Since I was feeling especially benevolent during the days leading up to and following by birthday, I thought I would bring birthday treats for my students the Monday and Tuesday following (I see my students only every other day). You know, so we could all bask in the celebration of my philanthropic life together. (After all, I am spending my best years with these kids!) Well, A-Day (aka Monday) went without a hitch and sugar was enjoyed by one and all, making the entire ambition of teaching post-Thanksgiving all the more arduous. On Tuesday, however, I must have decided that I was finished heralding the dawn of my new decade (which technically probably starts at 31, huh) because I showed up to school, sans candy and unbelievably, my first 75 students during the first 75 minutes of school did not make a peep regarding my gaffe. The bell rang and 51 seventh grade boys stormed the door. "Did you bring our treats?" Oops. It hadn't even crossed my mind. After consoling my distraught students with promises of candy to come the next classtime, they almost seemed ready to absolve me of my sin. But oh, how quick was I to forget on Thursday the mercy that had been extended to me just 48 hours previous. Again, I had not even thought of my dietary obligation to the children since Tuesday afternoon. Thursday, needless to say, was not good. Seventh grade boys looked up at me only to look away and shake their heads in distaste. I was receiving mutinous threats on the dry erase board and was half expecting someone to have keyed their name on my car. The vigilante students then decided to take matters into their own hands: they would send me emails over the weekend through my school address to remind me. What followed was a slew of emails overflowing in my inbox. I thought I would share some of the winners (with original spelling and punctuation).
treats dont forget them or the punishment will come!
BBBBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGG treats!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Alec Woolley told us to send you a reminder to bring treats so here you go.
YOU NEED TO BRING US FOOD BECAUSE MY DAY CONSISTS OF SPORTS SLEEP AND FOOD , SO I NEED FOOD SO i WILL LIVE!!! BRING FOOD!!!!
YOU NEED TO BRING CANDY FOR NEXT TIME MS. KINGMAN CAUSE WE ARE HUNGRY
BRING CANDY
BRING CANDY
BRING CANDY
BRING CANDY
Alec Woolley told us to e-mail you about reminding you to birng them treats! I think that they need it for how well they are doing!!
Mrs Kingman, C plz get us the treats on Monday or we all will crying so plz bring us treats for B2 on Monday
Plz : Please.
I was just reminding you about the candy thing hehe
so bring it on monday for B2
thanks
oh ya p.s. bring candy on monday
Mrs.Kingman
Bring treats please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Well have a good day I will write each day over the weekend. So Mrs.Kingman do you have a boyfriend. Bring to school so we can meet him. Dont be mad at me please. Well gotta go my show is starting. Bring Treats OKEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So, it's Monday and I remembered the treats. And I still have my head and classroom and car intact. Moral of the story: If you're going to bring candy to junior high kids---seventh grade boys in particular---make it a surprise.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
I Must Belong Somewhere
Awhile back I was talking about my brief love affair with Europe's "The Final Countdown" and how it had proven itself to be a worthy theme song for my 30th birthday and such. While the affair may be over (we've parted amicably and will remain friends), I thought I'd share a little compilation of songs I'd been crushing on---mostly within the past month or so, some from earlier in the year. If the song is on the list, it basically means that I've obsessed over it, playing and re-playing it multiple times in a row (yes, I do this to songs I love).
To anyone who has turned 30, is single, and living in Utah Valley (or maybe to someone who is only one of those 3), the title "I Must Belong Somewhere"---shamelessly yanked from the last song of this soundtrack---bears obvious meaning.
I just published the mix onto iTunes, and as soon as I get the link for that I'll put it up here as well.
Reprise-Grizzly Bear (This is a beautiful ghost of a song. This band was, hands down, my favorite during May-June 2007.)
D.A.N.C.E.-Justice (I dance in my house and in my car to this song and am unashamed to admit it. You will too. Just an unabashedly happy song from some European hipsters.)
Music Is My Hot, Hot Sex-CSS (This song, from what I'd like to call Brazil's indie answer to the Spice Girls, is a little more innocent than what you might infer from it's provocative title. You might recognize it from the latest iPod Touch commericals.)
The Marshalls Are Dead-Bloc Party (I discovered this song on a mix CD that my sister titled "Loads of Gayness." It is anything but. It's from an EP that came out before Bloc Party's first album Silent Alarm, a CD I think would be better labelled "crack cocaine," as it is precisely that addicting.)
Jigsaw Falling Into Place-Radiohead (A gem from the best band in the world. Thom's vocals are exquisite. When I name my firstborn son Thom, you will know why. Since this song "technically" has not been released yet by a record label, it's not on iTunes and won't show up on the iMix link. Go to inrainbows.com and you can get the whole album for whatever price you choose.)
10 x 10-Yeah Yeah Yeahs (I'll never forget seeing this band about a year and half ago and watching Karen O., their lead singer, put the microphone in her mouth and scream at the top of her lungs and it was beautiful. Not a band I typically listen to much (outside of the fact that seeing them changed my life), but this song is fabulous.
American X-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (American rock n' roll at it's sexiest. Dark and soulful. If you liked the Brit band Oasis before they got addicted to drugs and became total a-holes, you will like BRMC.)
I Must Belong Somewhere-Bright Eyes (Even if you're not down with the Bright Eyes goat voice, you will still probably really enjoy Cassadaga, the album from which this song comes. I just thought that this song really summed up how I feel turning 30.)
To anyone who has turned 30, is single, and living in Utah Valley (or maybe to someone who is only one of those 3), the title "I Must Belong Somewhere"---shamelessly yanked from the last song of this soundtrack---bears obvious meaning.
I just published the mix onto iTunes, and as soon as I get the link for that I'll put it up here as well.
Reprise-Grizzly Bear (This is a beautiful ghost of a song. This band was, hands down, my favorite during May-June 2007.)
D.A.N.C.E.-Justice (I dance in my house and in my car to this song and am unashamed to admit it. You will too. Just an unabashedly happy song from some European hipsters.)
Music Is My Hot, Hot Sex-CSS (This song, from what I'd like to call Brazil's indie answer to the Spice Girls, is a little more innocent than what you might infer from it's provocative title. You might recognize it from the latest iPod Touch commericals.)
Phantom Limb-The Shins (If you hate, and I mean HATE---and truthfully you may---all of the songs on this list, you will love this one. Promise.)
Knights-Minus the Bear (Worship the guitar at 2:05 in; the song is pretty cool up until then, but it really gets good at this point.)Viscera Eyes-The Mars Volta (The guitar riffs from the previous song are completely ripped off from this band. Most of Mars' songs are like 10-20 minutes long and total weirdo-prog rock-jam band---which I can't fully appreciate because I don't do drugs---but I still love their singer Cedric, the Latin Robert Plant.)
Nomanisisland-Subtle (I just found out about this band from my sister last week, but I'm obsessed. They don't fit into any music genre except for "weird." Love it.)
Wolf Like Me-TV On the Radio (If you like to race on the freeway, this is your song. This band sports some pretty wicked cool afros too.)
Icky Thump-The White Stripes (A little psychedelic and head-banger at the same time. I'm still a little bitter I didn't get to hear this song live this fall.)
Rest My Chemistry-Interpol (I wish I were as cool and melancholy as this song. The band is totally not in a hurry because they are cool too. . . and they know it. . . and they know you will listen even if you should have been somewhere else 20 minutes ago. The guitar on the bridge is especially great.)
The Way I Are-Timbalake (Okay, okay---a guilty pleasure. My student teacher did an activity teaching beat with this song and it is so friggin catchy.)
Declare Independence-Bjork (This song is what carries me through the hardest, tiredest part of my runs. It was her encore when I saw her in California earlier this year and she and her all-female-all-horn band were jumping up and down with flags; I felt like I was caught up in a frenzied spiritual revival. Basically it is Bjork screaming furiously for Greenlandic independence but somehow it seems to do the trick for me. Yeah, a lot of you really wouldn't like this song.)
