I dislike hanging out with another couple while my husband speaks to his friend in Spanish almost the entire time, and the wife is someone who I have absolutely nothing in common with. I feel about these situations the same way I feel about zombie noises, which is basically the sound a person would make if they were moaning while gargling phlegm. Few things make me leave a room more quickly.

It's not like I don't already have a hard enough time finding girls I want to be close friends with, but finding girls I want to be close friends with that married guys my husband wants to be friends with? That's an antique shop find worth keeping. Now, imagine finding two wives that like each other, two husbands that like each other, and then the husbands actually like the wives while the wives like the husbands. Does this even exist? Sure it does, but in my experience, it happens maybe once or twice a year.

Since Dalton and I got engaged, I've often felt like it's impossible to maintain strong friendships. Plus, I've never really been good at befriending girls--they're just so dramatic and foofy sometimes. Girls drive me bananas. I drive myself bananas! But when I find a girl who will go hiking with me, I hold on tight. It has always felt more natural to make friends with guys, but I realize now that very few of them were purely interested in meeting up to discuss impressionist artwork. Seeing that my other half may not appreciate me spending time with other males, and I'm not so keen on the idea either, I now have no other option than to practice being friends with girls. I used to be good at it. Is there a Girlfriends for Dummies book I can check out at the library?

The Bennett family's lives are busy with my full-time job, Dalton's full-time school schedule, Dalton's part-time job, Dalton's internship, the responsibilities that accompany our extra activities, our church calling, hitting the gym/pavement, making time for family, and so on. I'm sure this sounds similar to your lives. In the rare occurrence that we have a night to ourselves, we often don't find it appealing to call friends. Perhaps, in time we will get over this, but our date nights are important to us. Scratch that, I actually hope it stays just how it is and I suddenly find a few more hours each weekend to spend time with the girls or our favorite couples.

We are currently heading into strange territory where some of our married friends are having babies, which is another level of separation. We have a wailing, yet lovable, someone rerouting the usual topics of conversation. What do I know about colic and jaundice? It seems so much easier to make friends as parents, because naturally, you want your children to have friends, and therefore, you make a special effort to befriend the parents of your child's friends. You willingly embrace these strangers' compost bins, their network marketing businesses, their dandruff, or whatever, because you always have one topic to fall back on: parenting.

All of this might sound absolutely absurd considering we live in the mecca (Orem/Provo) of young married couples. However, we live in a neighborhood, not an apartment complex that is teeming with newlyweds who host game nights every day of the week. Dalton doesn't socialize at school because, well, he's married ... to me.

For now, I feel incredibly lucky to have one ultra-bestie that fills my social life with rap music and action movies.



4.12.2014

What is a modest swimsuit?

I'm a huge advocate for modesty. I must admit, though, that I bought a bikini in college because I thought it was OK. All my LDS friends owned nothing but bikinis. Then I realized I was being a stupid conformist and forgot my standards.

Hey, Utah Mormon girls, what is the deal with this, anyway?

While wearing said bikini, I realized people (mostly male) treated me differently, and I didn't like it at all.

Modesty is a "mode of dress" that's meant to buffer sexual attraction.

However, I'm under the impression that only a few groups of people in this world truly know how to be modest. Muslim women are the first that come to mind, followed by Amish women and all astronauts.

As the weather is growing warm enough to consider taking a dip, I've been reminded that I'm in desperate need of a new swimsuit. And then I got to thinking ... is it possible to purchase a modest swimsuit at Target? I mean, my legs are completely exposed up to the hip! If I go down a water slide, you better be ready to see a little bit of cheek when I get a wedgie. There will be no question what the exact shape of my behind is. There is nothing modest about that terrifying spectacle. Oh, and those shoulders that I've been covering all year? Well, they are making an appearance when it hits 85 degrees. With so much skin showing, luckily I have a piece of fabric to hide my lower back and stomach. Is it important to wear a one piece or tankini because the belly button and lower back are more sexual than our legs and upper backs? Can I show off my stomach, but add a little more fabric to the attached skirt?

