My Deer...

It was a year ago that Maria scratched her head, examined my portfolio, and said, "Yes." So, for all those of you who somehow weren't able to make it to my proposal to Maria (don't act as though those invitations got lost in the mail), it has been recreated and simplified so all can understand and enjoy. 

I'm the one in the middle, Maria is on the right, and the guy on the left is just an extra.

For the kids...

Here's another prospective household pet that Maria has crossed off my list. Who wouldn't want to come back from a long day of work and be greeted by this thing? 

Now we are twenty-one

For Maria's twenty-first birthday we went roller-skating. We were joined by the local elementary school, all of them on razor scooters. What they lacked in control and skill they made up for in speed and recklessness. 

It was a perfect dismount.

We hug sometimes.

Syd and Chaela got really into the celebration and made their own shirts. 

Nephi and Kirsten came and ate all the ice cream. It's all about dessert with those two.

Nate and Olivia. We told her Metallica was in the house. 

Emma had to be sneaky to get this ice cream from the Johnson's.

Because it was elementary school night, a height limit was imposed on the rink, unfortunately excluding Josh and Chelsea from skating. 

We also ran into my father at the roller rink. He was there for the semi-finals but, sadly, didn't place. 

Snap, Crackle, Steve

I'm still trying to convince Maria that we should get her a more suitable doll. Or at least one that is not as edible. Plus, I'm getting jealous. 

I see undead people...

When Steve and I say goodnight, it goes something like this:

"Good night, Steve."

"Good night, Maria."

"Go get those zombies."

"OK."

Steve dreams about zombies almost every night. Dream interpretators say that zombies represent boredom, an inabilty to think or make decisions, or a lack of creative ideas.

In Steve's dreams though, he is attacking, not the zombies. I interpret this to mean Steve overcomes all of those representations. He loves those dreams. In my dreams with zombies (which actually didnt exist until I met Steve) I don't even have weapons.

But just in case he is bored after six whole months of marraige on Monday, I found a bunch of zombie movie trailers on Youtube and cued them up to act as clues to a little scavenger hunt. The clues were words that put together a little introduction to the prize I made for him. It said, "Hello. My name is Super Steve the edible zombie killer." The last clue led to a rice-krispie effigy of Steve when in his zombie-killer mode. The normal Steve had a hard time eating it because it looked like a person.

Steve succesfully found all he clues and the treat. He also bought me lovely potted flowers for the anniversary.

Air Traffic Control

I wrote this "dramatic monologue" for my British Literature class. Note how it is neither dramatic nor British.

CAPTAIN'S LOG

Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking.

As you may have discerned

We are experiencing technical difficulties.

Do not be alarmed.

Many planes have landed with only one wing.

No, I am sorry; we are all out of honey-roasted peanuts;

Only salted remain.

As your captain, I am trying my best;

I am pushing all the buttons that I can find.

I am still wearing my pilot’s cap and my “wings”.

You should trust in me; I went to school for this.

This is still a No Smoking flight.

Remain in your seats and fasten the safety belt.

We are sending a priest down the aisles for any who desire Last Rites.

There are also available complimentary drinks,

A token of our appreciation.

The weather below is warm,

You can almost taste that desert air.

We hope you have enjoyed your flight

And hope to see you again real soon. 

The finger on the trigger...

Wikipedia just told me this:

"Hemingway is believed to have purchased the Boss & Co. shotgun he used to commit suicide through Abercrombie & Fitch, which was then an elite excursion goods retailer and firearm supplier."

Is it any surprise that, twenty years later, the guilt of having facillitated the death of one of America's greatest writers/wine-bibbers transformed Abercrombie & Fitch from an outdoors recreation outfitter into a trendy fashion retailer? 

This is why I walk on the far side of the mall when passing Abercrombie & Fitch. How can you wear a shirt that is responsible for extinguishing such a flame as the one below?

Seriously. Check out that left jab. And the sea captain beard.

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet...

Maria and I have been thinking about Halloween couples costumes for us.  Here are some ideas:

Or there is always this...

...although we haven't decided who'll be who.

new creation...