Brandy Alexander-Feist (I wanna be a dead sexy singer like this Feist chick when I grow up. Her CD is maybe the most beautiful of the year.)The Marshalls Are Dead-Bloc Party (I discovered this song on a mix CD that my sister titled "Loads of Gayness." It is anything but. It's from an EP that came out before Bloc Party's first album Silent Alarm, a CD I think would be better labelled "crack cocaine," as it is precisely that addicting.)
Jigsaw Falling Into Place-Radiohead (A gem from the best band in the world. Thom's vocals are exquisite. When I name my firstborn son Thom, you will know why. Since this song "technically" has not been released yet by a record label, it's not on iTunes and won't show up on the iMix link. Go to inrainbows.com and you can get the whole album for whatever price you choose.)
10 x 10-Yeah Yeah Yeahs (I'll never forget seeing this band about a year and half ago and watching Karen O., their lead singer, put the microphone in her mouth and scream at the top of her lungs and it was beautiful. Not a band I typically listen to much (outside of the fact that seeing them changed my life), but this song is fabulous.
American X-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (American rock n' roll at it's sexiest. Dark and soulful. If you liked the Brit band Oasis before they got addicted to drugs and became total a-holes, you will like BRMC.)
I Must Belong Somewhere-Bright Eyes (Even if you're not down with the Bright Eyes goat voice, you will still probably really enjoy Cassadaga, the album from which this song comes. I just thought that this song really summed up how I feel turning 30.)
Friday, November 23, 2007
In 2007 I'm Thankful For. . .
I started this little list at the beginning of the month. . . the items are more in chronological order (as pertaining to events of the past few weeks) than anything priority-ish (even though I am TELLING you, you gotta try that Sonic burrito, no joke).
Steak, Egg and Cheese Breakfast Burrito at Sonic. Damn that thing is good.
Also grateful, upon returning from Institute, that I don't care about minutia.
Radiohead "In Rainbows."
Facebook, sadly enough.
The internet and Google and Wikipedia.
My amazing kids at festival. I didn't have to yell at one kid all day! It seems as if I have finally succeeded in teaching my students mind reading, or at least the reading of MY mind, which is really the only one that in their minds should matter. I asked them who they really were and what they had done with my real kids. I then added that they were making me believe that I had been teaching idiots for the past 6 years. True story.
Throwing the piece of paper up with the boys, they scream until it hits the floor (supposedly an old Boy Scout device)
Diet Mountain Dew
Pebble ice
Prep periods (so that you can sneak out and get the fountain drink of Diet Mountain Dew with the pebble ice)
My cell phone, again, sadly enough.
Going up to someone at church that you don't recognize to say hi and find out that they're mystery name #46 on the list you've been staring at for weeks.
My best friend who gave me therapy on 11/10, and who then helped interpret a divine message a few days later.
Plants in my house, even though I'm not very good at taking care of them. I believe they are calling into question my future parenting skills.
My bishop.
The chance to shoot a shotgun. Even though I got the nastiest bruise!
My hilarious roommate who is always in a happy mood.
The scriptures. They just make me feel good, and it's like the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser for anything bad in my mind.
Rhodes rolls. I think last night for Thanksgiving we just about made our best batch ever.
Mashed potatoes, THE Thanksgiving staple.
My house: I love it, it is beautiful and it is mine. And my family is here right now, making it full, warm and cozy.
The garbage disposal. Mine stopped working last night, and didn't realize just how grateful I am for it when it is usually working. And while I'm feeling generous and benevolent, let's throw in how thankful I am for the garbage men too.
My little orchid that has been stuck in half bloom for like 4 days now! They are gorgeous though, and worth the wait, and do they last forever. This is one of my many attempts to go against my true nature of killing plants and forcing my thumb to turn green.
IKEA, I guess. Anything in my house that my mom and Ashley liked and asked where I got it, the answer was inevitably IKEA. Will take them there today. Makes me laugh that the answer to that question is no longer Target.
My temple recommend.
My brother and sister.
Steak, Egg and Cheese Breakfast Burrito at Sonic. Damn that thing is good.
Also grateful, upon returning from Institute, that I don't care about minutia.
Radiohead "In Rainbows."
Facebook, sadly enough.
The internet and Google and Wikipedia.
My amazing kids at festival. I didn't have to yell at one kid all day! It seems as if I have finally succeeded in teaching my students mind reading, or at least the reading of MY mind, which is really the only one that in their minds should matter. I asked them who they really were and what they had done with my real kids. I then added that they were making me believe that I had been teaching idiots for the past 6 years. True story.
Throwing the piece of paper up with the boys, they scream until it hits the floor (supposedly an old Boy Scout device)
Diet Mountain Dew
Pebble ice
Prep periods (so that you can sneak out and get the fountain drink of Diet Mountain Dew with the pebble ice)
My cell phone, again, sadly enough.
Laughing so hard that you cry. And when that happens, I'm very thankful for waterproof mascara.
My ward.
The Harvest Hills Monday night FHE group. (along with the games Mad Gab & Loaded Questions) It's been really nice to be able to go to FHE for the first time in 2 years.Going up to someone at church that you don't recognize to say hi and find out that they're mystery name #46 on the list you've been staring at for weeks.
My best friend who gave me therapy on 11/10, and who then helped interpret a divine message a few days later.
Plants in my house, even though I'm not very good at taking care of them. I believe they are calling into question my future parenting skills.
My bishop.
The chance to shoot a shotgun. Even though I got the nastiest bruise!
My hilarious roommate who is always in a happy mood.
The scriptures. They just make me feel good, and it's like the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser for anything bad in my mind.
Rhodes rolls. I think last night for Thanksgiving we just about made our best batch ever.
My mom who tucks me in with a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch.
The elves that keep sneaking over to mow my yard so that I have yet to learn how to do it myself.Mashed potatoes, THE Thanksgiving staple.
My house: I love it, it is beautiful and it is mine. And my family is here right now, making it full, warm and cozy.
The garbage disposal. Mine stopped working last night, and didn't realize just how grateful I am for it when it is usually working. And while I'm feeling generous and benevolent, let's throw in how thankful I am for the garbage men too.
My little orchid that has been stuck in half bloom for like 4 days now! They are gorgeous though, and worth the wait, and do they last forever. This is one of my many attempts to go against my true nature of killing plants and forcing my thumb to turn green.
IKEA, I guess. Anything in my house that my mom and Ashley liked and asked where I got it, the answer was inevitably IKEA. Will take them there today. Makes me laugh that the answer to that question is no longer Target.
My temple recommend.
My brother and sister.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Final Countdown
For some inexplicable reason, I have of late been obsessed with the 80's hit "The Final Countdown." I'm playing in my classroom for my kids for no particular reason at all, and I rock out to it by myself---all the harder when I'm occupied with the most mundane of tasks; it's my status on gmail chat and nowadays I'm constantly making reference to it in conversation. I can't help but laugh out loud as I think of Arrested Development's character Gob making his grand entrance on stage for his magician's act, dagger in mouth and scarves flailing, "The Final Countdown" blaring. It has become the official theme song of my 30th birthday, which is actually pretty novel---I've never felt inspired to have a theme song for my birthday! Ooh, and how about a birthday soundtrack? I think the hamster in my head just woke up and that squeaky wheel is starting move on it's axis. WD-40, anyone?
When you're 18, you can serve in the military, vote, be prosecuted as an adult and move out of your parents house without them being able to do anything about it. But no one really respects you except for your 17-year old friends. People SAY you're an adult when you're 21 and you can get into bars and gamble and drink. And although the world may be your oyster in Sin City (ah, home sweet home), you're still not old enough to rent a car there. (And you're still paying as much for your insurance as those mature 16-year olds.) I think the new official age of adulthood should be changed to 30. When people tell you they're 30, well, dude, I respect that. . . like totally. I feel like at 30, there's not going to be any other explanation for stupid behavior other than a midlife crisis. So this is it. Since I only have 6 days of my roarin' twenties left before I'm obliged to be a responsible adult with a completely developed frontal lobe, I really need to make them count. Thus, today I sought counsel from some of my esteemed colleagues at the junior high. Here's the advice I got from 2 of my classes when I asked them what I should do in my last week of excusable irresponsibility.
