Friday Favorites: Romance + Sprockets?

Autumn is the most romantic season to fall in love. I would know.

I met my gorgeous husband during a fiery Utah Fall. Everything was perfect – crisp leaves underfoot, the woody smell of wilting trees and grass, golden sunsets bathing the mountain skyline in color, cool evenings spent holding each other close, the soft scratch of his wool sweaters against my cheek, and nights that ended with long embraces and lingering kisses (sorry mom – I mean shaking hands).

Fall also brought Halloween and I was euphoric with the thought of parading a new boyfriend to all of my social engagements.

My costume came together easily: roommate’s high school cheerleading outfit, ponytail, paw print on cheek. I was adorable. I couldn’t get over myself.

The night arrived for one of our many parties and I peppified myself, crossed the street to Chris’ apartment and waited on his couch for him to finish costuming. Five minutes after I arrived, he sprung from the hallway, landing in a superman pose in the center of the room.

My jaw hit the floor. My cheeks colored.

I scanned him from head to toe and forced myself to meet his eye.

Pride beamed as he asked, “So? What do you think of my costume?”

“Wow.”

“Do you get it?”

“Um,” I stammered. “Are you a runner?”

“No, come on. I know you get it.” He wiggled his body in strange contorts, ending with "Ta da.”

I could feel my brow tensing in confusion.

“Now is the time on Sprockets vhen ve dance.” More wild hip thrusts.

I was really blushing at this point. I scanned him again – round wire-rimmed glasses, tight black turtleneck which ended at his waist and, (the cause for my blush) skin-tight, shiny black spandex. REVEALING black spandex. I-DON’T-KNOW-YOU-THAT-WELL-YET spandex.

“I’m a sprocket.”

“A what?” I struggled to keep my eyes on his face.

“Mike Meyers? Sprocket? 'Your story has become tiresome?' SNL?”

Falling for a man who prances around in shiny spandex and shakes his bootie while employing a highly affected German accent all in the name of Halloween is definitely my favorite.

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Friday Favorites: Oh Deer

My mom nonchalantly suggested a tire iron as the most obvious solution to a “little” problem we encountered traveling through Utah three years ago.

This particular drive felt like our millionth six-hour trek to Colorado. We memorized the extended stretches of two-lane highway snaking through the barren, red-dirt desert. We (usually) refrained from swearing at drivers blinding us with their brights and we (often) resisted the urge to flip off maniac minivans tempting fate by passing five cars in the face of a speeding semi.

We actually looked forward to these road trips, so we could blast Cake (must-have travel tunes) and sing at the top of our lungs, discuss the future of the world and our plan to conquer it, get hyper (okay, maybe just me) and drive each other bananas, make memorable emergency stops at small-town gas stations (a story for another day).

So there we were – rocking out, intellectualizing, giggli----

Suddenly our headlights illuminated the tip of an antler. Chris slammed on the brakes (frantically glancing between the road and rearview mirror to make sure no cars would smash into us), but the deer leaped forward. In a split second it was in the middle of our lane. Our tires left thick black stripes on the pavement as Chris pounded the brakes. The deer was within inches of clearing our path when it collided with the right corner of the hood.

We were finally able to stop 50 yards later.

Warm tears misted my eyes as a panicked whisper escaped my lips, “What do we do?”

Chris somberly opened his door and backtracked to the scene of the collision. I tried to follow, but my door was crumpled shut from the impact.

After 10 tense minutes, Chris returned.

“I don’t think it was killed.”

”Did you see it?” I pictured a mangled Bambi drenched in ketchup.

“Part of its pelt is stuck in the crack by the hood. It probably broke a leg, but it got away.”

After a quick check to make sure the car was drivable, we turned back onto the highway. When we pulled into the closest town – about 30 minutes away – we called the state patrol to alert them about the injured animal and approximate location of the crash.

Then we called my parents.

“What are you supposed to do when that happens? We didn’t want it to suffer.”

