Christmas Is Better With Littles

It’s Finals week and somehow I still managed to get sick even though I’m not in school anymore. Nyquil and Dayquil are my best friends at the moment. Whoever invented them was divinely inspired by God.

My life has been so booooring lately. I’m basically a widow thanks to finals, and I’m constantly cold. When I get home from work, I always know I’ve got a hot date with my fireplace, PJ’s, and Kindle. Once Billy finishes his finals, I’m not even sure what we will do with all that free time. I might have to concoct a “Get to Know You” quiz to make sure we are still compatible since we have been practically strangers this whole semester: Does Tori like olives? No. Does Tori ever consider Panda Express as an option for dinner? No. Ya know, important info like that.

I had a blast in Virginia visiting my sisters and their darling children, and so now everything after that trip seems rather anticlimactic. So I'll just tell you about my trip.

My dad’s former law clerk now works in the White House and he kindly invited us to lunch in the White House Mess while I was out there. Apparently only senior level White House staff (and their lowly guests) are allowed to eat there. It was pretty swanky. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my bright colors and all my jewelry. It’s the only time in my life when I felt that I should have gone with a black or gray pantsuit. Normally, we would have been able to duck our heads into the Oval Office, but the president was in there so that was apparently a big no-no. I don’t see what the big deal was—I mean I’m sure Barack would have loved to see me. After all, I did campaign for him *his FIRST term.

Bathroom in the White House

But bumping elbows with DC big shots was definitely not as enjoyable as hanging out with my nieces and nephews. It sure does suck living so far away from them. I got to be there for Hadley’s first time in the snow and Emery’s 2^nd birthday party and it was so much fun. But it made me so sad for all the things I’m missing out on. I worry that they don’t even know me— especially after Caroline told me, “When we peeked at our Christmas presents, I thought you got Mary Grace a gun”. However, my sisters do an excellent job at brainwashing them with my name and pictures of me. Hadley knows me as Tor-tor, and it’s the best. It makes me sad that they probably won’t know their Strong cousins very well. Thank goodness for Facebook, Instagram, and Facetime. And buddy passes, of course.

Here are some of my favorite things and conversations that happened on the trip:

Me: Mary Grace, you are going to be such a good mom someday!

MG: No, I don’t want to be a mom.

Me: Why not?

MG: Well, my mom—I mean Megan—told me that sometimes they have to cut open your stomach to get the baby out and then put the skin back on.

Me: Yeah, but they put you to sleep, so it’s not that scary.

Chelsea: Um, they actually don’t put you to sleep for that.

So, now I’m terrified of having a C-section.

Watching Sesame Street with Hadley as she plays with her belly button—her version of thumb-sucking. Her cuteness kills me.

After exploring my parent’s new house with the kiddos, I was jokingly telling Megan that the house was most likely haunted. Sawyer chimed in “Is it because of the boy who died upstairs?” I’m tellin’ ya—kids always know first.

Emery calls my Dad, Bubba. It’s probably my favorite nickname ever, especially since he persistently asks me to call him “The Honorable”.  And she dances to Elmo by making herself sick with dizziness and it’s fabulous.

Henry started yelling in the car, “Dikky dat! Dikky dat! Dikky dat!” [Translation: look at that] over and over and over again. Apparently the Virginia countryside is never hard-up for objects to look at.

Mary Grace was yelling things at me through the megaphone that I bought her (definitely not a gun). Out of nowhere, she said “You have great eyebrows!” Let me just tell you—there is no nicer compliment you can give someone who is growing her eyebrows out. 

I got to visit with my grandfather for a long time before racing off to beat rush hour. I just love that guy. 

Trying to distract the older kids while they were watching Teen Beach Movie only to be met with this reaction:

Seeing my sisters and having late night chats about who-knows-what was definitely a highlight. They are such wonderful women and I am in awe of what great mothers and wives they are. 

And I especially loved coming home to Billy. Even though I had to help him on his final presentation on OCD. Bleh. I'll try not to be offended that he needed my help because I most likely have OCD. Or what I like to call TBG.

I hope everyone has a fabulous Christmas! Here are some more pictures of my cute nieces and nephews:

Emery pretending to be a "Woo Woo" [dog]

Hadley ready to go out in the snow

Flying Sucks

I hate getting to airports early (I type as I am waiting for my delayed flight). I would way rather be in a rush to get to my gate than get there an hour early and have to sit and wait—as I am now doing. Airports just suck the life out of you the longer you’re there. And then everyone gets in a line to get on the plane first so that they can just sit and wait some more. It’s like herding cattle. I like to play it cool and wait until the last minute to board so I don’t have to be all up in everyone’s space. Plus I always know which seat is mine—the empty one. And usually right next to a big, red-faced bearded man. How are you sweating, dude? It’s 5 degrees outside.