The most creative from the 8th and 9th grade Men's Choir class:
-Go to an old folks home, run up to a random old lady and say, "Grandma, I haven't seen you in so long!"
-Buy a golf cart
-Go bungee jumping
-Pour out a can of tomato juice in Walmart and leave a trail leading to the bathroom (for some reason a lot of suggestions surrounded around doing something to or in or at Walmart)
-Put peanuts in envelopes and leave them on my neighbor's doorsteps with a note saying, "I'm just nuts about you" (I'll remember that next time I want to ask someone to prom.)
-Get married (yeah, like THAT hasn't crossed my mind)
-Bust mailboxes (if anything ever happens to your mailbox, you know to come find me and we can interrogate my class and send them to federal lockup)
-"Smoke" crushed Smarties candies (their latest obsession besides Walmart)
-Buy a dog
-Rent an RV and drive to Brazil
-Get a Big Gulp mix of every single flavor soda at 7-11 (boys, that's what we call a "suicide")
-Wrestle with pigs (I actually do have a pig connection if I felt so inclined)
-Get in a shopping cart and ride down a hill
-Tell the boss to "eat my shorts"
-Go fence busting (basically running battering ram style into one of those fences with the vinyl panels---supposedly it just pops out and doesn't hurt that bad)
Following this class I had one of my 3 sections of Women's Choir, compised of girls grades 7-9, but with about 80% coming from the seventh grade. Initially I wasn't planning on asking them, but after having received such crazy responses with the boys, I thought it might be an interesting sociological experiment to see what they came up with on their own. Their suggestions were just as disturbing as the boys'. (So as to not influence their ideas and taint the validity of this all-important experiment I did not tell them what the boys had said.) Just keep in mind that many of these ideas were from people who are still not tall enough to ride all the roller coasters at the amusement park.
-Go clubbing
-Go skydiving
-Eat nothing but candy and soda for 6 days straight (hmmm)
-Walk around in the mall wearing a swimsuit and goggles (Mall is to girls as Walmart is to boys, I discovered, if nothing else in this experiment)
-Hold up a sign on State St. that says "Honk if you think I'm sexy" (should be fairly easy after having lost all dignity at the mall)
-Toilet paper houses (this was another big fixation)
-Go into a fitting room, wait for a few minutes and then yell, "There's no toilet paper in here!"
-Glue money to the ground and watch how many people go to pick it up (not as fun as it sounds: I know)
-Pretend to be a hitchhiker (scary idea, girls. geez!)
-Hide in clothes racks and scare people
-Prank call people (oh how I miss the pre-*69 and pre-caller id days of the 5th & 6th grade---these girls SO don't even know what they missed!)
-Have a food fight
-Steal bags full of raked leaves and search for unlocked cars in which to throw the leaves (another variation was to find cats and throw them in people's open cars as well)
-Break out spontaneously into dance in random places and moments (c'mon, that's like everyday already)
-Dye my hair pink
So. What in THE world is in the Orem water these chillins be drinking? I mean, for realz. Weigh in, and let me know whose vexing responses you found more deranged and bizarre: those of the 8th & 9th grade boys, or those of the 7th grade girls. The verdict is still out for me. Hey, I only write this stuff, you know.
When you're 18, you can serve in the military, vote, be prosecuted as an adult and move out of your parents house without them being able to do anything about it. But no one really respects you except for your 17-year old friends. People SAY you're an adult when you're 21 and you can get into bars and gamble and drink. And although the world may be your oyster in Sin City (ah, home sweet home), you're still not old enough to rent a car there. (And you're still paying as much for your insurance as those mature 16-year olds.) I think the new official age of adulthood should be changed to 30. When people tell you they're 30, well, dude, I respect that. . . like totally. I feel like at 30, there's not going to be any other explanation for stupid behavior other than a midlife crisis. So this is it. Since I only have 6 days of my roarin' twenties left before I'm obliged to be a responsible adult with a completely developed frontal lobe, I really need to make them count. Thus, today I sought counsel from some of my esteemed colleagues at the junior high. Here's the advice I got from 2 of my classes when I asked them what I should do in my last week of excusable irresponsibility.
The most creative from the 8th and 9th grade Men's Choir class:
-Go to an old folks home, run up to a random old lady and say, "Grandma, I haven't seen you in so long!"
-Buy a golf cart
-Go bungee jumping
-Pour out a can of tomato juice in Walmart and leave a trail leading to the bathroom (for some reason a lot of suggestions surrounded around doing something to or in or at Walmart)
-Put peanuts in envelopes and leave them on my neighbor's doorsteps with a note saying, "I'm just nuts about you" (I'll remember that next time I want to ask someone to prom.)
-Get married (yeah, like THAT hasn't crossed my mind)
-Bust mailboxes (if anything ever happens to your mailbox, you know to come find me and we can interrogate my class and send them to federal lockup)
-"Smoke" crushed Smarties candies (their latest obsession besides Walmart)
-Buy a dog
-Rent an RV and drive to Brazil
-Get a Big Gulp mix of every single flavor soda at 7-11 (boys, that's what we call a "suicide")
-Wrestle with pigs (I actually do have a pig connection if I felt so inclined)
-Get in a shopping cart and ride down a hill
-Tell the boss to "eat my shorts"
-Go fence busting (basically running battering ram style into one of those fences with the vinyl panels---supposedly it just pops out and doesn't hurt that bad)
Following this class I had one of my 3 sections of Women's Choir, compised of girls grades 7-9, but with about 80% coming from the seventh grade. Initially I wasn't planning on asking them, but after having received such crazy responses with the boys, I thought it might be an interesting sociological experiment to see what they came up with on their own. Their suggestions were just as disturbing as the boys'. (So as to not influence their ideas and taint the validity of this all-important experiment I did not tell them what the boys had said.) Just keep in mind that many of these ideas were from people who are still not tall enough to ride all the roller coasters at the amusement park.
-Go clubbing
-Go skydiving
-Eat nothing but candy and soda for 6 days straight (hmmm)
-Walk around in the mall wearing a swimsuit and goggles (Mall is to girls as Walmart is to boys, I discovered, if nothing else in this experiment)
-Hold up a sign on State St. that says "Honk if you think I'm sexy" (should be fairly easy after having lost all dignity at the mall)
-Toilet paper houses (this was another big fixation)
-Go into a fitting room, wait for a few minutes and then yell, "There's no toilet paper in here!"
-Glue money to the ground and watch how many people go to pick it up (not as fun as it sounds: I know)
-Pretend to be a hitchhiker (scary idea, girls. geez!)
-Hide in clothes racks and scare people
-Prank call people (oh how I miss the pre-*69 and pre-caller id days of the 5th & 6th grade---these girls SO don't even know what they missed!)
-Have a food fight
-Steal bags full of raked leaves and search for unlocked cars in which to throw the leaves (another variation was to find cats and throw them in people's open cars as well)
-Break out spontaneously into dance in random places and moments (c'mon, that's like everyday already)
-Dye my hair pink
So. What in THE world is in the Orem water these chillins be drinking? I mean, for realz. Weigh in, and let me know whose vexing responses you found more deranged and bizarre: those of the 8th & 9th grade boys, or those of the 7th grade girls. The verdict is still out for me. Hey, I only write this stuff, you know.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Declaration of Love
2 lines short of a sonnet, this impromptu poem titled "Declaration of Love" was drafted on my dry erase board by 4 of the boys in my Men's Choir on February 14, 2007. A few copies of the poem were put into circulation---taped up around the school, a gift to my boyfriend at the time, pinned on one of the boy's bedroom walls---but those, along with the original transcription have long since been lost. Last week the boys rewrote the poem, and now I will publish it on the immortal internet, where it shall live on in infamy for the millions of readers of my blog. It is pretty deep stuff so it will require your repeated and persistent perusal.
Love is in the air.
Love is everywhere.
Love is in my hair.
Love is naked and bare.
Love can give you a scare.
Love is as hairy as a bear.
Love is in my underwear.
Love can turn into an affair.
Love is something you should share.
Oh where, oh where can love be found?
In the air, in the ground,
That's where love can be found.
Love is in the air.
Love is everywhere.
Love is in my hair.