Now, I'm not saying wearing a bikini is equal to wearing a one piece on the modesty scale. Clearly, the one-piece wins the modesty award. But I want to know how much more a man would sexualize a woman by seeing her belly button and rib cage. It seems like any swimsuit allows the mind to wander enough if it's allowed.

Personally, I would hate wearing one of the lovely ensembles you see above. It's too hot for a wetsuit and I'm tired of seeing my pasty thighs every day. Let them see light! But honestly, is it really accurate to say my tankini is modest? Eeehh ...

4.11.2014

I Can't Settle Down in Utah

I moved to Utah to go to school and meet a dreamy guy that would stick around with me for a while. I just can't stay here. I can't let my kids grow up in a "bubble."


Wait, let's back up really quick. A few years ago, this is what I would have said to you. Now, I am realizing that living in Utah long-term is absolutely in the cards for me, especially because the majority of Dalton's family members live less than an hour from each other and because Dalton is beginning an internship in Ogden this summer. I always imagined that my husband would get a job somewhere across the country, we would have an adventure together and build our life from square one. We would start our own traditions, relative get-togethers would never be taken for granted and we would rely heavily on the bonds in our ward family.

Then I realized my opinion on this matter was based off of the only thing I know: my own childhood.

As a member of the LDS church who didn't grow up in Utah, I always felt like raising kids in Utah would be ineffective. LDS culture in Utah is so dominant, I was sure my kids wouldn't be able to develop a deep understanding of the gospel because they wouldn't be able to exercise their faith in trying circumstances.

Wow, was I ignorant. Obviously, living in Utah doesn't mean you get to escape the trials of life. I've met some of the saddest, most twisted people in "happy valley." The struggles are just different here. At least there appears to be an overall positive outlook toward overcoming these obstacles. 

Then I remembered how incredibly hard it was to be a member of the church in Reno. The people in my social circles had very different views on life and definitely different values. Peer pressure was intense and as a confused tween and teenager, I often sought the acceptance of others. I found a few people who were true friends despite having different religious views, and I will never forget those few.

I remember distinct situations when I couldn't get off the school bus soon enough because "Billy" wouldn't shut up about the number of wives my dad had. He told me I was part of a cult and used rather colorful language to describe the Book of Mormon, temples and the priesthood. I was asked many times if I wore embarrassing underwear. I became very good at ending conversations with "Nothing makes me happier than being a member of the LDS church." Perhaps, one of the most hurtful comments I ever received was from a boy who asked if I was embarrassed by my body. My prom dresses always had sleeves of some kind and I wore tankinis. Had he asked this question sincerely, I would have said no, but he laughed when he asked it.

It's tough for me to swallow the thought of my own kids dealing with this kind of treatment. But it's also tough for me to swallow the thought of my kids taking their faith for granted because they are surrounded by "Mormon Culture" 24/7.

I don't see any glaring differences between members who were raised in Utah and outside of Utah. In fact, some of my greatest childhood role models aren't active anymore. Perhaps, the only difference is that Utah members don't understand just how convenient it is to have your church 100 yards from your house, and how much sleep it saves to attend seminary during the day.

Talking to my mother today--a woman who never liked the thought of living in Utah, I was assured that no matter where LDS children are raised, their successful growth relies on nothing more than what is taught, expressed and enforced inside the walls of the home. 

That being said, I'm letting go. I like the thought of having family present for every milestone. Why wouldn't I want that? Isn't our ultimate goal in life to stick with our families? And why wouldn't I want to be surrounded by the support of those who share my beliefs? Why would I willingly leave these striking mountains?

Well, no matter where the wind takes us, I understand that the outcome of my family's development in the church is on me, not the state I live in. 

No pressure.