My dad offered comfort, reassuring us that we did the right thing.

Then my mom piped up, “You should have hit it over the head with a tire iron.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Or a rock. That would work, too.”

“Mom, can you honestly say that you would hit a deer over the head with a blunt object, even if it was suffering? Dad, is she serious?”

“I wouldn’t do it, but I’m just saying. A tire iron would get the job done.”

Image via.

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Friday Favorites: Flowers because it's Friday

The only way my day could be better is if my far-away-in-Utah hot husband delivered these flowers in person. Wearing only a smile.

Or if he assumed the identity and appearance of Edward Cullen. And was wearing only a smile.

Or if I was at a spa instead of work and he (hot husband/Edward Cullen) fed me grapes and bought me shoes.

But the flowers are pretty awesome all by themselves.

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Friday Favorites: Usurping Oprah’s throne

In college, my roommates chose to live with me because of my party-planning skills. I had no formal experience, just grand promises of elaborate soirées, karaoke-fests and WWF wrestle-offs EVERY. SINGLE. WEEKEND.

It felt nice to be chosen.

(I was also unofficially named roommate wake-er up-er when someone passed out on the couch. I developed a fail-proof method involving clapping and a very loud, spirited rendition of the BYU fight song. Eventually, all I had to do was clap before my roommate groaned, raised her zombified self and trudged to bed. Take that conditioning, Pavlov!)

What started as Kool-aid and boxed brownie get-togethers, turned into tombstone cakes, frozen hand-shaped ice floating in punch bowls and costumed movie viewings -- which is where it ended. But even my earliest events planted a seed that is still yearning to break out today and wrap my entire apartment in gold lame´ fabric, staple a red carpet to the floor and re-enact the Tony Awards.

Which brings me to the why – I’m pretty much addicted to drama. And the limelight. And costumes and makeup and hunky leading men and dance numbers and soundtracks and, and, and.

Combine my addiction to parties and my thespianic flare and you often find my 31-year-old husband prancing around in man tights. In front of people.

This is exactly what happened during a recent activity for the 12-18-year-old girls at church. My fellow leaders mentioned the words talk and show and my overly dramatic brain started doing cartwheels. They were nice enough to let me take the idea over the top, in classic Becky fashion, and the result was “Hero Chat,” hosted by yours truly.

The Book of Mormon Hero talk show was amazing -- awesome guests, fabulous "producers," spirited studio audience, even a spiritual take-away message. In case you're interested, you can download the script here. (Awesomeness endorsement here.)

Requisite outfit shot -- I was going for diva host.

Heroes hanging out in the green room.

Instead of tights, Chris sported a sheet-made toga, an Indian pashmina and a mullet wig.

Our studio audience sampled some time-period-"appropriate" Hero fare during the show.

We had every detail covered -- even producers to "warm up" the crowd, display "applause" signs and handle the music. These producers are some of my favorite people in the universe.

Oh look -- we even conned other people's husbands into dressing up!

Here's the idea mastermind. I love this girl, too!

The audience didn't boo me off stage, which I consider a major feat. These girls are incredible -- I'm so lucky I get to hang out with them twice a week!

And here's our Hero's response when I incorporated Neil Diamond music into my final monologue.

Overall, drama mixed with Neil Diamond music and trusting friends who allow me to express my craziness, plus men in costumes, amazing teenagers and usurping Oprah's hosting throne are my favorites!

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Friday Favorites: Monday Edition

Remind me to tell you about my insane week! And how I'm never volunteering to serve EVER. EVER. AGAIN.

Anyway, back to Friday Favorites -- or Monday Favorites -- or, better yet, MOMDAY Favorites.

Did you know I'm a big fan of Mother's Day? Big!

I love creating thoughtful (read: glue-y, sparkly, macaroni noodle-y, yarn-y) cards for mom and grandma.

I love how church leaders ask all the women to stay seated after the first meeting so a gaggle of 12-year-old, khaki clad boys can awkwardly distribute wilted flowers that stand no chance of survival during the remaining two hours of church.