Love is naked and bare.
Love can give you a scare.
Love is as hairy as a bear.
Love is in my underwear.
Love can turn into an affair.
Love is something you should share.
Oh where, oh where can love be found?
In the air, in the ground,
That's where love can be found.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Music Begets Madness
For 2 years now, travelling the Orem-Lehi stretch of I-15 freeway---particularly at Pleasant Grove where it starts to smell like poo, and at American Fork where it morphs to the stink of skunk (from Lehi to Saratoga Springs, you can expect the musk of mink farm to linger longer in your unoffending and unsuspecting nostrils)---has been a time of pondering and contemplation. Mostly over typos in billboards and trying to decode the secret messages in drivers' personalized license plates, but contemplation nonetheless.
So it is fitting that I was driving northbound along this very same path to intellectual enlightenment on Friday when I conversed via cell with one of the brilliant minds of our time (nevermind that his initials are B. S.), bemoaning my fate that one of my favorite bands, The White Stripes (one of the last bands I really have to see before I die, or get married and my husband won't let me go to shows anymore, which would kind of be like dying), had just cancelled their tour due to the drummer's recent struggle with acute anxiety. To which he posed the burning philosophical question keeping us all awake at night: are musicians people with tendencies towards mental instability, or does musical obsession drive one to madness? It is not difficult to show correlation between the two, but to prove causation, well, let's see how close I can get to that through my ramblings.
Exhibit A: My Kingman side of ancestors is filled musicians, yet is beleaguered with mental illness (I'll spare you the details, supposedly my great-grandfather was so crazy that no one will even talk about him). My mom's Whitney-side contribution to the genepool is rock solid---almost to the point of boring---mental stability, but no mad music skills (forgive the pun).
I remember as a kid, if I were upset, I'd go play on the piano and vent out my frustration (probably getting caught exploiting my younger siblings as I was wont to do). Music was an easy escape from things in my life I found upsetting. However, in college, the pursuit of making beautiful music itself became upsetting and hard, stress and work. Definitely more tortured. It didn't help that the practice rooms were underground and had no windows.
Despite not having turned to a life of drugs and alcohol, I was thus considerably more insecure, neurotic and vitamin D-deprived after finishing my tour of duty in the HFAC (building for music, art and theatre students at BYU). I did love my course of study and the music making, but it was bittersweet; I swore that I would not get another degree in music (ha). Yet it was comforting to realize just how different I was from most of the other students that studied there. I found 2 other "normal" music major girls who liked working out and listening to hip-hop, and though we were ostracized a bit for NOT breaking forth publicly into song or soliloquy whenever the impulse hit us (oh, and was it ever hard to kick against those pricks!), we had a great time making fun of all of them while we were at our kickboxing class, extolling the virtues of A Tribe Called Quest and debating whether 2Pac really were alive or dead.
I remember the reactions I'd get when I told people I was a music major. There was definitely a social stigma attached to that, and not an entirely positive one: though people kinda admired you---for your talent, for your dedication to an art that would most likely not financially pay you back---they secretly thought you were slightly insane. (kind of similar to my friends who have to introduce themselves as therapists, they say there's one of two reactions: people clam up, or they launch into a confession of every dyfunctional thought they ever had about their mother.) Even now, when people ask me what I studied in college, and I tell them that I was a music major, after a short pause I often add, "Oh, but I was normal." And they laugh! They know that I know what they were thinking all along. Which brings up another point: are musicians crazy as part of some self-fulfilling prophecy that society has projected onto them?
There's a Seinfeld episode in which a reference is made to a musician who went crazy because he kept playing a certain note over and over. Actually, I'm pretty sure that that particular musician went loco from having untreated syphilis (I knew that masters degree would come in handy someday), but. . . I might be in trouble if the proposed hypothesis that repeated exposure to specific auditory stimuli drives one to lunacy happens to be correct. Do you know how many hundreds of times I have listened to certain songs, over and over and over again (i.e., Sigur Ros' Untitled #8, My Bloody Valentine's Sometimes, Radiohead's Everything in Its Right Place and The Beatles' Tomorrow Never Knows)? It might also depend on if this composer liked this note and was obsessed with it, or if he couldn't stand it and it kept him singing all the way the the asylum. I, for one, happen to LOVE these songs, so if repeated listening happens to land me into a straight jacket and padded cell, at least I will be one happy loon.
Let's go back to The Stripes' drummer Meg White. Okay, the girl is a drummer. No melody. That could get perhaps get grating on the nerves after awhile. And though the girl may be cooler than cool and probably trying her darndest to do her best, she's no Neil Peart. And the problem is that everyone knows it. Not only to you have to live in the shadow of the amazing Jack White, you have to deal with the fact that everyone is always talking trash that you're a crappy drummer who can't keep a beat. Yeah, I might start to get a little anxious myself.
In conclusion, I've failed to prove anything. But since you're holding the gun to my head, I'll hop off the fence and take a side: I think music makes people crazy. It's this pursuit of beauty and perfection that you undertake and the closer you get to reaching it, the more you realize you can never attain it. Which, of course, leads to greater obsession, because nothing is more desirable to us than that which we cannot get. The pressure can be external, but I think the yearning for this music is largely an internal struggle and leads you along a disturbing path away from reality. I think I've escaped full blown craziness to a point because I have never let myself get fully immersed in the depths of artistic genius. I've walked up close to see my own distorted reflection in the pool and obviously didn't like it. And because of that, my music is probably not nearly as good, but people sure do enjoy being around me more and don't call me crazy. At least not to my face.
So it is fitting that I was driving northbound along this very same path to intellectual enlightenment on Friday when I conversed via cell with one of the brilliant minds of our time (nevermind that his initials are B. S.), bemoaning my fate that one of my favorite bands, The White Stripes (one of the last bands I really have to see before I die, or get married and my husband won't let me go to shows anymore, which would kind of be like dying), had just cancelled their tour due to the drummer's recent struggle with acute anxiety. To which he posed the burning philosophical question keeping us all awake at night: are musicians people with tendencies towards mental instability, or does musical obsession drive one to madness? It is not difficult to show correlation between the two, but to prove causation, well, let's see how close I can get to that through my ramblings.
Exhibit A: My Kingman side of ancestors is filled musicians, yet is beleaguered with mental illness (I'll spare you the details, supposedly my great-grandfather was so crazy that no one will even talk about him). My mom's Whitney-side contribution to the genepool is rock solid---almost to the point of boring---mental stability, but no mad music skills (forgive the pun).
I remember as a kid, if I were upset, I'd go play on the piano and vent out my frustration (probably getting caught exploiting my younger siblings as I was wont to do). Music was an easy escape from things in my life I found upsetting. However, in college, the pursuit of making beautiful music itself became upsetting and hard, stress and work. Definitely more tortured. It didn't help that the practice rooms were underground and had no windows.
Despite not having turned to a life of drugs and alcohol, I was thus considerably more insecure, neurotic and vitamin D-deprived after finishing my tour of duty in the HFAC (building for music, art and theatre students at BYU). I did love my course of study and the music making, but it was bittersweet; I swore that I would not get another degree in music (ha). Yet it was comforting to realize just how different I was from most of the other students that studied there. I found 2 other "normal" music major girls who liked working out and listening to hip-hop, and though we were ostracized a bit for NOT breaking forth publicly into song or soliloquy whenever the impulse hit us (oh, and was it ever hard to kick against those pricks!), we had a great time making fun of all of them while we were at our kickboxing class, extolling the virtues of A Tribe Called Quest and debating whether 2Pac really were alive or dead.
I remember the reactions I'd get when I told people I was a music major. There was definitely a social stigma attached to that, and not an entirely positive one: though people kinda admired you---for your talent, for your dedication to an art that would most likely not financially pay you back---they secretly thought you were slightly insane. (kind of similar to my friends who have to introduce themselves as therapists, they say there's one of two reactions: people clam up, or they launch into a confession of every dyfunctional thought they ever had about their mother.) Even now, when people ask me what I studied in college, and I tell them that I was a music major, after a short pause I often add, "Oh, but I was normal." And they laugh! They know that I know what they were thinking all along. Which brings up another point: are musicians crazy as part of some self-fulfilling prophecy that society has projected onto them?
