When you decide to make a homemade costume and realize you have everything you need to be her:
The tats:
The skinny jeans and heels:
The booze and smokes:
The hair (oh, the hair!):
And of course the eyes:
Happy Halloween!
...this blog is temporarily out of order. Sad, right?
BUT, I 1,000% promise it will be back and swinging SOON! I have so much to blog about. And, most importantly, I MISS ALL OF YOU! :(
Hang tight just a little longer. We can rekindle our online relationship (and trust me, I'm prepared to do the mending to make things right between us again!).
P.S. The house may be THE HOUSE! YIKES! Any home buying advice?
Image via.
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First thing's first:
Enter the BIG BIRTHDAY GIVEAWAY by clicking on the cupcake over there:
I was turning 18. We'd been dating for two years. And although teenage romance is turbulent by nature, we were going through a relatively calm and happy spell. We were so in love.
This post was originally titled "In the Toilet: Ameri..."
But I can't do it. Not right now.
I've been in a major funk since the move. Since before the move, even. And because of the funk (the feeling, not the music), I've tuned out of life. Isn't that lame?
On Friday night we spent four hours driving past houses and dreaming. Suddenly these big heavy clouds heaved overhead and a swirling puff of wind blew the trees in 100 directions. Big drops of rain splattered on the windshield; jagged lightning sparked overhead. And just as we drove by a house on our "yes, please" list, a glimmer of sun shot through the clouds. The sky electrified with a vibrant rainbow, the kind where you can see every color, even indigo.
For me, it was a promise that the funk is lifting. That life will resume. That I'm ready to check back in.
And that, although "fashionably" late, the American Idol finale is coming...
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I had FANTASTIC intentions to be a super blogger this week.
Reality:
- I still live in a sea of boxes and am still reeling from the move.Next week I'll be a super blogger. And I'll wrap up American Idol. And I'll tell you about the move. And I'll read your blogs. And we can be friends again.
- The kitchen has yet to be unpacked (aka cereal for every meal).
- I'm not sleeping (which may be related to the fact that I re-addicted myself to Felicity. All four seasons on DVD = HEAVEN!)
- I'm working my buns off. The new job is intense, but AWESOME!
I've been intermittently laughing/crying all morning. Why? Because of this site. And the fact that my own personal photos would be right at home next to Amanda (why oh why did I perm?!?) and Jilian (remember the lasers?).
P.S. Jens' shorts are making me blush!
Discovered via Natalie.
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First, a disclaimer:
I won't apologize for my addiction to a certain teenage Vampire series. While I'm not typically lured in by adolescent novels, this guilty indulgence has been a welcome obsession. It's a good story (even if the writing is not oustanding) and the books are sexy (but not obscene), sensual, intimate and captivating. (You should try it!)
And the movie -- OH THE MOVIE. It's definitely not Oscar-worthy, but it captures the essence of the relationship at the heart of the series. (Can I get an AMEN?)
Which brings me to my point: Rob (the actor who plays the main character) is seriously hot. And the more you see the movie (I would know), the hotter he gets.
And I'll stop there.
Since I love Rob and I know a few ladies who agree, I hosted a
...a life-size cardboard cutout of Edward! (Chris Rob-ified him by creatively positioning our mullet wig to capture that unkempt, rugged mop Rob usually sports. P.S. Chris is a genius).
The food was served on clean white platters which I splattered with blood (because, HELLO, the movie is about vampires).- blood orange soda
- sun-dried tomato bruschetta
- caprese salad (on a stick)
- stuffed mushrooms
- arancini di riso (aka fried risotto balls)
- prosciutto-wrapped asparagus
- bite-sized (blood) red velvet cupcakes
(Maybe everyone wanted to eat the bruschetta because it was delicious [it was!]
(See the blood drips?)
chapter 43
I regularly (somewhat voluntarily) welcome strangers into my personal space. At least on the metro.