I have never been on a delayed flight. Ever. And I fly quite a bit. I got to the airport early because I thought there might be accidents with the recent snow and all the Californians and I had to check a bag which I never usually do. (See above comment about hating getting to airports early).  Needless to say, I got through security in no time, and was an hour early to my flight. And now my flight is delayed. Blehhhh.

Getting to my gate was the easiest process I had ever experienced at an airport. I didn’t have to take off my shoes, my big fur coat, my hat, or my watch. I didn’t even have to walk through the machine that snaps pictures of your naked body and probably posts them all over the internet. Plus, I got to leave my laptop in my backpack. What a pleasant experience! I am the pessimist that has been saying to anyone who will listen that we won’t even be allowed to bring on carry-ons in a few years. So, I am shocked and delighted that they are making it easier to travel, rather than adding more stress to one of my biggest fears—flying. I also can’t wait to read my Kindle the WHOLE flight and not be chastised by those damn flight attendants. I hate them.

Aaaand, as I’m typing this, they just announced that something electrical burned out on the plane, so they had to replace it. And then they immediately reassured us that Delta is a very safe airline. Whenever someone assures me that something is safe, I automatically assume it is NOT safe. Why else would they need to clarify? If they didn’t say anything, I would of course assume it was safe or else everyone wouldn’t be doing it. But once they feel the need to convince me, that sends my anxiety through the roof. Which is probably the reason why I hate salesmen. I don’t like trying to be convinced of anything. So, if my plane crashes, at least you will all know that I was right not to be so easily persuaded! I texted my pilot brother-in-law to ask him what the chances are of my plane going down—he responded with a 99%. Why does his sarcasm reassure me more than the “Delta is a safe airline” statement? Apparently, I have trust issues.

So, as I’m contemplating my imminent death, I realize that I don’t have a will written out. So, here is my last will and final testament (is that how you say it?). Billy gets all my stuff. He can have my job too, if that’s okay with Vivint. If it’s not okay, just give him my salary. And just transfer my Bachelor’s degree into his name so he won’t have to go to school his last semester.

And the suitcase that was on the crashed plane should be shipped to Virginia to my nieces and nephews out there. I don’t want my death to ruin everyone’s Christmas, so at least you will still get your presents even though I didn't make it there. Chelsea, Megan, and Erin, you can have all the clothes in my suitcase. Oh, and Mac, Jet, Asher, and Marlee –your Christmas presents are in my closet. Billy, your presents are at my parent’s house. One in the kitchen cupboard (sneaky) and one coming in the mail. Also, I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered at the Outer Banks. Merry Christmas!

PS: They just said that the mechanics are optimistic. What does that even mean?

PSS: We are switching airplanes. Woo hoo! I just might live.

Here are some of the Strong family pictures to remember me by. Thanks Caitlin Nicole Photography!

Acupuncture and Hibernation

This week, I got acupuncture for the first time. I had heard great things about it, and so when I saw a Groupon, I snatched that bad boy right up. After I bought it, I found out that my insurance covers 24 visits of acupuncture per year, so that was a good waste of $40. 

Anyway, I was a little bit nervous about it. Particularly about the needle part. The acupuncturist asked me some very intimate questions—males should not read this next part. This means you, Billy—like the color, thickness, and odor of my blood on my period. Yuck. I’ll spare you my responses. After giving him my menstrual autobiography, the acupuncturist then asked me if I had any questions to which I said “No” (I REALLY just wanted for him to get on with it). He said, “Wow, you must have done a lot of research then”. Ummmm…sure.

He then proceeded to look at my tongue—thank goodness I brushed my teeth that morning. Apparently, you can tell a lot about how your body is functioning by what your tongue looks like. My tongue is too purple, has thicker than normal white-stuff yum, and the sides of it have teeth markings. Which means that my liver isn't doing a good job, I have excess phlegm in my body, and my liver isn't doing a good job. So apparently, I've been diagnosed as a raging alcoholic? 

He then took my pulse in two different spots on each wrist. He felt stagnation in the spot that coincides with my reproductive organs, so either he really found something or he just read what I wrote on my patient form: infertility because of endometriosis (spell check wanted to change that to optometrists). And from another pulse spot, he could tell that I hold my stress and tension in my neck and shoulders—that one was more impressive.