There's a Seinfeld episode in which a reference is made to a musician who went crazy because he kept playing a certain note over and over. Actually, I'm pretty sure that that particular musician went loco from having untreated syphilis (I knew that masters degree would come in handy someday), but. . . I might be in trouble if the proposed hypothesis that repeated exposure to specific auditory stimuli drives one to lunacy happens to be correct. Do you know how many hundreds of times I have listened to certain songs, over and over and over again (i.e., Sigur Ros' Untitled #8, My Bloody Valentine's Sometimes, Radiohead's Everything in Its Right Place and The Beatles' Tomorrow Never Knows)? It might also depend on if this composer liked this note and was obsessed with it, or if he couldn't stand it and it kept him singing all the way the the asylum. I, for one, happen to LOVE these songs, so if repeated listening happens to land me into a straight jacket and padded cell, at least I will be one happy loon.
Let's go back to The Stripes' drummer Meg White. Okay, the girl is a drummer. No melody. That could get perhaps get grating on the nerves after awhile. And though the girl may be cooler than cool and probably trying her darndest to do her best, she's no Neil Peart. And the problem is that everyone knows it. Not only to you have to live in the shadow of the amazing Jack White, you have to deal with the fact that everyone is always talking trash that you're a crappy drummer who can't keep a beat. Yeah, I might start to get a little anxious myself.
In conclusion, I've failed to prove anything. But since you're holding the gun to my head, I'll hop off the fence and take a side: I think music makes people crazy. It's this pursuit of beauty and perfection that you undertake and the closer you get to reaching it, the more you realize you can never attain it. Which, of course, leads to greater obsession, because nothing is more desirable to us than that which we cannot get. The pressure can be external, but I think the yearning for this music is largely an internal struggle and leads you along a disturbing path away from reality. I think I've escaped full blown craziness to a point because I have never let myself get fully immersed in the depths of artistic genius. I've walked up close to see my own distorted reflection in the pool and obviously didn't like it. And because of that, my music is probably not nearly as good, but people sure do enjoy being around me more and don't call me crazy. At least not to my face.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Back to School Dance!
I'm fully convinced that the inventor of line dances was a junior high teacher. Anything to take away the pain that comes from watching the awful awkwardness. And the reason it make you wince so is because you've been there. You've bumbled your way through the mating rituals. And hopefully you survived. (Perhaps you mated?) But as ungainly and uncouth as you most certainly were, I've never once heard someone say that they wish they could go back to do it again.
On Friday, August 31, I chaperoned the Back to School Dance at Orem Junior High. In case you don't know where Orem Junior is, you can see it easily on 800 North in Orem, UT by a triangle leopard print marquee---even though we are actually the Jaguars. Never mind that though, because the triangle has faded in the sun to an unusual pink hue, which makes the sign look like a ginormous pink leopard print thong. So, what was I saying? Oh yeah, welcome back to school kids!
So it is in the benevolent shadow of larger-than-life, rosy-colored, animal-print underwear that we begin our narrative.
About 10 minutes into the dance, I was talking to 2 of my favorite comrades in the junior high trenches---Mr. Sigafus, the German teacher and a math teacher, Mr. Hart---when a rather portly and socially savvy (as you will no doubt discover) 7th grader came up to Mr. Sigafus and burped, no, belched right in his face, only to back away with a smug, over-bitten chortle (picture Dudley Dursley from Harry Potter). Rest assured, it was all done in the spirit of fun: Mr. Sigafus is one of the coolest teachers at our school (even though he wears cowboy boots). Correction: it was done in the spirit of trying to be cool. How we manage to get anything accomplished in school with people who think that letting loose with bodily functions impresses those higher up on the food chain. . . (And the public is complaining that test scores are down. Do you see what we have to work with here?)
And then there's Jonathan (who would make a fascinating subject for a blog entry), the unnaturally sweet and yet socially-challenged English-as-a-second-language student in my homeroom (yet his lack of interpersonal ease is not related to his sometimes barely intelligible, heavily accented English), who asks me if it's okay for students to dance with teachers. I'm relieved that the answer here is clearly no, even though it makes my heart a little heavier that I know he won't dance with anyone this afternoon.
When I was taking in a nice panorama of the soiree at one end of the gym, the dee-jay announced a "ladies' choice" slow dance (You know, to this day I don't think I've ever had the guts to ask a guy to dance during "ladies' choice."). All the girls gravitated to the center of the dance floor while all the boys made a mad dash, as casually as possible, to the nearest wall. The image was almost scientific. Remember way back in the day when in biology you had to learn the stages of mitosis, which at this point I would venture to say is cell division? (I really can't remember anymore and truthfully had not thought of until this afternoon at the dance.) The scene unfolding before my eyes was JUST like that one slide with the "stuff" polarizing at different ends and the motion and stretching illustrated by horizontal lines. Do you remember? Not only was the physical image so striking, the tense emotional state of all those in attendance charged the room so, that I swear if someone had lit a match the whole place would have gone up in flames. It was enough to make me, a mere spectator, want to run for cover. Or at least to the middle of the room (where all the girls were, you know, because of the mitosis and such).
It was most likely during this very same dance that my emotionally delicate friend Hannah arranged to have a her friend ask the boy she liked if he would dance with her. His reaction: "Oh G*d, anyone but her. Could she be anymore friggin ugly?" She was cowering by the wall, alone, almost too upset to speak when I found her.
Other vignettes of crushed hopes at the junior high dance would include my teacher friend Lindsey helping a boy in the corner crying because his glasses were stepped on and broken. Another seventh-grade girl was sobbing because she was terrified and positive that some ninth-graders (whom she had never seen, nor did they even know her) were going to make good on their empty threat that "they were going to make her life miserable."
Although the junior high dance as I have portrayed up until now may seem like the optimal stage to spotlight all that is tragic and flawed in the world, it can draw forth that which is most admirable and kind in all of human nature. For example, however much it was slightly annoying that students couldn't resist giving me the eye and shooting fake guns with their hands "go get 'em tiger" style as I innocently stood and talked shop with Mr. Hart, a happily married man of probably 25 some odd years---I realize in retrospect that my students just want me to be happy and to find love (they are obsessed with my love life---funny, I don't ever recall caring about my teachers'), even if it is with someone who is unavailable and probably old enough to be my dad.
There is a crowd of funny, FUNNY eighth and ninth grade skater boys that go to my school. All of them happen to take my men's choir. Funnier still. I can never get them to stop moving or jumping off of things or making noise (unless it's on stage where they happen to freeze up like Greek statues). Here at the dance was another brief moment in time in which they stood strikingly still---awkward spectating wall flowers in contrast to the student body's mass swing dancing to Hairspray's "You Can't Stop the Beat." Though they were "cool," they certainly were fish out of water in this scene. I happened to see some of the cute girls they hang with and told them to go drag those boys onto the dance floor. A sweeter sight I had heretofore not seen this afternoon: these gangly skaters swing dancing with adorable girls decked out in goofy blue and silver school spirit clothes.
The best moment of the dance for me was seeing a student council member named Jill inviting a boy to slow dance. Now this boy was definitely not the coolest or the funniest or even the smartest, nor was he quite the nerdiest or the homeliest; he did seem to have any kind of "-est" designation to set him apart from the rest, which is actually the loneliest. And you could tell that he himself knew it. I could tell from their exchange that she did not know him, nor would he have ever presumed to approach someone of her status. He tried to get out of the invitation by saying that he didn't know how to dance, but Jill led him on the dance floor just the same and showed him where to rest his hand on her shoulder and how to move his two left feet. I was inspired, while I secretly chastized myself for all the times in my life I hadn't, but could have, done the same.
On Friday, August 31, I chaperoned the Back to School Dance at Orem Junior High. In case you don't know where Orem Junior is, you can see it easily on 800 North in Orem, UT by a triangle leopard print marquee---even though we are actually the Jaguars. Never mind that though, because the triangle has faded in the sun to an unusual pink hue, which makes the sign look like a ginormous pink leopard print thong. So, what was I saying? Oh yeah, welcome back to school kids!