I love thinking about my awesome mom, grandmas, mother-in-law, friends, neighbors, teachers and honoring their contributions to my life.

Since I've been married, I've fallen in love with Mother's Day all over again. It's partly because I'm married to the man of my dreams (everyone together: "Awwwww.") who will someday make me a mother (some days I already feel like a mother -- Dearest Husband: Please put your whites in the white pile and your jeans in the jean pile!).

But also because Mother's Day was the holiday that launched my love affair with a little shop I call HEAVEN. In the early days, it marked my once-a-year outfit purchase from Anthropologie (No, Chris, we can't go back to the way things were -- STOP ASKING!). What could make a girl feel more feminine and gorgeous on her very own national holiday?!

This year, Mr. Wickstrom upheld his Anthropologie outfit-buying tradition. See?
The outfit was just the beginning.

Early Sunday morning, Chris presented me with my Mother's Day card:
I've made my feelings about Master Diamond abundantly clear so you can imagine my response when I opened the card to reveal:
That's right. The Wickstroms are going to see Neil Diamond, live in concert. I can die a happy, happy woman (note: please bury me in one of my cute Anthropologie outfits).

Mr. Wickstrom also made me (and our friends) dinner -- Cafe Rio salads and an amazing, decadent, lavish raspberry trifle.
Oh and we set the table with my grandmother's vintage tulip table cloth. Mother's Day is without a doubt my favorite!

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Friday Favorites: Evolution

As newlyweds, Chris and I often ventured on creative (read: free) dates to the local pet store. We’d wander through the isles, crunching stray cat food underfoot, and inevitably fall head-over-heels in love with nine puppies, seven kittens, a few parakeets, one or two lizards, maybe even a rat. Our lovesick voices jumped two octaves as we cooed, “Hi puppy(/kitty/itty bitty lizard/fuzzy cute thing)! Hi! You’re cute! You want to live with us, don’t you?! Hi puppy wuppy. Oh, that’s a good boy. You’re a cutie.”

We eventually succumbed and bought a “pet.”

Sparky was a sophisticated red beta fish who lived in a vase with coordinating red glass rocks. And floating atop his house was our first green house plant.

Although non-reactive to our coos, Sparky was a resilient little thing. One Christmas break we brought him to Colorado to meet the family. Having no convenient transportation devices, we were forced to remove a blade from the nut chopper and secure him in the glass jar. The method worked until Chris unloaded the trunk and tipped the chopper, draining Sparky’s water and leaving him flopping helplessly against the glass walls.

Dying fish in hand, we hurdled the hedges, jumped down four stairs and barreled through our front door, frantically searching for bottled water. Sparky lay gummy and tired in the bottom of the jar until we drenched him with a giant swig of water. We stared at the horizontal floating fish for five minutes until he regained his bearings and began his usual routine of swimming…and pooping.

Did I mention that he pooped ALL THE TIME? His lovely vase was more often than not murky and filled with smelly floaties, which was good for the plant and bad for the fish parents. I regularly promised my life away to get out of cleaning his vase. (I’m still paying.)

Eventually we ditched the plant to control the odors.

That didn’t help.

Then we ceased showing love and affection.

Then Sparky died.

And Chris flushed him.

We had a (tiny) hole in our hearts and instead of filling it with Sparky 3.0 (we did get a 2.0 -- HIS name was Isabelle), we'd walk around the garden store, falling head-over-heels in love with every columbine, begonia and orchid we passed.

We are now the proud parents of four African violets, a Christmas cactus, two jade plants, a bonsai, a spiky African green thing, several planters of assorted pansies, allysum, dahlias and geraniums. Oh and lots of basil.

But no fish.

Evolution from fish to plants is my favorite.

