taco vans and elementary crushes.

As our fully loaded Dodge truck meandered slowly up the Lewiston grade, my full stomach began to sing.

Yes, sing. It was as if my stomach was saying a heart-felt thank you.

That afternoon I had graciously given my stomach the gift of tacos and tamales. …and every single sample at Costco, but that is besides the point.

The point: I am now an advocate to taco vans(yes, vans) everywhere

In Lewiston, Idaho, across the way from Effie’s Burgers(also a dive) and kiddie-corner from Dairy Queen lies a completely sketchy van adorned with pictures, Christmas lights, and menus listed in Magic Marker. As you can imagine, it is not the normal place for me to eat–I am used to high quality dining. Fine dining if you will. My normal seat at Cougar Country would guffaw at me nearing the taco van(yes, van) dubbed Cecy’s Tacos.

I approached the van reluctantly. Noting the not-so-scenic scenery that surrounded it and the bargain-brand napkins fluttering on the table.

As I ordered (a Walla Walla taco), I began to develop a crush on the little taco van. It was like an ugly baby, or a misshapen substitute, or my Clark’s wallabee boots.

Once I sank my decreasingly-straight teeth into that taco, complete with avocados, shredded beef, and onions, my elementary-school crush became a full-blown romance.

I wanted to take that taco van out to dinner and a movie of its choice.

I wanted to share headphones with that taco van, blasting cliché love ballods and various Bruce Springsteen songs, and walk (hands in back-pockets) shamelessly through the mall.

I wanted to love that taco van every single day.

God bless that taco van.

Yum(x3).

It's unfortunate my 'I-love-this' face is so unflattering.

Merry Christmas eve-eve!

californiYEAH.

Story time:
This summer me and my friend Kylie drove our little selves on down to San Diego, California (yes, it was the longest trip ever and yes, Bubba Sparxx began to sound good after 27 hours in the car) to move her in for college. Our friend Morgan met us there (she was conveniently sick the day of our driving departure and flew down 27 hours later), and we had a gay ol’ time eating Pinkberry, watching girl-movies, and going to the beach despite our obvious pooches.
But I missed my sig-o!
So I called him.
Oh, we had a great chat. We began to chat about politics (Sarah Palin seriously looks like his aunt!), the Kardashian family, and other controversial topics.
Then! Then nature called, and it called hard. It was as if my body had a really annoying ring tone that I had to answer to, in fear that everyone else in Nordstrom’s would hear my Katy Perry ringtone…again.
I could feel that I was about to drop a deuce, and needed to IMMEDIATELY! So, I played pickle in my mind about whether I should a. Stop the convo, b. Ignore my body or c. take action AND talk. I wondered if I could pull it off.
My mind answered: YES!
So, I began shmooing. And talking. Simultaneously. At first it was fine, I even scoffed to myself about my multitasking abilities–looking at myself in my white top and white velour sweatpants, ponytail awry thinking about the humor of the whole situation. It’s like I was playing a trick on him. Ha!
Then…
Then it got loud. Very loud. Very out of hand.
So he asked: ‘Brooke, are you going to the bathroom? I honestly don’t care but…you should tell me.’
And I answered: ‘No! Ohmigawd, I HATTEEE when people do stuff like that. It’s disgusting…like you are on the phone with the person and they have the audacity to POOP! Gross! I would NEVER do that to you.’
…and I ranted like that for a solid 3 minutes.
THEN!
Then, I mindlessly flushed the toilet.
Thus confirming I had been pooping, loudly, and talking.
He laughed for a solid…ever.
I died for a solid..ever.
We concluded that it was a good thing that I was so relaxed talking to him that I could let ‘er fly.
…we’ve commonly been compared to the Kennedy’s (because we’re so classy).
Or something?

Observe.

cold, cold day.

 I saw ‘The Town’ for the second time in theaters. It is by far one of the best movies I have seen in a long, long time and really makes me want to get with a scruffy-yet-sensitive criminal, is that a bad thing? Probably.

yogurt.