So it is in the benevolent shadow of larger-than-life, rosy-colored, animal-print underwear that we begin our narrative.
About 10 minutes into the dance, I was talking to 2 of my favorite comrades in the junior high trenches---Mr. Sigafus, the German teacher and a math teacher, Mr. Hart---when a rather portly and socially savvy (as you will no doubt discover) 7th grader came up to Mr. Sigafus and burped, no, belched right in his face, only to back away with a smug, over-bitten chortle (picture Dudley Dursley from Harry Potter). Rest assured, it was all done in the spirit of fun: Mr. Sigafus is one of the coolest teachers at our school (even though he wears cowboy boots). Correction: it was done in the spirit of trying to be cool. How we manage to get anything accomplished in school with people who think that letting loose with bodily functions impresses those higher up on the food chain. . . (And the public is complaining that test scores are down. Do you see what we have to work with here?)
And then there's Jonathan (who would make a fascinating subject for a blog entry), the unnaturally sweet and yet socially-challenged English-as-a-second-language student in my homeroom (yet his lack of interpersonal ease is not related to his sometimes barely intelligible, heavily accented English), who asks me if it's okay for students to dance with teachers. I'm relieved that the answer here is clearly no, even though it makes my heart a little heavier that I know he won't dance with anyone this afternoon.
When I was taking in a nice panorama of the soiree at one end of the gym, the dee-jay announced a "ladies' choice" slow dance (You know, to this day I don't think I've ever had the guts to ask a guy to dance during "ladies' choice."). All the girls gravitated to the center of the dance floor while all the boys made a mad dash, as casually as possible, to the nearest wall. The image was almost scientific. Remember way back in the day when in biology you had to learn the stages of mitosis, which at this point I would venture to say is cell division? (I really can't remember anymore and truthfully had not thought of until this afternoon at the dance.) The scene unfolding before my eyes was JUST like that one slide with the "stuff" polarizing at different ends and the motion and stretching illustrated by horizontal lines. Do you remember? Not only was the physical image so striking, the tense emotional state of all those in attendance charged the room so, that I swear if someone had lit a match the whole place would have gone up in flames. It was enough to make me, a mere spectator, want to run for cover. Or at least to the middle of the room (where all the girls were, you know, because of the mitosis and such).
It was most likely during this very same dance that my emotionally delicate friend Hannah arranged to have a her friend ask the boy she liked if he would dance with her. His reaction: "Oh G*d, anyone but her. Could she be anymore friggin ugly?" She was cowering by the wall, alone, almost too upset to speak when I found her.
Other vignettes of crushed hopes at the junior high dance would include my teacher friend Lindsey helping a boy in the corner crying because his glasses were stepped on and broken. Another seventh-grade girl was sobbing because she was terrified and positive that some ninth-graders (whom she had never seen, nor did they even know her) were going to make good on their empty threat that "they were going to make her life miserable."
Although the junior high dance as I have portrayed up until now may seem like the optimal stage to spotlight all that is tragic and flawed in the world, it can draw forth that which is most admirable and kind in all of human nature. For example, however much it was slightly annoying that students couldn't resist giving me the eye and shooting fake guns with their hands "go get 'em tiger" style as I innocently stood and talked shop with Mr. Hart, a happily married man of probably 25 some odd years---I realize in retrospect that my students just want me to be happy and to find love (they are obsessed with my love life---funny, I don't ever recall caring about my teachers'), even if it is with someone who is unavailable and probably old enough to be my dad.
There is a crowd of funny, FUNNY eighth and ninth grade skater boys that go to my school. All of them happen to take my men's choir. Funnier still. I can never get them to stop moving or jumping off of things or making noise (unless it's on stage where they happen to freeze up like Greek statues). Here at the dance was another brief moment in time in which they stood strikingly still---awkward spectating wall flowers in contrast to the student body's mass swing dancing to Hairspray's "You Can't Stop the Beat." Though they were "cool," they certainly were fish out of water in this scene. I happened to see some of the cute girls they hang with and told them to go drag those boys onto the dance floor. A sweeter sight I had heretofore not seen this afternoon: these gangly skaters swing dancing with adorable girls decked out in goofy blue and silver school spirit clothes.
The best moment of the dance for me was seeing a student council member named Jill inviting a boy to slow dance. Now this boy was definitely not the coolest or the funniest or even the smartest, nor was he quite the nerdiest or the homeliest; he did seem to have any kind of "-est" designation to set him apart from the rest, which is actually the loneliest. And you could tell that he himself knew it. I could tell from their exchange that she did not know him, nor would he have ever presumed to approach someone of her status. He tried to get out of the invitation by saying that he didn't know how to dance, but Jill led him on the dance floor just the same and showed him where to rest his hand on her shoulder and how to move his two left feet. I was inspired, while I secretly chastized myself for all the times in my life I hadn't, but could have, done the same.
What is it exactly that fuels junior high to make it so exciting that all of this could go down in 45 minutes? Maybe it's because these little people don't make decisions rationally. They make them reactionally. It's the archetypal showdown between brainstem and frontal lobe, adrenaline versus critical thinking. And the winner is . . .
Are you kidding me? Brainstem everytime. In junior high, we live in "fight or flight." Eat or be eaten. We're just looking to survive through the day. The wonderful relief that you discover in junior high, though, is the realization of that first breath and just how good it feels after the wind gets knocked clean out of you. After each defeat, the feel of the sweat on your brow or the taste of blood on your lip means one thing, and that is ultimately that you did win and you did survive because you're still alive and feeling and tasting. And you'll go to bed and wake up the next morning to do it all over again. And this is what will sustain you through the rest of life's inevitable humiliations.
My tender little friend Hannah who had fled to the wall most likely thought that her fight had been lost. Perhaps, but it had only been a battle, so to speak; definitely not the war. In fact, I'd wager that losing a lot in junior high just might increase your winning odds as you get older. While Hannah was recounting her story, I was frantically thinking about what in the world I could possibly have to say that would be of any consolation when the oddest thing came to me. When she finished, I stretched forth my hand and clutched hers in a firm handshake. "Congratualtions and welcome to the club," I said. "You are now a woman."Thursday, September 6, 2007
Deep Thoughts
Deep thoughts considered in sunny Portland over Labor Day weekend with Dad:
Is having a rest stop named after you really considered an honor? (There are several in Oregon named after people, yet I must have missed the Martin Luther King, Jr. Rest Stop.)
Why do you always feel healthier eating outside than inside, especially at restaurants? (it doesn't matter what you're eating, seriously.)
Could the rose really be used as a symbol of intimidation (refer to the rose used in the Portland Police Bureau's logo, unfortunately I couldn't find it)? Does it really deter crime?
After looking at her wedding pictures, I've deduced that my cousin is actually Celine Dion. (I now believe that Celine Dion was replaced with a skinnier, ickier robot version of herself.)
If your body were used for a Body Worlds exhibit, how would it be posing? (Yes, that is a real human cadaver. Dad and I took in the Body Worlds 3 exhibit at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry and it was unbelievable.)
Monday, September 3, 2007
Over the River and Through the Woods
This is my 85-year old Grandma (my dad's mom) and she is a real kick in the pants. I always have wondered how it must be to keep up with the quick wit of Gordon B. Hinckley, and my grandma, though not Mormon (Calvinist, she calls it, actually), MUST come pretty close to hitting that particular mark. Here's some fascinating stats about my grandma:She's survived 2 divorces and 3 husbands (who all happened to die within 3 months of each other). Additionally, she lived in the same house with each husband.
She's also survived a bout of lung cancer, though her dog Bodie (who probably weighs more than her!) is about to succomb to bone cancer. Grandma is like the "Unsinkable Molly Brown" reincarnated.
When she was in nurses training in the early 1940s, she got married on the sly to my Grandpa and kept it a secret for her last 5 months of school. She would have been kicked out of school had they found out (there was a rule that the girls couldn't get married while they were in training---?!).
She never learned to drive a car.
She used to be 5 feet, 3 & 3/4 inches tall. She's now 4 feet, 10 & 3/4 inches tall.