This was an extra credit project I made for my Temples class this summer.
This is entirely of temples that are important to Steve and I: San Diego, Provo, Salt Lake, San Antonio, and Madrid. Steve and I are in a couple of these ones, good luck finding us!

look alikes

They say that as time goes by, married couples tend to look more and more like each other.
There are many theories on this. Common ones suggest elements that develop over time, such as years of similar exposure to the same standard of life, nutrition, experiences and empathy. Other studies show that the look- alike process begins far before the 50th wedding anniversary. Resemblance has been found to be a desirable factor in dating couples, according to patterns where most women dated men who resemble their fathers (meaning a similar genetic structure from the get- go).
They say that you can even tell how successful a marriage is based on how the wrinkles on the couples' faces end up. Happier couples accustomed to smiling have more lines around the mouth, while a lack of smile crinkles and a tradition of frowning can show up after years in the development of facial muscle, literally changing the shape of the face.

This couple may have had some hard times.
Steve and I are already preparing for the day when we can try to pass as identical twins. We have a tendency from time to time to put on matching outfits. Don't ask him, he'll probably deny it, but its true.

It could be worse though. It could always be worse.

Actual images of Maria and I's first day of classes...

Projected images of Maria and I's last day of classes...

Hotel/Motel

Having tried out the mattress and seen the astral box springs, and learning that it would only last 7-9 months, our reasonings suddenly left us. We decide it was a steal, let's buy it anyways, even the monkey likes it. We communicate this to the showcasers, Red and bald man that barks, and they nod silently several times, almost bowing. At first we were impressed with their solemnity, but eventually we realize they were sleeping and we wake them up by hitting them with the nearby flimsy twin mattresses decorated with paintball splats. We restate our intentions, and they quickly escort us out of the warehouse into the front office.

Existing as the cover for the whole operation, the front office is set up to look normal as it concealed the variety of nefarious activites that found homes in the warehouse, including series of un- certified Russian accent lessons. The woman sits us down at a desk, which is very non descript and therefore suspicious. She begins to fill out paperwork furiously, referencing price charts, size and name descriptions, America's Most wanted ads, and a collection of missing persons milk cartons. Knowing that any minute now our senses will return, she races through these background checks to get to the payment and signature on the dotted line part. Finally, having spilt milk all over her gloves while massaging her cramping hands, she says aloud "Do we have any more of the Hotel/Motel beds left, kingsize, Mom?"

Realizing this was a family operation, our senses begin to come back.

What happened next is a bit of a jumble, senses coming back and all. Turns out Mom sold the last of the taco hotel/motel beds and the only things left in the warehouse that were king-sized were the Windsor. I realize that this Windsor would sound much better than Hotel/Motel when the women in the village get together and discuss what kind of mattress their husbands bought for them, I insist we try it out. We go back to the warehouse, repeat the entire sit, roll over, hit with flimsy twin mattress, etc process, and eventually walk out of the place with a very nice mattress to our name. And a five year old's Stephen Hawking's boxspring.

Mattress and Mystery

Since we are moving into a non-furnished apartment, and since I don't like standing upright for long/short/any periods of time, we decided that it would be normal for us to buy a mattress. So, I hit the streets and round up the usual suspects and shake down my contacts. I get the news that there is an unmarked warehouse in the southside of Murray, and that in this unmarked warehouse in the southside of Murray there are mattresses and mattresses. And boxsprings. And we all know what the southside of Murray is like. I speak to one of their correspondents, Boris Hubcap, which was obviously a false name, but what do I care as long as we get the goods?The deal is that we get a king-size mattress with two box springs for $299, under the counter, check only.

Maria and I arrive at the warehouse, Saturday, July 19th, 12:30 PM. I come dressed as a carnival popcorn vendor and I borrow a dancing monkey from a friend of mine who has monkeys. The monkey does not contribute in any way to my disguise as a carnival popcorn vendor; I merely want to see the monkey dance. Maria shows up shortly after the monkey and I, beneath the guise of Amelia Earhart. She looks lost and forgotten.

We pull aside some fake bushes, discover the Batbike, put them back, and then come across the front door. It is unlocked. We step into a dark room, and immediately bags are placed over our heads and burdens upon our shoulders. A woman with a Russian accent speaks to us.