4.10.2014

The Trouble with Travel

Once you've left the continent, you immediately become a snob. You'll come back to the States, and nothing will ever be the same. You may start sentences with, "Well, when I was staying in a Parisian studio apartment ... " and "I actually saw that in real life ... " Eye rolls will follow.

Spending a Saturday binge watching House of Cards or strolling through the mall will feel like a major failure. You will let out a heavy sigh and think back to the moment you reached the top of a mountain that looked over Ediburgh, Scotland, just hours after sitting in the very chair J.K. Rowling sat in when she had the Harry Potter lightbulb moment.


As soon as you come home from your excursion, you will immediately begin scheming how you will go back. You will somehow justify spending $7,000 so you and your husband can go on a tour of the Greek Isles, but walk immediately to the clearance section when entering any store. OK, so we thought about doing the Greece thing. It has been my dream for at least a decade, but we're settling for something else that won't put such a big dent in our bank account. The husband reminded me there might be more essential things to spend our money on in the near future. Adulthood. What a crock.


When you return from your trip around the world, you may find that you develop a form of OCD. You will often check flights to various locations on your "to-go" list. You cry when you see the prices, but you can't help but continue looking, thinking that some day you will find a flight at half price. Dream on.

And then sometimes, when you're having a bad day, you will click on the photo folder that contains all the images captured on your adventures. You will look at them to remind yourself that you did know excitement and bliss at one point in time. You will study these still memories that are full of vibrancy and movement, and you will not feel any better about your current situation. You will feel helpless because you don't have ruby slippers to take you where you want to go.

I'm sure many of you are appalled that I am being at all negative about having these amazing opportunities. But it's because of the smells, the art, the architecture, the languages and the commotion that I'm bitter. I want it every day. Not to say Orem, Utah, isn't the bee's knees. It has its redeeming qualities, kind of.

Thanks to Europe and South America, the bar has been raised. I am always searching for the next memory to make, even if it is in my backyard. I will never settle for a sleepy Saturday.


4.09.2014

Nine-hour Pregnancy

Note: No, I don't know what pregnancy is like, but I read a lot and I've spent time with quite a few pregnant women in my life. This one goes out to my expecting friends and new-mommy friends. It also goes out to the guys at work who wondered what the world would be like if each woman conceived and gave birth to a child in a 4-hour time span.



8 a.m.: Well, that usually doesn't happen before heading to work, but I'm not complaining. Wow, I have so much to do today. It would be great if my head and back and pelvis weren't aching something awful. I knew I should have stayed in bed. Did someone punch my ovaries when I wasn't looking? Yawn. What was I just doing? Oh yeah. I'm hungry, wait, no I'm not. Don't talk to me, I hate you! I'm sorry, I love you. Would anyone notice if I assumed the fetal position under my desk? Am I dying? Oh no. This is happening.

9 a.m.: Boss? I've got to run an errand. Be back soon. I'm paranoid, but I still have to make sure. Seriously? You want to charge me $9 for two of these? Wait, so I pee on this? How does this work? Two. Pink. Lines. TWO. It's wrong, it has to be. There is no way the hormones would show up this quickly. Alright, test two. Seriously? These sticks are faulty. Shouldn't have pounded those Lucky Charms this morning. Bleh, I never want to eat cereal again. Bleeeeehhhh. Imagine, if I wasn't already in this stall. This bathroom smells like a sewer. Got to get out. Just make it back to the car. Everything SMELLS! What is that? This gym sock is rank! Get it away from me. Oh no, more Lucky Charms. Nope, just dry heaves. Yawn. I just need 10 minutes of shut eye before making it back to the office. Zzzz.

10 a.m.: OK, this is real. I haven't digested anything, and it still looks like I had three helpings of pie after Thanksgiving dinner. I need a doctor now! Scheduling appointments is overrated. If this is real, there is a person in me. Ah! Get it out! Wait, don't. Doctor? Please, I think I'm having a baby today. Does anyone have a sandwich? I really need a sandwich people! Extra pickles with an extra large chocolate milkshake. Extra everything. Is the stomach jelly necessary? What is that little flickering thing on the screen? A heart? My body made a heart? ... That's ... that's incredible ...