This December will mark 40 years of sobriety for Grandma, after having overcome a serious battle with alcoholism.
When my dad was a little boy, she accidentally killed a cat when it climbed in the dryer and she unknowingly turned it on. She STILL feels bad about it.
When my cousin got married last year, my uncle took the mic at the reception and called my grandma, asking her for some impromptu advice for the newly-weds. Without warning and completely on the spot, she came up with this gem (no doubt to be cross-stiched and placed above the mantle): "Stick with the first one; they just get worse."
Grandma is a killer joke teller. Her comedic delivery is unparallelled. Here's a few funnies she shared with me (mostly transcribed here so I can remember a friggin joke for once in my friggin life):
Why was the duck embarrassed?
He realized that his pants were down.
A blonde woman, determined to ride first class on a flight to New York with only a second class ticket, took a seat in the first class section.
A stewardess approached her and said, “I’m sorry m’am, but you’re going to have to move back to second class.”
Still determined, the blonde answered, “I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, and I’m going to New York,” and remained in the seat.
Scratching her head, the stewardess left and sent another stewardess over to try to resolve the problem. A similar exchange of words followed: “I’m blonde, I’m beautiful, and I’m going to New York.”
Now the pilot overheard these two stewardesses talking and stepped in. “I think I know just how to handle this,” and proceeded to walk over to the woman.
After he asked her to move and she refused, the pilot whispered something in her ear. Immediately the blonde got up and moved to the second class section.
Now the dumbfounded stewardesses had to know: just what exactly had the pilot said to get the blonde to move?
“Easy,” he said. “I told her that first class wasn’t flying to New York.”
One day, a leprechaun approached a man on a golf course saying, “You’ve been a good guy, why don’t you let me grant you 3 wishes?”
To which the man replied, “No thanks, I’ve got everything I need.”
But the leprechaun wouldn’t take no for an answer and said, “No really, I’m going to give you a better golf game, as much money as you want, and a great sex life.”
A year later, the leprechaun returned to the man and asked him how things were going:
“How’s the golf?”
“Never been better!”
“Do you have enough money?”
“Oh, I’m making money hand over fist; I have more than I know what to do with!”
“So, how’s your sex life?”
“Well, I have sex about 2 times a week.”
And the leprechaun responded, “Really? That doesn’t really seem that good.”
And the man said, “Well it’s pretty good for a Catholic priest in a small town!”
Friday, August 17, 2007
Back to School VI, The Saga Continues
So school is starting next Monday. In 1, 2, count 'em, 3 days. I should be terrified, I've never been less prepared for school. On Wednesday, I even forgot about Back to School Night---in between meetings I cleaned my room in 20 minutes and sped over to Target to buy a responsible looking outfit that said "Trust your children with me." And the night went without a hitch. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, in fact. I don't remember ever having seen such precious seventh graders. Although I really shouldn't get ahead of myself here---everyone knows that the kids flipping you the bird or fighting in the halls don't do Back to School Night. Even though they sometimes frequent choir concerts (really, I'm not just exaggerating for comic effect).
So, in the midst of my personal dysfunction and chaos, why have I never felt so excited to go back? This is Back to School #6. I distinctly remember greeting numbers 1 and 3 with adrenaline and a healthy helping of trepidation; #1 for obvious reasons, and #3 because it was starting over again at a new school, and replacing a beloved teacher to boot (you know it's bad when parents tell you that they feel sorry for you because you have to follow such a legend). I think I could have been reasonably happy about Back to School #2, but it came on the heels of a rather indelicate breaking, nay, stomping of my heart. Thank you J. K. Rowling: reading Harry Potter 5 really got me through Back to School #2. Since I created my own legend (ha!) at Orem Junior High and silenced the naysayers of BTS #3, you would think that Back to Schools #4 & #5 would have been a regular barrel of monkeys, but I remember more a sense of dragging my feet. Not utter loathing and dread, but maybe not turning cartwheels. (Let me pause while I do a back handspring right. . . now.) Not until I actually started the actual teaching. Don't get me wrong, once the year is operational and I'm over the inertia of summer irresponsibility, I LOVE the kids---a few exceptions notwithstanding---and I LOVE the teaching.
I'm still left to wonder what exactly has made the difference now. Why the genuine elation? I mean, my bulletin boards aren't even done (gasp)---no butcher paper slapped up there even. Cardinal sin #1. (I think I heard it's like a class C felony for elementary teachers for that kind of delinquency.) Not to mention the "important" stuff: no disclosure documents, no programmed music, no lesson plans. So, even at my most desperate, why should I be wasting the time to question my inexplicable carefreeness? (And to be writing this down?) I'm feeling good, I should just go with it, right?
But I think I'm gradually starting to learn (actually, I'll probably have to travel down this avenue of self discovery about 4 more times before I can technically say that I've learned this lesson)---after a lifetime of worrying about how everything needs to perfect all the time---that the teachers that have the most beautiful bulletin boards don't necessarily change the most lives. Nor are these teachers probably the most emotionally stable. And my boards will be looking plenty beautiful in about a week anyway. . . after I manipulate some kids into doing them for me. But is it the bulletin boards that really make me happy? Thankfully, no. In fact, let me amend that to a NO! In the fifth grade---when I lived for doing that kind of thing for my teachers---I might have found this a more than sufficient reason to get out of bed in the morning. Now I'd rather sleep an extra 15 minutes (Truth be told, I could probably be coerced to sign over many a valuable item in the morning for an extra 15 minutes of sleep; I'd better not marry a very opportunistic guy.). The reason I get up in the morning now is ____________ . Though teaching junior high choir means walking a fine line between heaven and hell (you'd be amazed to know how close they are to each other!), I'm sure you could fill in the blank with the cheesiest answer you can think of and it'd probably be spot on.
So, in the midst of my personal dysfunction and chaos, why have I never felt so excited to go back? This is Back to School #6. I distinctly remember greeting numbers 1 and 3 with adrenaline and a healthy helping of trepidation; #1 for obvious reasons, and #3 because it was starting over again at a new school, and replacing a beloved teacher to boot (you know it's bad when parents tell you that they feel sorry for you because you have to follow such a legend). I think I could have been reasonably happy about Back to School #2, but it came on the heels of a rather indelicate breaking, nay, stomping of my heart. Thank you J. K. Rowling: reading Harry Potter 5 really got me through Back to School #2. Since I created my own legend (ha!) at Orem Junior High and silenced the naysayers of BTS #3, you would think that Back to Schools #4 & #5 would have been a regular barrel of monkeys, but I remember more a sense of dragging my feet. Not utter loathing and dread, but maybe not turning cartwheels. (Let me pause while I do a back handspring right. . . now.) Not until I actually started the actual teaching. Don't get me wrong, once the year is operational and I'm over the inertia of summer irresponsibility, I LOVE the kids---a few exceptions notwithstanding---and I LOVE the teaching.
I'm still left to wonder what exactly has made the difference now. Why the genuine elation? I mean, my bulletin boards aren't even done (gasp)---no butcher paper slapped up there even. Cardinal sin #1. (I think I heard it's like a class C felony for elementary teachers for that kind of delinquency.) Not to mention the "important" stuff: no disclosure documents, no programmed music, no lesson plans. So, even at my most desperate, why should I be wasting the time to question my inexplicable carefreeness? (And to be writing this down?) I'm feeling good, I should just go with it, right?