After he diagnosed me, I lay down fully clothed, and he started putting in those damn needles. He put about 5 in my left hand, 1 between my eyes, 1 in my right hand, and then 5 more on my legs and feet. And then he left me alone for 40 minutes. I’m not gonna lie--my left hand kind of hurt like a mother. I think he poked a nerve. And halfway through, my legs started twitching. When he took the needles out, I was so relieved, but also kind of scared because I had little red spots where the needles had been. I also didn't realize there would be blood on the needles afterwards. Cue my squeamishness.

I know you are supposed to keep doing treatments weekly for acupuncture, but I wasn't too impressed. I was kind of thinking it would be more pleasant—like a massage. I believe it works and all, but I also believe I am more of a modern medicine kind of gal. I’m too skeptical to do anything that unpleasant again unless they give me Valium. My fertility clinic gives me Valium during some of the more painful procedures and it is definitely my drug of choice. In the Griffith family, half of the children have the TBG gene (Thomas Beall Griffith) which means that we are perfectionists, have OCD, have major anxiety, and can’t shut off our planning brains just like our Daddy. That Valium is the temporary cure to my TBG woes.

After that eventful appointment, this weekend was pretty embarrassing for the Strong household. A friend once commented on how adventurous we are—probably because of my relentless Instagram feed @torstrong which tries to prove how much fun we have. However, I am here to attest to you that most of the time, we are about as fun as your typical old married couple. You would think we were hibernating. In our defense, there really is nothing to do on winter nights except eat and watch movies. We had planned on going down to St. George, but it wasn't that much warmer down there and I can only golf in at least 70 degree weather. Plus, our golfing buddies couldn't make it down with us. 

In Provo, the bone-chilling wind howled for three days straight and we had the house to ourselves, so of course we ventured outside as little as possible. I think we left the house maybe four times in three days. I would be shocked if our total TV time was less than 30 hours. Once while on a diet coke run, I told Billy I had to drive so I could use my brain for something (since driving takes so much brain power?) On a less depressing note, I made a scientific discovery—your muscles CAN atrophy in a single day.

Below is an actual conversation that took place on Sunday night:

Billy: We should move

Me: So we can get a puppy? Great idea, I’ll start looking at apartments! (My mother-in-law has a strict No Pets Living at the Compound rule)

Billy: I meant off the couch.

So, needless to say, we are already in the right frame of mind for a good old-fashioned wear-your-leggings-so-you-can-watch-football-and-stuff-your-face Thanksgiving dinner.

I hope you all have a happy Thanksgiving with your family and loved ones!
I'll be dreaming of warmer and more productive times in Cabo and Lake Powell. While still being thankful, of course.

Billy teaching me to surf

Boat ride with my Macster

Strong Family

Fun/Not So Fun Facts Learned This Week

Fall can’t last forever.

Buffalo Wild Wing’s Caribbean Jerk sauce tastes just like a Christmas tree.

I’m in love with Katy Perry.

Billy learned that the best way to get me out of bed on a cold Saturday morning is to bribe me with Marley’s cinnamon rolls.

If you try to carry too many things into the car, you will lose all bodily awareness and get a concussion from the roof of the car. Stars for hours, dude.

If a child in your Primary class rips a huge one, don’t take the blame. It will cause more panic and confusion. Because everyone knows teachers don’t fart.

My nephews are even bigger babies about the cold than I am. I don’t know why they kept asking for gloves while throwing snow slushballs? Our future children are destined to get pneumonia every winter.

Jet lasted for all of 2.75 minutes

Mac's fingers may or may not be stuck that way

And...my parents are moving back to Virginia. They bought this gorgeous old plantation home on 8 acres pictures below with the help of my older sister who is a very talented and super hot real estate agent. My dad can't stop talking about the softball field they are going to build for all of the grandkids. He may have been watching a little too much Field of Dreams. But, isn't it just gorgeous? We might have to shack up with them again. 

I'm really thrilled about it, because I actually think their move will let me see more of my sisters and their kids who live out there. Which will also give me an excuse to rack up those SkyMiles.

And lastly, cuddling temporarily cures the pains that come with a constantly empty uterus. And the pains of cold weather.

Love Handles

You guys.

Something miraculous happened last night. Like truly amazing. I went to find some workout socks from my drawer and I was completely out. This has never happened to me. EVER. I try to do our laundry every 3 weeks (before you judge me, it’s called recycling old outfits. Look it up.) I know, I’m a disgusting person.

This lack of socks was so thrilling to me because it means that I have kept up with my new workout regime.

You see, I go through spurts of wanting to be healthy. I’ve learned to stop telling Billy when I quit carbs/sugar/gluten/meat. He has no faith in my resolve and so I’ve learned to blame him when these fads last for a week or two.  When we lived in Minnesota, I even went running every day  for about a month. Then, I was like “Wait, do I have to keep doing this forever?” And I chose to stop because that kind of commitment was way too overwhelming. I’ve got some deep psychological issues, I know.