Ring. Ring. Honey, you're going to be a father in 6 hours. Quick, do everything you ever wanted to do that you haven't already done. No, you can't buy a motorcycle. Go.

11 a.m.: Books, I need books. I need to go to the library! Are there Cliff Notes for this three dozen I'd like to check out? Ugh, shouldn't have eaten that sandwich. Bleeeeh. I'm dizzy, I can't move. Honey, where have you been? Read me books! Cloth diapers? No. Breast feeding? Yes, but how? A breast feeding bra? Weird. I feel terrible. I need ibuprofen. I can't have ibuprofen? Is this a joke? You want to name the baby what? Absolutely not, that name rhymes with a dirty word. Go get me a bushel of oranges and some sweatpants while I rest my eyes. Get these pants off of me, they're digging into my bump.

12 p.m.: Zzzzzzzzzzzz. What? What do you want? Don't touch me! Zzzzzzzzzzzz. Hey Facebook world, we're pregnant! Stay tuned for photos between 4-5 p.m.! So excited to meet our little bundle.

1 p.m.: I'm fat! How do you go to sleep bloated and wake up fat? Quick, go to Sonic and get me the good ice. Don't ask questions, I just need ice in my mouth. Oh, and while you're there get me four of everything. And don't forget the cocoa butter, my skin isn't as elastic-y as I originally imagined. I can feel it. Is that a foot? An elbow? I'm here baby. Can you hear me? Are you as scared as I am?

2 p.m.: What can we use as a makeshift crib? The microwave box? OK, that will do for now. What about clothes! The baby can't come home in a hospital blanket! Ow, ow, ow. I need a back massage. Dig! Dig! Is that as hard as you can do it? Quick, we need to go to the store. Diapers, bottles, booger suckers, onesies, binkies. Do we have time to get the crib? Crap! Babies need car seats, don't they? What did you read about car seats in the books? You don't remember? You didn't bring them with you as a reference? OK, get that one. Why not? I can't walk anymore, put me in one of the motorized scooters. Wait, I have to pee.

3 p.m.: Why are my feet swollen? I need a foot rub. Seriously? That's all you got? I can't lay, or sit, or stand. Maybe I'll be comfortable if I'm suspended in air. Can you make that happen? Can you set up a crib in 30 minutes? Fine! I didn't think it would hurt to ask. I have to pee again. So, are you ready for this? Well, I told you to do everything you wanted to do before 5 p.m. No, we aren't going to buy more guns. I think my skin is going to rip open. Did you know your baby is in here? Yeah, I don't believe it either. I'm so sleepy, but I can't lay down! I'll never get back up. Give me that jar of pickles.

4 p.m.: I can't stand anymore. If I knew I was going to get huge today, I would have hit the gym a little harder last week. Someone needs to wheel me out of here on a gurney. Ow-ow-ow-ow! It's trying to get out! Doctor, it's time! Expletive. Expletive. Is this happening? I'm not ready. Make it stop. Inhale. Exhale. OK, I got this. Push ... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. It's a girl. She's gorgeous! She has my nose. She is so small and delicate. My Monday miracle. No, we cannot try again tomorrow! I can't take any more time off of work.

4.07.2014

Rabbits Lay Eggs?

When I stood to say the pledge of allegiance as a kid, I always glanced over at the two Jehovah's Witnesses in my class, just to make sure they didn't happen to put their hands over their hearts and join us.

valscrapbook:all-things-bright-and-beyootiful: By Catherine RaynerI liked both of them. They knew all the answers during difficult math lessons and never got in trouble. During free time, one of them always joined me in piecing together a puzzle of kittens in a basket of yarn. We had done it so many times the picture was beginning to curl up from the cardboard. I never would have suspected that these two innocent, dimpled 8-year-olds would be the rock through my stained glass window. All the magic of my childhood was shattered by one five-word sentence.