"So, you have come to buy the mattress?" Maria and I are silent; we've played this game before.
"I return to repeat myself once more again," she says. "So, you have come to buy the mattress?"
Maria surprises herself and me by responding to the woman in perfect Russian. I assume that she is answering in the affirmative or that she is just having a really good day.

I hear the woman laugh a shrill laugh. "Ha, your words are useless to me. I do not speak Russian; I am just fond of the accent." She roughly removes the bags from our heads and we find that we are surrounded by mattresses of all shapes and sizes, or pretty much rectangular and twin to king sized. In the corner stands a bald man in a white lab coat.

"Now, Yegor, show these two what we mean, in our Russian accents, when we say "king sized mattress". The bald man in the white lab coat brings his fingers to his lips and whistles. Four men carrying a king-sized mattress arrive, followed by several dogs who had entered the warehouse. There is confusion for some time while the bald man herds the canines out of the building. He assures himself that all doors are shut and secure.

With a gesture of her hand, the woman with the Russian accent invites us to inspect the mattress. We do so, and Maria gives it a light kick with her right foot, and the bald man exhales quickly, almost a hiss. "It looks good," I say.

"Ah, but you must try it," says our Red friend. "Sit yourself, roll over, and bounce lightly." Maria and I do all three, in that order. I ask, "Can we try that whole wine glass trick?" The Russian-accented woman smiles slightly and says, "I never drink...wine." I have further questions.

"How long does it last?"

"Well, how long do you want it to last?"

"Um, forever?"

"Ha."

The bald man in the white lab coat barks a "ha" as well.

"What I mean to say, " I begin, but then end because I feel that she knows that I'm still getting at the whole longevity question.

"I...we recommend that you purchase a new one in seven or nine months."

"Wow. Seven or nine months. That's not a long time, is it?"

"To a dying man, seven or nine months is a long time to die."

"Okay. But what will happen to it in seven or nine months?"

"It will get, how you say in English with Russian accent, taco bed?" With her gloved hand she draws a U in the air.

"Hmm, that seems pretty quick, I say, " I say.

"Ah! But the boxsprings! Yegor, the boxsprings!" Yegor stands straight and claps his hands. The lights in the warehouse go out. Yegor claps his hands again and there is light. He does a light but audible tap dance and the four men return, this time with the boxsprings on their shoulders. Somewhere, I think, there is a five-year old boy crying over his missing bedsprings. The boxsprings are decorated with planets, spacemen and women, flying saucers, and other astral objects.

"There is everthing, the entire package," the woman says.

The conclusion to this account, in which Steve and Maria go to purchase the mattress, only to find that the last one of that kind has been sold to a buyer from an anonymous South American country, but are then given a much better mattress for the same price, only in much more detail and Russian-accents, will be included in tomorrow's entry.

A little glass tank and a lot of Motorhead

Our fish have been complaining of headaches lately...

If I could write poetry, I would...

Maria sent me this text message some time ago, revealing a hidden poetic potential that we could possibly commercialize.

I miss you.
I eat the almonds.
You're not here.
I miss you.

I think it's almost a chiasmus, as well.

I must be high...

I think that my favorite part of the Wilco concert on Monday was when a girl, who appeared to have recently returned from a Timothy Leary seminar or perhaps was an extra on a Cheech and Chong movie, walked up to Maria and said, "I think we are the same tall." I distracted the girl by telling her that I saw Jerry Garcia standing in line for the men's bathroom, and she danced along her way for world peace. That, and Wilco did a five-song encore.

Darling, don't you go and cut your hair...

Can you spot the real Maria? (Careful (this could be a (trick) question)). (To narrow it down, (for me) to be married to one of these would require a move (to a different state)).

We finally found housing for fall!

The neighbors say only the small ones bite. Good thing we only saw big ones.

A Modest Meal

Last night we watched Jonathan Swift's special on the Food Network.