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Friday Favorites: Wrinkles

After only a week of marriage, Chris realized (to his dread) several of my quirky personal characteristics, which were previously hidden behind a veil of twitterpation. Like my need for black shoes (we’ve discussed this before). Or my propensity toward tears on uncooperative hair days. Or my socks-and-men’s-tee lounging habits.

Or how hot I look when I’m only wearing a smile!

But he was most blindsided by my bed-making rules. For no explainable reason, I have very particular feelings about the tucking of sheets, folding of blankets, placement of pillows, smoothing of covers, length of dustruffles----Alright, I’ll stop there.

My feelings on the subject are so particular, that when a bed-making assistant haphazardly slings the duvet or tosses the decorative pillows, I scream, cry, throw something, panic, breath into a paper bag, run around the room flailing my arms, threaten, wail, spit----Again, stopping myself.

Chris calls me the Bed Nazi.

(I call him a meanie potato husband).

Ironically I don’t make my bed everyday. Sometimes an entire week will pass before I smooth the covers.

But each night, I slip beneath the sheets and concurrently slip into meltdown mode.

Why is this bed not made?! I CAN’T SLEEP ON WRINKLED SHEETS. But I’m too tired to fix it. WHY?! Oh, I’m so tired. WRINKLED SHEETS! I'm MISERABLE!

Six years of wrinkled-sheet-complaining later, Chris learned to endure my mania. Although I have no recollection of the following conversation, Chris swears this happened last week:

Becky: [groggy after falling asleep on the couch and being ushered to bed by Chris] Ohhh, honey! [sniffle, moan, voice jumps three octaves] The SHEETS ARE WRINKLED.
Chris: I know, but try to go to sleep.
Becky: [whiney] BUT THE SHEETS!
Chris: Are you really crying? [chuckles to himself]
Becky: Don’t laugh at me! [sniffle] The sheets are wrapped around my legs. I can’t sleep like this.
Chris: Are you serious? Fine, move your leg. I’ll fix the stupid sheets.

Clearly, smooth sheets are my favorite.

Image via.

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Friday Favorites: Fewer surprises than a broken jack-in-the-box.

Busy. Week.

Miss. Blogging.

Back. Soon?

(Hope. So.)

No. Story.

Picture. Favorites.

Happy. Weekend!

Favorite Sunday night chocolate soufflés.

Favorite Martha Stewart gift wrap for a baby boy.

Favorite JCrew patterned flats (atop my cute patterned rug).

Favorite shipment packaging from Piperlime...

...containing favorite hot pink Dolce Vita flats.

Favorite limey-smelling olive oil-blended kitchen hand soap.

Favorite on-sale measuring spoons.

Favorite Costco-sized bags of almonds.

And this guy. He's always my favorite.

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Friday Favorites: Karma

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Justin Timberlake (as if there’s only one thing), it’s the true nature of karma. Did he not say “What goes around, goes around, goes around comes all the way back around. Ya-ah-a-a-ahhh.” Well friends, he did.

My bouts with karma, especially food karma, usually end bitterly and in the bathroom where I find myself doubled over, the stale taste of fate thick on my tongue.

When Chris gets sick it normally means a week of coughing, sniffling and sneezing, but that’s pretty much all. So the day I came home at noon and found him curled up on the couch, I gingerly stepped back through the entryway, shut the door, examined the apartment number, blinked, blinked again, examined the number again and retried my key.

Chris never gets sick.

Here he was pale, gaunt, lethargic, feverish and sweaty and I still didn’t buy the act. I kept thinking (and vocalizing), “How sick could he (you) possibly be?”

A few hours later he sat up like a zombie corpse, ran to the bathroom, slammed the door and heaved his guts out. I waited by the door, my apology at the ready (because I wanted to see if he actually puked). After 20 minutes I whispered, “Honey?” I cracked the door open to find Chris in fetal position on the matchbook-sized bathroom rug. Apparently he really was sick.

For an entire week, Chris split his time between comas on the couch and vomiting spells in the bathroom. After each upheaval he’d lay by the toilet for at least an hour, too weary to resume his couch coma.