"Your mom is Santa Clause," she told me matter-of-factly while smashing a piece of a kitten's paw into a piece of another kitten's head.

Of course, she told me this right after I divulged the Christmas list I sent to Santa the day before. I looked at her and waited for the punchline. And then the unraveling began. I felt the hurt rise from my chest to my cheeks. This was the beginning of the Great Emotional Breakdown of 1998.

Luckily, I was a somewhat logical child. I understood that the imagination was a gift, and I knew believing fostered hope. When I sat down with my mom that night I asked about all of them: the rabbit with the eggs, the fairy that stole teeth and, of course, the fat man with the sack of gifts. When I told her it was the J-dubs that revealed her schemes, she knew there was no backpedaling.  

I wasn't mad at her for lying to me my entire life. I was mad that my world's stock of magic was officially depleted. Life was a grey globe of habit. Mystery and enchantment were things people used to escape the grey. Everything was as it seemed. And yes, I was a deep-thinking third grader. 

Since Mom had the talk with me, she has had to have the talk four more times. I was asked to fib to my youngest sister so that she kept believing. When she finally realized it was all a lie, she was hurt. She felt stupid and betrayed, which made all of us wonder what was more valuable, revealing the truth or encouraging believing. My youngest brother was much like I was. The disappointment was overwhelming. How miserable it is to discover that every Easter and Christmas from now on are nothing more than a few trips to the grocery store and local mall.

What if your three-year-old asks the same questions I had as a third grader? Do you lie then? At what point does the playful tradition of holiday characters become dishonest?

It is especially hilarious to consider the upcoming holiday: Easter. So a massive bunny has a never-ending supply of hard-boiled and plastic eggs to hide all over the Earth? Why would a rabbit prefer to hide eggs as opposed to crunchy vegetables?

How amazing that as children we have so much faith in the world that we buy into this far-fetched Easter story without even beginning to reconsider its validity. In honor of this childish faith that I once had, Dalton and I will hide eggs this year. Not because I have children or intend to invite any over, but because the child in me deserves another go at it. Fueling my imagination may be the healthiest thing I can do for myself at this point. 

4.06.2014

Tuesdays with Barb

The home smelled of bandages, masked urine and microwave dinners. Walking down the hallway, I heard the muffled sound of static and the 5 o'clock news. I passed a wide window that let me see into a checker-tiled room full of padded tables and exercise equipment. A frail man with wiry, grey hair laid on one of the tables as a woman dressed in white moved his right leg in small, clockwise circles.

We meet no ordinary people in our lives. Something to ponder ~ because I feel very ordinary most of the time.I continued walking, passing a few women in wheelchairs who wore pastel colored muumuus. It looked like it was painful for them to simply hold their heads above their necks. The nurses never made eye contact with me or anyone for that matter. Files were stacked high on the nurses' desks next to trays of pills. I turned a corner and headed to the end of another long hallway to the last door on the left. I was scared. I'd never met a person with multiple sclerosis. But when you keep putting one foot in front of the other, your feet make the uncomfortable decisions for you.

"Barbara" was on a shiny plaque outside of her room. I entered quietly and saw that the bed on the left was vacant while the one on the right was surrounded by curtains lined with paper poinsettias. I delicately lifted a curtain to the side and saw a long woman with high cheekbones wearing headphones. She looked up at me with her big eyes and reached up to me with her only mobile arm.

"Hi Barbara, I'm Catherine," I tried hard to pronounce each syllable perfectly so she could understand. I took her hand and said, "I'm going to read to you, is that OK?"

"Ow-ay," she nodded her head. It sounded like she was talking with marbles on her tongue.