Anyway, I have been running on the treadmill for about a month now with no plans of stopping. I’ve been doing the Couch to 5k program. It’s designed for fat pieces of crap like myself who never elevates her heart rate above 40 bpm. Each week, the routine changes and gradually gets harder. The idea is that it is way too hard on your body to just start running a few miles every day when you haven’t been exercising in ages. Running rookies named Tori will do this and then quit because it wears them out too much. So, by easing your body into it over 9 weeks, you will hopefully be able to like running instead of dread it. And to be able to run a 5k without collapsing. I HIGHLY recommend it. I have an app for it that keeps me on track. You can play your music on your phone and it will interrupt you to tell you when to start walking/jogging/cooling down.  The app is called C25K Free. Technology, man.

I’m really excited that I am strengthening my muscles and stamina (not that kind of stamina, pervs) and it has been making me eat healthier as a result. I’ll eat about a pound of candy (not an exaggeration) and then go running and it HURTS SO BAD. Halloween week, I literally thought I had ruptured a kidney. So, in order to make my run easier on myself, I’ll eat better. It’s a heavenly cycle. Time will only tell how long it’ll last.

While we’re on the topic of my ever-thickening arteries, what is the deal with marriage and my ever-thickening waistline? I swear, as soon as I said “I Do”, I gained 10 pounds. Does my body realize that I’m stuck with one person forever and immediately go into depressed, binge eating mode? I've heard many explanations for this phenomenon, but none of them make sense to me. I did not go on a wedding diet. We ate out the same amount before and after we were married (which is to say, every meal). I actually did way more exercise after we sealed the deal—if ya know what I mean. Seriously, it baffles me. They should do a research study on it. I would donate to that.

And now here are some pictures of me being super athletic. Circa 2009. Because no one wants to see me circa 2013.

Turkey Bowl 2009

Now I know why NFL players don't pose for their pictures. Awkward...

It would be a shame to all of mankind if we never have kids.

Have a good weekend errybody!

Tried to Domesticate Ya

It’s time for me to face the facts. I’ve known it was coming for a while now. It’s the unspoken Mormon housewife checklist:

1) Get married. ✔

2) Get a kickass job. ✔

3) Buy a puppy.

4) Pop out some chilluns.

5) Start a blog.

6) Buy a mansion.

7) Travel the world. (Billy wants to go into outer space, but he is so on his own for that one)

I hate this checklist. It makes me feel confined and too domesticated. If you know me, then you know that the sole purpose of my life is to think of everything that is expected of me...and then do the exact opposite. I about died of embarrassment by getting married at 20. It went against everything I believed in. Plus, a high school teacher once bet me that I would not be able to graduate from BYU without getting married and I soooo wanted to win that bet. 

I can’t don’t cook, I’m a sugar mama, I finished my degree while my husband protested (he’s charmingly sexist…in a good way)

I don’t even have Pinterest!

Before you think I am the worst wife that ever got married at 20, let me clarify the real reasons why I hate this checklist. We haven’t bought a puppy because we don’t own a house--we can’t buy a house because we will be living off of food stamps for the next 4 years while trudging through medical school in who-knows-where? And I’ve got the fallopian tubes of a 90-year old. 

Suffice it to say, even though I really do want to gradually mark off the checklist, I am completely unable to. And when the universe tells me no, I want it BAD. Since I graduated, I have really had an itch to start writing again—but nobody was assigning me essays, it was the darnedest thing! So, I assigned myself the task of starting this blog.

Why Bonnie and Clyve, you may ask? Well, one time a stranger said “You guys are named Tori and Billy? Those are the perfect outlaw names!” So, naturally I thought “Hey, we are just like Bonnie and Clyde!” And I've been telling myself that in my head ever since. Also, Billy legitimately wants to name our first son Clyve. Or Merlin. So, since that’s definitely not happening, I’ll help a brotha out.

Our full names are William and Victoria, which I think sounds like royalty, but we are so not proper or well-mannered or any of that garbage, so I like the rebel ones better. Don’t be fooled that Billy will EVER write in this blog. It’s all mine. My Facebook is really all mine too, except when people start writing us messages in Spanish, and then it's all his. But, he is my best friend and my inspiration (gag me) in just about everything so I will be posting a lot about him. So, I guess he can be mentioned in the title. Hopefully it makes up for the all the times I publicly humiliate him.

Starting now.

Isn't he just a babe?

Please don’t take this blog too seriously. Mostly, I just like thinking out loud and writing and being dramatic. 

Over and out.