My Latest Creation

to be or not to be in Humanities 202

Steve did it.
He learned how to post on our blog. And he is way excited about it. So much enthusiasm only inspires me to post again. He already covered our sleeping arrangements, so now I move to number two on the list of what is most interesting with us- which is a hard choice. Since most of our time besides that which is spent sleeping is spent at work or school, I would have to say second place would be one of those.
I choose school. Tails won.
A syllabus is the teacher's presentation to the student of themselves. Yes, it seems rare to find more than the objectives, assignments, and basic information at first glance, but I feel upon closer look a syllabus is a physical extension of the teacher's thoughts and feelings in regards to the class and students they are about to teach. Just as universities feel justified in judging a student's intellectual capacities and understanding of concepts through grading rubrics typically based on neatness, usage of correct grammar, and the ability to form complete, compelling, and original thoughts, I feel justified in arguing that a professor should be accountable in the same form.
Whether a few pages in length or hefty enough to be congruous to a dissertation, a syllabus is often the first take- home impression a student will be given of a professor. It is important to note that a syllabus is given, often handed out row by row, as a voluntary offering to the critical minds of the students taught by these very professors to diligently analyze, read between the lines, and dig for the author's deeper meaning hidden in the texts pored over in classes. Knowing the liberal arts tradition that their students are being drilled in, it surprises me the carelessness often found in the potentially very powerful syllabi professors deliver. A syllabus physically shows their level of preparation for the class, their attention to detail, and judging by the overall look of the pages, their interest in creativity. A syllabus riddled with typos show holes in the professor's ability to proofread his or her own work. Digging deeper, it could mean that a professor did not allow themselves the needed amount of time to make a typographically sound presentation of their ideas. Digging deeper, does the professor have an issue with time management? When the syllabus says no late assignments accepted, is this merely a form of self punishment as they consider their own faults? I ask again; are professors aware of what they are delivering (their vulnerable souls) in their syllabi?
Perhaps I'm digging too deep. Going back to surface level, a common and easily spotted syllabus error is when a professor doesn't even bother to change the dates from a syllabus handed out the previous semester or term. This shows several things- a lack of preparation for the class, apathy towards inaccuracy (a dangerous trait in a professor), and an arguable sense of stagnation if nothing changes from semester to semester to term to term. On the other hand, a sound syllabus reflects favorably, especially if it allows for any sense of aesthetics, and reveals no major weaknesses that I, the critical student, would exploit in their class in revenge for their hypocritical behavior.

From the looks of it, the photographer could only be one person...

no, but i read the book...

this is me reading about the updated 2008 version of italy. we decided why visit Italy 2007 since we wouldn't of been married then.