The Book of Mormon sat next to her bed and I opened it to the book mark. Barb's bucket list is almost complete. This is the last thing that needs to be crossed off. But what happens when we get to the end of Moroni? Does her life end? What if we don't make it to the end of the book before God takes her back? I found myself beginning to read quickly.

She stopped me. I rolled my chair close to her and she held my hand. Her hand was so soft. She felt the ring on my hand and asked about my husband and if I had any kids. It took a little imagination on my part to string the sounds she made into sentences. She told me that as a younger woman the boys couldn't get enough of her. Yes, Barb told me about her enormous chest, her long, slender legs, and claims she never had to shave. Sure, Barb. She went on and on about the flawless genetics she acquired. I believed her for the most part, seeing as the hair on her head was still thick and a dull, dark brown. I loved her almost immediately.

I don't think I read all of three verses in 1 Nephi before the nurse came in with dinner--canned green beans and a pizza slice cut into square-inch pieces. And before I knew it I was leaving her to eat in the quietude of her dim room.

I've known Barb for 12 days now and I find myself thinking about her every day, wishing I could just sit with her and watch her silently laugh. And I vow to never again claim that I have bad genes.


4.05.2014

Why Writing is Hard

I discovered my talent in the 5th grade. My curly-haired, flat-faced teacher Ms. Kolton read a paragraph I wrote about an angry boy to the class. The boy marched up the stairs to his front door, threw his backpack down, clenched his fists, and then the phone rang. He glared at it and thought about throwing it out the window. Now, this is a silly scene that anyone could describe. But my teacher thought I was something special. She signed me up for Talent Academy, a program I attended every Friday instead of going to school.

Since then, people have been placed in my life to look me in the eye and say "Don't ever stop writing. Ever." 

I've found myself in many settings that allowed me to display my talent regularly. It's one of the only things I have confidence in; yet, for some reason I struggle to publish anything, especially on a blog. It was easier for me to spray my emotions all over the Internet as an unmarried college student without a career because nothing was at stake.

Now, if I want to write anything meaningful, it's going to be drawn from my own experience. When I have an idea and want to put fingers to keyboard, my first thought is ... who cares? Why would anyone want to read this? OK, so I post something and don't push it on social media. Well, I might as well write it in a Word document or in my journal, because it isn't impacting anyone. Where is middle ground? How do I write what I really want to write without making myself completely vulnerable? How do I write without saying too much?

It isn't possible for me. Either I write like I mean it, or I don't write at all. 

Oh, and let me not forget to mention that I'm terrified of being one of those people. You know, the ones that I "hide" on Facebook and the ones that write for nothing more than attention. I don't want every post to appear as though I'm shouting, "Look at me! Over here!" 

In a highly hormonal state, I sobbed to Dalton, "What is the point of this? Why do I write? Why can't I be good at something else? Anything else."

He lowered his eyebrows and squinted at me saying, "Catherine, this isn't you talking. This can't be you."

It was, though. 

Nevertheless, beginning today I am challenging myself. Because I do not want to squander one of the only talents I have, I will write every day for 100 days. Every. day. Whether it's one sentence or 1,000 and whether I'm enraged or ecstatic, depressed or delusional.

Note: I am seeking any and all writing prompts. Send them to me on Facebook or send them to catherinebennett57@gmail.com.

1.22.2014

What You're Missing - January

Welcome to the first edition of What You're Missing, where we tell you what we can't get enough of, whether it be a sweet local spot, a product, a restaurant ... you name it. We want you to know what we go bananas about. Dalton will pick five things and I will select an additional five for the sake of balance. No one wants to hear all about Dalton's love for guns and Zombie TV shows, and no one wants to hear all about the "hippie" album I'm listening to on repeat.