Usually I’m late (either to or from work), desperate to get on a train (ANY TRAIN!) and brashly decide it reasonable to cram into a sea of tangled bodies. When the train doors shut, mystery limbs, stray fingers, purses, sweat beads and heavens-knows-what-else inch across the imaginary boundary I’ve erected around my body that says DO NOT CROSS (unless your name is Chris and you’ve been invited).
Then the regret seeps in.
[Editor’s note: Ask me about the time a creepy guy invaded my personal space on a moderately crowded train. Wait, never mind. That story’s FMTEO (for my therapist’s ears only).]
Anyway, where were we? Crowded trains?
(Insert seamless transition about occasionally un-crowded trains.)
When I’m lucky enough to find a seat, I sit relatively close to total strangers. And with the exception of murderous breath, it’s not a big deal.
But sometimes it’s a HUGE deal.
Like the time I spied the only available seat next to a large-girthed woman. (It was more like half a seat.) I quickly assessed the remaining surface area of the (half-a-)seat versus my (presumed) thigh/butt mass and concluded I could fit (my math may have been influenced by the cute, yet painful, stilettos I’d been wearing for 12 hours). I squeezed in as close to the outer armrest as possible, but my butt wouldn’t slide farther than an inch onto the seat.
Mortified, I considered standing up and moving to another part of the train, but the crowd behind me filled all available standing room.
I sat/hovered/balanced on one cheek for seven stops. My hip grew sweaty against her heaving leg, which spread itself onto my upper thigh. My calves shook with exertion and my back ached to rest against the seatback.
I'm still not sure which intrusion of personal space is worse: a purse up in your business or someone's thigh draped across your leg.
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What's your family motto?
Is having a motto lame? Be honest. Is it like wearing matching t-shirts so you can find each other at Disneyworld? (Is that lame too? Uh oh.)
(Also, what's your take on family goals? We set one last year to add SNAPING as emphasis in our conversations. If you've been around either Wickstrom lately, you know we've accomplished this goal in a big way!)
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My girls and I were planning to watch Elf on Monday night. We even sported our glorious matchy scratchy pjs and grey sweatshirts.
We just can't resist Rob!
(Is the sixth time a charm?)chapter 36
Yesterday I was feeling particularly hot. Not temperature-hot (although maybe temperature-hot considering that everyone else’s temperature crept up a few degrees when they glimpsed my scalding visage). I was HOT hot.
After work, I escorted my (hot) self to the sidewalk in front of my building just in time to cross the busy intersection. Mid-cross, I dropped my cell phone, dislodging the battery and scattering bits of plastic across the street. (Luckily the halting red hand was not down to zero seconds in the CROSS-NOW-OR-DIE count).
As I knelt before a cab bumper smeared in bug guts, my voluminous skirt (that sways and flirts with every tiny burst of wind) inflated like a parachute, nearly flashing my secrets to all in a 10-mile radius.
Frazzled, I somehow managed to retain my modesty, retrieve the various cell phone shards and regain my stride before an overeager cab could flatten me into a road pancake.
But as I stepped onto the opposite curb, I tripped on an uneven piece of concrete. My knees knocked and my ankles twisted while I swung my arms in desperate windmills to regain balance. (My carelessness is probably due to the mind Olympics I was performing, weighing the options of tucking my skirt between my legs and waddling like a penguin, or backtracking to my office and affixing double-sided tape to my kneecaps to battle the wind).
By this point, as my hair (and skirt) swirled around my face, the only part of me that felt hot was my blushing, embarrassed cheeks. I lowered my head to examine the sidewalk (and hide my shame) until eventually boarding a train in my homebound journey.
Nothing puts a "hot" day on ice quite like a two-block trip to the Metro that is more drama-filled than the ride itself.
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. ...or it might squirt out your nose when you read this (her side...here's his story).
Let's just say if love were a scale and obsession a measurement, I would rank way off the charts over this family.
Oh, and Harley? Just tell people you're G.I. Jane.
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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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According to Chris, I fell asleep on the couch a few nights ago and started mumbling. Suddenly I sat up and (while still sleeping) said, "I hate infrastructure."