maria gets invited to f. scott fitzgerald's garden party

zelda eat your heart out

forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit

maria and i have been married for almost two months and it has seemed like a long time, although many kitchen appliances have longer warranties than that. we figure that once we hit that ninety day cut off we're stuck with one another. i am still teaching guitar lessons at the Utah School of Music, which is a presumptuous name considering that we only have six instructors, one location, and that one location is in orem, which isn't quite the hub of utah.
to describe maria and i's sleeping arrangements, i have the left side of the bed and she has the right (for perspective's sake, imagine that you are seated at the head of the bed, and then imagine maria and i coming home and asking what the heck you are doing in our bed, and don't give us that "we're just trying for some perspective" stuff- we won't believe it). so, we'll both start off in the middle, and eventually maria kind of rolls over and cuddles up to me and drapes half her body on me as though i were a coat stand or something. after a while i get a little hot, so i gently remove her and roll over a bit towards my side. a little later she will roll over towards me and do the same thing again. the actions lather, rinse, and repeat themselves until i'm perched precariously (for some reason those words seem to go really well together) on the edge of the bed, praying that her unconscious sense of space doesn't falter and cause her to roll over once more. it's really cute.
the past weekend, we made the trip down to california for maria's father's wife's son's wedding. maria once again proved herself amazing by actually driving for more than an hour. the past trips have been similar to her paying tithing, putting in that ten percent. our long distance road trips usually consist of her curling up into a perfect sphere in the passenger seat, waking up occasionally to change my music to her music, or give me a smile. this time i came prepared and brought along a four pound bag of trailmix which i bought at costco (we have a costco membership, thus we are true married persons. i figure that my next step will be wearing khaki shorts with socks and sandals.). we drove through thursday night and got to my parents' house at about 730 in the morning, chatted, and then fell asleep. we eventually woke up and went to the beach and did beach things, like getting sunburns.
we left for nephi and kirsten's sealing, and i drove really fast. the sealing went great, we took pictures, and then went to hometown buffet for lunch. i had orange chicken. i liked it. the plan was to afterwards go to a beach in santa monica. we went to this private/pay beach. the waves were about six feet or so, but they were breaking about ten feet from the shore. so, the water would rise up and suck up all the water in front of the wave, leaving a rocky shore. maria ventured boogie boarding and i turned my back, then turned it again (i am now facing the ocean) and saw her walking towards me with her shoulder all bloody. apparently she had taken quite a fall. i calmed her down and wiped away her tears with my shirt and told her that life will go on. the lifeguard came up to us and asked if we spoke english. i said, "yes, we talk english". then he asked if maria was ok, and then i had to convince him that she wasn't the victim of spousal abuse. he directed us to his tower, where he showed me his first aid kit and collection of stamps. then the theme music started playing and he ran off down the shore so that he could run back up the shore. i stitched maria up and told the priest to go away, that no last rites were needed here.
at the reception, maria's younger brother gideon sent me a message in a bottle and asked if i would help participate in the custom of decorating the newlyweds' car. i found one car that had a white dress bag thing in the back seat, but he sent me a carrier pigeon informing me that they had found a car on the other side of the church outside of the kitchen that contained the bride's registry info. through the use of two cans and some string i told him ok, i'm coming over. along with two of maria's cousins we circled the car with a malicious glint in our eyes. we commenced with the ritual car-decorating dance, and charged two dollars for admission. we covered the car with toilet paper and whipped cream and shoved cake under the door handles and even adjusted their seats and canceled their auto insurance. then we finished with a ceremonial sacrifice and waited for the happy couple to emerge.
after some time, we sent gideon to investigate. he sent back paul revere, who charged across the parking lot on a horse and told us that everyone was gathered on the other side of the building. we crawled through the tunnel we had dug earlier when the nazis weren't looking and saw that everyone was indeed gathered on the opposite side. i put a message on the times square electric billboard and asked everyone what they were doing waiting around that other car. telepathically i was told that this was the "getaway car", and that they were waiting for the grand departure. realization dawned upon me and illuminated our mistake. we put a wanted ad in the newspaper and found kirsten's parents, and asked if they had parked their car around by the kitchen. their lawyer met with us and told us that they had. we told them congratulations on their marriage and then hid out in mexico for three days, where i worked as a leathersmith named eusebio and maria spearheaded a small revolution under the pseudonym "la gran dama".
we then returned to provo, and life is normal. we have started summer classes and are still searching for fall housing, as well as the third gunman on the grassy knoll. cheers, steve.

when steve met maria

The first post. A daunting task- especially since Steve is the English major with writing aspirations, not me. However, I am the slightly nerdier one who is familiar with blogspot and its ways, and therefore I am posting until he figures out how. However, I will disperse typos, form grievous grammatical errors, and commit various linguistic faux pas throughout this intial post to increase his motivation for learning up to matching his need for editing.
How does one begin? Pen to paper, if you will, is always the hardest part. I feel inclined to start with a salutation, of some kind.
Dear reader- It should be known that coming up with a blog name was easy. the above title is, nonsensical, but funny, a perfect replication and mirroring of Steve and me’s sense of humor at the moment we thought of it. I couldn’t tell you know why it was funny, but it was. The hard part was figuring out the url. The current whenstevemetmaria came after several days of contemplating the pros and cons of, and expounding on the possiblities, of our intials. For those who don’t know what s&m is, you won’t find out here; but for those who do, steve is now over it and it is no longer a part of his life. Suggestions such as thewideworldofs&m or allabouts&m were brought up, and found to be. Available. Tempted though I was for the humor behind it, the thought of our dear readers mistyping the url and the potentially dangerous consequences grew to be to much for me, and I drew the line at thehouseofs&m. Eventually Steve;s brilliance shown through and came up with what we have today.
And now for the purpose of this blog- to keep those who care up to date on what we care about by posting whatever we feel like when we feel like it.
I say we, because, I know, dear reader because I have faith in Steve’s capacities to not sleep well knowing there is an over- usage of commas in a published passage attached to his name and literary reputation.