1. Vanilla Greek Yogurt: As of recently, Dalton and I have committed to lay off cereal. We still have it around, but we've selected different breakfast items so that we start our days off on the right foot. One day while on a shopping trip Dalton had the urge to buy Greek yogurt, which he hadn't tried before and now eats every morning with raspberry granola. However, he swears by the vanilla flavored Danon Oikos and nothing else. Ever since the holiday food overload ended, he has been requesting things for dinner like Asian lettuce wraps. He is awesome.

2. The Goldbergs: I didn't grow up in the 80s. Actually, I barely missed the cutoff. But from what I know about the 80s, a lot of hilarious cultural elements crossed over into the 90s. Anyway, I've found a nostalgic TV show that is light, relatable and seriously funny. If The Wonder Years and Modern Family had a baby, it might be something like The Goldbergs. Jeff Garlin plays the dad who can't work the VCR and always stakes his pants off at the door when he gets home. The mother is played by Wendi McLendon-Covey who is your traditional "smother," or so she is called. Laced throughout the episodes are all sorts of great 80s references that make you want to jump back in time a few decades.

3. Origins Charcoal Mask: I owe the clogged pores on my nose and cheeks to my more intense workouts. Few things upset me more than looking too closely in the mirror and overreacting about emerging blackheads. Luckily, I can try to prevent it with my favorite charcoal mask. Yes, I look like the Creature from the Black Lagoon with it on, but it doesn't dry my skin out and I don't have to worry about my workouts making zits flare up.

4. Terk Portable Antennae: This month, Dalton has been incredibly grateful for our portable antennae. We don't have cable, so before we got the Terk Antennae Dalton would watch football games by refreshing his phone every five seconds for updates. The antennae was something like $60 and now we get cable for free. Actually, considering how the Niners game turned out on Sunday, I'm not sure it was good that we watched that game. Dalton has been all riled up ever since.

5. Tarahumara: Let me introduce you to one of the best Mexican restaurants I've found to date. When we went to Tarahumara in Midway we sat in the dimly lit bar area next to an impressive salsa bar. They had salsas with ghost peppers to more of a creamy cilantro dip to mango salsa to pico de gallo. By the time we were through with that salsa bar I wasn't sure I'd be able to eat much else. However, I had the tastiest cilantro cream fish tacos, and I really appreciated that they gave me the option to get a salad as my side rather than rice and beans. If you are ever hungry and in Midway you must go.

6. Banana Republic Navy Toggled Sweater: Shopping for clothes is becoming easier and easier for Dalton and me. If we need something, we know we are going to BR. We were cruising around City Creek Mall and popped in BR to check out the sales. Oh, I forgot to mention, we religiously shop at the outlet store in Lehi because I can't justify paying $80 for a button-up. Anyway, Dalton spotted this navy toggled sweater that he was seriously digging. It was WAY too much money, so we walked away empty handed. Then a kind soul bought it for him for Christmas. He figures out how to wear it with half of his work outfits.

7. Frozen Gummy Bears: Dalton and I aren't huge dessert eaters. When I need something to do on Sundays I'll make cookies and end up giving some of them away. I'm content to drink hot chocolate if I'm craving something sweet. However, we recently decided to stick a bag of gummy bears in the freezer and it is becoming a staple freezer item right next to the peas.

8. Comedy Sportz: Our good friends urged us to go to an improv comedy club in Provo with them. Honestly, when I first heard the idea, I could only imagine how lame a Provo comedy club could be. People in Provo are funny? No. I was 100 percent wrong, though. At one point in the show I laughed until my eyes began to water. It was just a quirky, different place. It's a pretty intimate setting and there is a large replica of the two old men in the box seats from the Muppets on the wall. There were few areas on the wall that weren't covered by a Ron Burgundy or Napoleon Dynamite cutout. I will be attending this laughter fest again.