Yogurt is such a strange word.
I’m almost done with college applications, hoorayoodle. And when I saw applications, I mean application–that is not plural business. I am basically, and by basically I mean definitely, banking on one college and one college only: good ol’ BYU. But I feel so grown’d up working on it! I feel like after it is submitted, I can truly begin my sluggish senior year.
Though it has been quite sluggish. Yesterday I took two naps.
But I love this weather! It lets me dress like a Brit, which is what I love. Today I wore skinny jeans, tall boots, a chunky cable-knit sweater, a scarf, and a big trench coat.

i'm weak

I am so, incredibly weak when it comes to self-control. Well, rephrase: I am so, incredibly, embarrassingly weak when it comes to self-control WITH food. And television series. And beardy men. And Marshall Mathers. But back to food: More than a billion times I tell myself that I am going to ‘begin a-new’ and begin to eat healthy. I brainstorm all the steps that are going to help me become ‘healthy’ including: refusing the bread basket, no more Nutella…well at least less of it, water instead of Diet Pepsi, and eat less bacon. And I begin! I go for two, three, four hours of giving the hand(or finger) to all bread baskets that come my way, NOT cracking open at D.Pepsi at 7 in the A.M., and bettering my bread:Nutella ratio. But it’s at those very moments, that I am TRYING to be healthy, that my mother will make something ridiculous. Like Butterfinger cookies, homemade donuts, or bacon-wrapped Butterfinger flavored homemade donuts. Served by a beardy man. It’s as if the world doesn’t WANT me to eat healthy. Today, I told myself that I was turning a new leaf and leaving behind my plate-licking ways. As I reached for a yogurt(sick!) in the fridge, I saw that there was a huge, welcoming bowl of cookie dough with just enough chocolate chips. Needless to say: cookie dough for breakfast. And some Hershey kisses. And a banana dipped in Nutella. And a Diet Pepsi.

icy hot in the face.

Unfortunately and fortunately, the camping trip’s sleeping arrangement was not quite as uncomfortable as I thought it was going to be. In fact, I slept like a rock. Retainer and all. There was a bit of discomfort, though, when I was told by the sig-O’s cousin that I smelt funny. Then she bit me and told me I tasted worst. All the while she was sitting on my lap. I shoved my knee in her hind end to get a bit of redemption…and then imagined myself smothering her face in Icy Hot. That got my through the week. After that I was off to Utah. Otherwise known as Pootah. I met a lot of great, new people and a lot of awkward, new people. All of which I had to hug goodbye at the end of the week. Hugging is weird. At least for me. Why do people feel the need to say something whilst hugging? Mid-hug a guy told me that I was ‘Proactive in conversation. And really good.’ What? Why? No! I pulled away and DIDN’T shove my knee in his hind end, but did imagine myself smothering his face with Icy Hot. Ain't no thing. Finally, I went to ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ last night(which wasn’t even 1/7 of as good as the book, why do they always do that dagummit?!) and played the role of the annoying, annonymous cackling person(?) in the back. Apologies all 9:40 ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ movie goers. My B.

air monkeys and frat boys

FIRSTBLOG!FIRSTBLOG!FIRSTBLOG! Hello blogging world! You look…exactly like my computer? This is very anti-climatic. Last night I went to the gym. I always forget that I hate the gym. I’d like to be one of those people who love the gym, refuse the bread basket, and religiously watch Dateline. But sadly, I am not. I think I hate the gym because of how gassy it makes me (along with bananas, veggie platters, milk, stress, and movies with Nicholas Cage). Undoubtedly every time I set my Nike’d size 8.5 feet on the Godforsaken elliptical, things begin to go awry. The gym I go to is set up where the treadmills are at the front of the building, followed by the ellipticals, then, at the back of the room, the weights for the weak. Everyone who goes there is about 173 years young, so I usually feel pretty shameless. However, on one rare occasion there was a good looking-ish guy lifting weights. He was using the shoulder-strengthening-lifter-thing directly behind me and at first I thought this was to my advantage. He looked like a hybrid of Ashton Kutcher and Phoebe Buffay-Hannigan. He was also sporting a cutoff shirt and a hat(at the gym?), clearly an ex-frat goer, so I obviously thought he would be checking out my ever-growing whoopee cakes. So, wanting to impress this stand-up guy, I began to elliptical my hardest. Sweat, blood, tears, and toots began to fly. None of which was unexpected. I worried not because, like everyone else in the gym, I figured he would have headphones on(jamming to Eminem or Joan Jett, obviously) and would not hear my air monkeys, only smell. However when I turned around to see how he was enjoying the sight of my whoopee cakes dancing at high speeds, I was thoroughly disappointed/embarrassed/proud? to see that the only thing he was enjoying was his fingers pinching his nose. He was not jamming to Eminem, nor Joan Jett. But he was laughing at me. I then decided that five minutes on the elliptical was enough exercise for another…10-12 days and drove home, jamming to Eminem and Joan Jett. That’s what you get for wearing a hat at the gym, fratboy! Happy trails till we meet again!