Here’s the part where you discover the degree of my evilness – I still couldn’t believe it was that bad.

Fast forward to about a week later. Chris and I went to Colorado for Thanksgiving. We had an uneventful six-hour drive and arrived to the aroma of mom’s homemade pizza wafting through the front door. We ate, then tucked ourselves into bed.

Two hours later, I sat up like a zombie corpse (I think you know where this is going), ran to the bathroom, slammed the door and heaved my guts out. Then I collapsed on the rug and curled up in fetal position. Bleary-eyed, Chris stumbled into the bathroom, saw my pathetic state and carried me back to bed. Because he is not me, there were no pointed fingers, no know-it-all cackles, no “I told you sos,” just a sweet, empathetic husband carrying his evil callused wife back to bed.

I was on the brink of death. My stomach ruptured at the mere thought of food. I’ve never been so sick in my life.

Or more aware of the power of karma.

Having Justin Timberlake's words of karmic wisdom reminding me to be careful who I tease is my favorite.

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Friday Favorites: Resignation

I vividly remember a church movie I saw as an 8-year-old.

A man is hiking through sagebrush in a barren, dusty desert when he stumbles upon a rattlesnake. Alarmed, the man begins a cautious retreat.

Here’s the best part: the rattlesnake strikes up a conversation. I’m foggy on the details, but it was something like, “Ssssssay, I could usssssse your help, sssssssir.”

And the guy was like, “Who, me?” (He was probably also thinking, I must be severely dehydrated because I swear that snake just spoke words. Wait, am I drunk? Probably not, this is a church movie. But still – snake, words????)

The snake pleads for the man to carry him up the mountain, claiming that without assistance, he would freeze to death. The man hesitates.

“But if I pick you up, you’ll bite me. You’re a deadly snake.”

“Ssssssssilly man. I won’t bite you. I jusssssssssst need your help. Pleassssssssse.”

The man concedes and carries the snake up the mountain. Inevitably, the snake strikes. Through pain-stricken tears, the man cries, “But you promised.”

(Prepare yourself for the moral kicker).

The snake responds, “You knew what I was before you picked me up.”

Long story long, the snake’s moral punch line has proved very valuable in my everyday life.

When we were newlyweds, Chris could not comprehend the phenomenon of black shoes. He was constantly questioning my need for “a millionth” pair of black shoes. I tried to explain the nuance of essential footwear, arguing that just because a shoe is black does not mean it's outfit-appropriate.

Case in point:

I dare you to tell me how I could live without black flat boots, strappy slingbacks and velvet pumps with a magenta bow.

After a few years (the convincing took time, trust me), when I'd mention my need for a new pair of black shoes, Chris would roll his eyes and say, "I know, I know. I knew what you were before I picked you up."

Talking snakes, black shoes and resigning to an inevitable black shoe purchase are definitely my favorites.

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Friday Favorites: Forever Young

We are expert entertainers. Seriously. This is not brag-speak, simply a matter of fact. When it comes to partying WE ARE AMAZING.

Except with timing the food to be ready when the guests arrive. Have we ever done that right?

Nor are we experts with pyrotechnics. But they would really add some sparkle. (Officially added to the to-do list).

And in reality, only one Wickstrom usually does the dressing up.

Hrmph.

Okay, besides the aforementioned “details,” we rock at parties. Especially because our idea of entertainment usually (um, always?) looks something like this:


Incorporating Guitar Hero into every party is my favorite! Right, Kels and Dave?
P.S. We love visitors at Hotel Wickstrom. Come soon, come often and bring more housewarming gifts like Kelsey and Dave did!

P.P.S. We LOVE Kelsey and Dave. What fun house guests! Wanna be our new roommates?

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Friday Favorites: Serious Arguments

One of the most memorable Wickstrom fights happened during our second year of marriage. We lived in a basement shoebox (spiders, mouse, flooding toilets – it was bad!) and my feet froze on a regular basis. Being a smart woman, I would slip on a cozy pair of socks – problem solved.