9. What the Night Knows by Dean Koontz: When Dalton and I are in the car together for more than 10 minutes we usually pop in an audio book. Our music preferences tend to clash. He likes alternative/classic rock while I like indie/folk rock. I've never really been into Dean Koontz books because I'm a book snob and I like literature that has many layers. However, Dalton loved Koontz's book What the Night Knows; it was the perfect combination between ghost horror and creepy homicide mystery. I will give Koontz one thing, though, he knows how to set a scene. Some of his descriptions gave me the willies.

health shake10. SlmSMART Vanilla Health Shake: Thanks to the company I work for, I started drinking a nutrient-rich protein shake for breakfast every morning that I swear tastes like ice cream when I blend it with ice and a banana. It keeps me going for five hours and I'm always bummed when I have to have something else for breakfast. I started running in December and every time I drink this shake I've noticed my endurance increases.

And this is what you've been missing! Unless you haven't missed these things and you are simply reading this to rejoice with me in the luxuries of modern living.

1.12.2014

The Whirlwind: Work, School, Break, Work, School ...


I had this brilliant idea that I would get around to posting every week, but come on guys ... when your job is to WRITE, you just don't feel like doing it anymore when you get home.

Without going into holiday details, I would just like to show you a fun tradition I believe I will keep around until I get sick of it. I hate getting bogged down in holiday goodies, so I hoped others felt the same way I did about this. Instead of commencing holiday baking, I did some holiday blending. Salsa is red and green, you know, Christmas colors, so I thought it would be fitting. And I think it was a good pick-me-up, like a little piece of Mexico in this dreary Utah winter.

As a quick note, we had a wonderful time in Reno for Christmas, even though everyone was puking Christmas day. It was a day filled with animated movies, puzzles, ancient board games and leftover Mexican food. It was Dalton's first Christmas with the Meidell family and he handled it like a champion. Shortly after we arrived back in Utah we celebrated our 2nd wedding anniversary. I still remember thinking he was never going to come home from his mission, and here we are! We spent a beautiful wintry night in Midway at a mansion with swans and deer. We watched movies by the fire at night, had a really fun dinner, saw an ice castle and woke up to a baked apricot scone in the quaint dining area downstairs.

And here are the quick and dirty updates on our lives (more quick, less dirty):

Dalton:
  • Just started his second semester in the finance program
  • Is also interviewing for summer internships as I pray that he doesn't move away
  • Is started to study for the CFA exam (only 38% of those who take it pass) and even received a hefty scholarship to pay for almost all of it. We are so lucky. 
  • He's still killin' it at the credit union
  • Our primary kids are allowing him to practice his discipline techniques
  • He still finds time to take me out on the town
  • Oh, and he also finds more time to root on his Niners and hiss at anyone who gets in his way. NFC championship game BABY.
Catherine:
  • Still adoring my job at Synergy. I love coming to work with a long to-do list every day. 
  • Building up my running endurance. The most I can run is 6 miles. I feel like I hit a wall after that. Mostly, I just hate how time consuming it is! I am opening my door to any tips/advice.
  • I'm upping the amount of reading I'm doing. So much to read with so little time is a severely underreaching statement
  • I'm still volunteering with hospice. Last night I heard "Hello? Hello?" coming from the bedroom, so I went to see if the patient needed to go to the bathroom. He was sitting on the edge of his bed so I helped him get up. He took three steps and basically backward on me and I was pinned to the bed under his 6'5" body. In addition to the running I've been doing, I need to start weight training so that we both never have to end up in this position.
  • Like everyone else, I have lot of side projects, but I wouldn't dream of boring you with the details
  • Other than that, I just do my best to support my casanova by making him "real food" and putting the house in order
Speaking of something tasty ...

BEHOLD!


Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Whisk up 1/4 cup of soy sauce,  1 1/2 TBS of olive oil, 1/4 cup of lemon juice, 1 chopped up garlic clove (I use the chopped garlic from the jar) and 2 TBS of brown sugar. I substituted 1 TBS of brown sugar for honey. Bake the salmon for 25 minutes basting it every 5 minutes or so with this glaze. 

Easyyyy. Just do it already.

The Bennett's love you and that's that.