Either I have too much work on the brain, I do in fact loathe infrastructure or Chris is just trying to make himself feel better about the zombie back rubbing.
Image via flickr.
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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.
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Every year in (late) January, I transfer birthdays, holidays and dates of importance from my old, used-up calendar to my freshly purchased, inky-smelling new calendar. It's quite the process. But once complete, my New Year is officially underway. Even if the date of transfer is January 22. Or 28. Or February 7.
My mom taught me the date-transferring trick. She also taught me to include ages by birthdays on the calendar (month-long age humiliation is awesome). And that a phone can become an appendage over time. (Dear Mom, GET CALL WAITING!)
You would think my organizational, calendar-recording prowess would result in timely cards and packages.
You would think.
But then you would investigate and discover that in addition to (very, very late Christmas) Happy January cards, my sister-in-law received her birthday present sometime this summer. (Where did March go anyway?) And Angelica's baby present? Still sitting in my guest room. (October really cruised by this year!)
Lucky for me, belated gifting runs in the family. Which is kinda awesome, because who doesn't love presents in the middle of June?
Except now my sister-in-law is becoming proactive. She's raising the bar and frankly, it's gonna take a lot more than calendar updating for me to compete.
Happy Easter cards/gifts on February 6 are my favorite!
P.S. Dear Sister-in-Law: Cat cards = getting their own gilded frame and wall space. And my life is now complete because I own one of these. You are a genius!
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I don't know what I did in life to deserve all of this.
When I heard the news of my nomination, I had to stop and think about what exactly was in that sandwich. Was it chicken? Turkey? Now, as I type before you (and after extensive googling), the memory of that lunch will forever be ingrained in my heart.
First and foremost I'd like to thank my genes (with a g), without which I would not be me. No, really, I wouldn't.
To my charm and charisma - thank you for being such a powerful force in my life. Thank you also to the constant guidance of my brown eyes.
This award would not be mine without the help of my extensive wardrobe. We've had our rough spots in the past, but you came through for me this time. Thank you!
And I can't mention my wardrobe without acknowledging my shoes, which have supported me every step of the way.
Finally, to the academy (aka Marcie), who so generously bestowed this great honor upon me, I will never forget you! You are so charming, outspoken, gloriously irreverent, blindingly beautiful and generous in your compliments. You shine like a 100-watt light bulb. Or like one of those camping lanterns (I mean the newfangled fancy LED ones). Your tales of tripping, gifting, weddings, cellular phones, travels, parties -- really I could go on forever -- inspire others. I wish the whole world had a chance to spend five (hundred) minutes in your virtual presence. WORLD -- GO SPEND 500 MINUTES IN HER VIRTUAL PRESENCE!
Thank you from the depths of my being.
Oh and one more thing. To my publicist -- you're fired. How dare you send such a horrific photo of me across the World Wide Web.
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Weird things happen when you don't get enough sleep, like this:
[I'm reading in bed; Chris is snoring]
Chris [sits up, eyes dilated]: The ELEPHANTS!
Me: What?
Chris [urgently]: I swear it was the ELEPHANTS!
Me: ....
Chris: ELEPHANTS!
Me: Honey are you sleeping?
Chris: No, I mean...what?
[Chris rolls over, commences snoring]
[I'm watching a movie in the living room]
Chris [yelling from the bedroom]: Jishrell menveo blah (indecipherable) meh you IRON bravelop pandjel (indecipherable) blah BOOM...
[Middle of the night, Chris wakes up and climbs out of bed; I wake up and roll over. Chris crosses the room to my side of the bed and, suddenly, he is towering over me like a zombie. He peels back the sheet and starts rubbing my back]
Me [groggy and puzzled]: What are you doing?
Chris: I'm rubbing your back.
Me: Why?
Chris: I'm rubbing your back.
Me: Are you sleeping?
Chris: Um, er, scoot over. I want to sleep on your side of the bed.
Me: ...