Only socks didn’t coordinate with my typical outfit.

When I’m lounging around home, I insist on comfort, which is why you’ll never see me hanging out in my Sunday dress after church. And why a knock at my front door sends me running to my bedroom wallowing, “Just a minute!” as I scrounge for a pair of pants.

My typical outfit consists of undergarments and one of Chris’ comfy oversized t-shirts.

And socks.

Although comfortable, Chris would be the first to declare the outfit 100 percent un-sexy.

Rewind to the night of THE fight. We were obviously arguing about something important (Becky, the bed-making Nazi? shoe purchases? dryer lint?) when Chris lost it. He yelled, “Besides, you’re not even wearing an entire outfit!”

“I don’t FEEL like wearing pants,” I retorted angrily.

“I meant the socks!”

Stunned, I looked past my bare legs to my uncharacteristically bare feet. I peeked up at Chris, his eyes tearing as he stifled a smile, and then crumpled to the floor, my chest heaving with laughter.

Serious arguments are definitely my favorite.

Image via flickr.

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Friday Favorites: Sleep-deprived Humor

I'm not divulging family secrets with the revelation that Chris and I laugh at A LOT of dumb stuff – monkeys, Will Ferrell, badly dubbed Japanese game shows, Chuck Norris, bodily functions, musical parody, interpretive dance, ourselves…the list goes on and on.

And while no one can deny my talent, charm, charisma, quirkiness, sparkle (okay, I’ll stop there) as an amateur comedian, you may be surprised to learn of Chris’ propensity toward funny. Especially when he’s running on zero sleep.

This week was a severely sleep-deprived week, therefore, I am pleased to present excerpts from Chris’ one-man show.

Even though he steals my limelight, my husband’s sleep-deprived humor is my favorite.

Act one: A Parable

Chris (puffy, bleary eyed): Becky, you should stop talking about how much you hate the coffee table because no one notices it until you say something.
Becky: But I do hate it. Since I was five years old I’ve hated that table. And it’s clung to me like a hitchhiker on cotton socks.
Chris: It’s like those monks who wear camel hair vests under their clothes as a constant reminder of their discomfort. Keeps 'em humble.
Becky: The coffee table is my camel hair vest?
Chris: Exactly.

Act two: Instant Messenger

Becky: hey, how are you?

Christopher: Hey lovie roo! good, how are you?

Becky: bueno
xoxo

Christopher: I just replanted the jade plants?

Becky: i thought you said pants

Christopher: yes my jade pants
Christopher: they are so green and fabulous

Becky: bahahaha

Christopher: more emerald than jade though
Christopher: If I water them less, they should get a pretty good root system
i made up some better soil
got some sand from home depot and mixed it in

Becky: pants
LOL
Watering sandy pants
ha!

Act three: An e-mail exchange, subject line "PLEASE!"

Chris: Alright, I just ordered the white one. Only $1395 plus tax.

Becky: Are you mocking me?

Chris: No. We just have the same sense of humor.

Becky: So you think all those e-mails I send you about clothes, shoes, housewares, handsoap, beard hats, cds, cars, mansions, etc. are just a joke?

Chris: At this point, I plead the 5th.

Act four: A true-to-life comparison

Homer: You can’t enjoy money when you’re dead, so why not have fun now?
Marge: Don’t you think you’ve had enough fun? Last year you spent five thousand dollars on donuts, two thousand on scalp massages, five hundred on body glitter.
Homer: Hey, I earned that money! While you lounge around here doing laundry and putting up drywall, I’m at work busting my hump.
Marge: Oh, please! From what I hear, you waltz in there at ten thirty, take a nap on the toilet, then sit around “Googling” your own name until lunch!
Homer: Who told you that?!
Marge: You shouted it while we were making love!

Act five: Join our giggle fest!

We think this movie looks hilarious!

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