But I think I'm gradually starting to learn (actually, I'll probably have to travel down this avenue of self discovery about 4 more times before I can technically say that I've learned this lesson)---after a lifetime of worrying about how everything needs to perfect all the time---that the teachers that have the most beautiful bulletin boards don't necessarily change the most lives. Nor are these teachers probably the most emotionally stable. And my boards will be looking plenty beautiful in about a week anyway. . . after I manipulate some kids into doing them for me. But is it the bulletin boards that really make me happy? Thankfully, no. In fact, let me amend that to a NO! In the fifth grade---when I lived for doing that kind of thing for my teachers---I might have found this a more than sufficient reason to get out of bed in the morning. Now I'd rather sleep an extra 15 minutes (Truth be told, I could probably be coerced to sign over many a valuable item in the morning for an extra 15 minutes of sleep; I'd better not marry a very opportunistic guy.). The reason I get up in the morning now is ____________ . Though teaching junior high choir means walking a fine line between heaven and hell (you'd be amazed to know how close they are to each other!), I'm sure you could fill in the blank with the cheesiest answer you can think of and it'd probably be spot on.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Open Letter to an Alleged Player
Dear Alleged Player,
First of all, I need to apologize. My acid tongue was quick to lash out words of judgement. You really left too soon for us to have a formal hearing as to ascertain your innocence or guilt (thus, you are the alleged player as opposed to the condemned player). You tried to plead your case as best you could, as a accused player presumably would and should. But when I look at my beautifully-painted living room, I now feel perhaps that was the evidentiary support that I was demanding for your defense. And in the end, when you really did have the perfect chance to "play" me, you didn't.
You asked me how you could avoid the appearance of playing in the future, a good and fair question, and even after minutes of pause I answered you Lamely. Note the capitalization. But I promised you that I would answer, and a good and fair answer I have! I'm hoping that this answer might even appease my troubled conscience (hmmm. . . too dramatic, maybe more like a little nag of the angel who looks a whole lot like my mom, that lives on my right shoulder whispering into my ear what I should do) when I walk into that room of my house to which you gave a day of your life.
One disclaimer before I launch this: I know you have not committed every faux pas on this list, so don't take this as a list of grievances aimed towards you, but rather as the advice you sought from me, now provided by anonymous sources more insightful than myself. (And no, I did not teach a lesson about this in Relief Society and write down all the comments.)
Behold: the collective wisdom of some of the most fantastic ladies I know, who came up with the meat of this answer while I offer witty color commentary to keep the mood light and humorous.
1. Don't ask us out at the last minute. We just don't want to feel like we're plan B or the second-best thing since your better option cancelled on you. Even if that's not the case at all, it gives the impression you're noncommittal, so you MUST be a player. Also, you ever wonder why girls started waiting around at home doing nothing, wasting their lives away? They've all been with guys who might call. When guys set up that pattern of calling and getting together at the last minute and then all of a sudden they don't, girls definitely get hurt and/or could feel played. You then have to deal with the confrontation (that the guy never sees coming) accompanied by awkward tears followed by artificial reassurances that all will be okay even though you know you'll never call this crazy girl again.
4. Don't go out with girls who are good friends. An absolute truth of the universe is that girls have always talked to each other, they do talk to each other and will continue to talk to each other. A lot. Especially more if it is NOT lovely or of good report or praiseworthy. Or, if they each had a lovely time with you and then they compare crib notes, it's going to lead to either of two outcomes, possibly occurring simultaneously: resentment leading to a cat fight for the girls, and/or a reputation for you. As utterly intriguing as it sounds to have 2 girls fight to the death. . . over you, no less. . . just resist entertaining that thought. And a reputation for you will close doors for you dating-wise. If you must go out with multiple girls, try to go out with girls who operate in separate social circles.
5. Too much flattery will make us suspicious. Instead, spend that time talking about yourself. It is hard to trust someone completely if they're never willing to open up about themselves. It makes us wonder what you might be hiding. . . even if you aren't hiding anything at all. Effusive compliments when you don't know us very well will seem less sincere. Also, the pressure to reciprocate a compliment when we are just barely getting to know you (and if you're flooding us with them) will make us feel uncomfortable, even if we like you and are trying to be nice.
6. You don't have to get physical with a girl to make her feel like she's been played. This might need clarification, but man, putting this answer together has been tiring.
7. We aren't against you having fun, just against you playing. Remember that there is a difference.
UPDATE: After numerous inquiries as to the true identity of the alleged player, I do want to say that he is a real person. Many have also wondered about his reaction. Well, I must say it was humble and even a little embarrassed; he did admit to having done all the aforementioned items. As for his whereabouts, he is attending law school at an undisclosed location in a far away land, hopefully utilizing kinder and safer dating practices.
First of all, I need to apologize. My acid tongue was quick to lash out words of judgement. You really left too soon for us to have a formal hearing as to ascertain your innocence or guilt (thus, you are the alleged player as opposed to the condemned player). You tried to plead your case as best you could, as a accused player presumably would and should. But when I look at my beautifully-painted living room, I now feel perhaps that was the evidentiary support that I was demanding for your defense. And in the end, when you really did have the perfect chance to "play" me, you didn't.
You asked me how you could avoid the appearance of playing in the future, a good and fair question, and even after minutes of pause I answered you Lamely. Note the capitalization. But I promised you that I would answer, and a good and fair answer I have! I'm hoping that this answer might even appease my troubled conscience (hmmm. . . too dramatic, maybe more like a little nag of the angel who looks a whole lot like my mom, that lives on my right shoulder whispering into my ear what I should do) when I walk into that room of my house to which you gave a day of your life.
One disclaimer before I launch this: I know you have not committed every faux pas on this list, so don't take this as a list of grievances aimed towards you, but rather as the advice you sought from me, now provided by anonymous sources more insightful than myself. (And no, I did not teach a lesson about this in Relief Society and write down all the comments.)
Behold: the collective wisdom of some of the most fantastic ladies I know, who came up with the meat of this answer while I offer witty color commentary to keep the mood light and humorous.
1. Don't ask us out at the last minute. We just don't want to feel like we're plan B or the second-best thing since your better option cancelled on you. Even if that's not the case at all, it gives the impression you're noncommittal, so you MUST be a player. Also, you ever wonder why girls started waiting around at home doing nothing, wasting their lives away? They've all been with guys who might call. When guys set up that pattern of calling and getting together at the last minute and then all of a sudden they don't, girls definitely get hurt and/or could feel played. You then have to deal with the confrontation (that the guy never sees coming) accompanied by awkward tears followed by artificial reassurances that all will be okay even though you know you'll never call this crazy girl again.
2. Don't talk about other girls or dates when you're with us. Don't talk about the number of girls you've been out with either. I suppose the only girls that are legal to talk about are your sisters and your mom (and I suppose an unnatural fascination with your mother wouldn't exactly be advisable either). For all we know, this is the only date you have ever been on, and out of everyone you could have possibly selected, you have chosen us for that moment. Of course we know you've been on dates, but just indulge us on this one romantic ideal, no matter how silly it may seem. If the girl you're out with asks you to dish, I guess that's the green light to spill the beans, but even then, I would proceed with caution. After all, it is beans we're talking about, and the by-products of those beans are smelly.
3. Don't go out with more than one girl in one day---we can sense it. It is called women's intuition.4. Don't go out with girls who are good friends. An absolute truth of the universe is that girls have always talked to each other, they do talk to each other and will continue to talk to each other. A lot. Especially more if it is NOT lovely or of good report or praiseworthy. Or, if they each had a lovely time with you and then they compare crib notes, it's going to lead to either of two outcomes, possibly occurring simultaneously: resentment leading to a cat fight for the girls, and/or a reputation for you. As utterly intriguing as it sounds to have 2 girls fight to the death. . . over you, no less. . . just resist entertaining that thought. And a reputation for you will close doors for you dating-wise. If you must go out with multiple girls, try to go out with girls who operate in separate social circles.
5. Too much flattery will make us suspicious. Instead, spend that time talking about yourself. It is hard to trust someone completely if they're never willing to open up about themselves. It makes us wonder what you might be hiding. . . even if you aren't hiding anything at all. Effusive compliments when you don't know us very well will seem less sincere. Also, the pressure to reciprocate a compliment when we are just barely getting to know you (and if you're flooding us with them) will make us feel uncomfortable, even if we like you and are trying to be nice.
6. You don't have to get physical with a girl to make her feel like she's been played. This might need clarification, but man, putting this answer together has been tiring.
7. We aren't against you having fun, just against you playing. Remember that there is a difference.
UPDATE: After numerous inquiries as to the true identity of the alleged player, I do want to say that he is a real person. Many have also wondered about his reaction. Well, I must say it was humble and even a little embarrassed; he did admit to having done all the aforementioned items. As for his whereabouts, he is attending law school at an undisclosed location in a far away land, hopefully utilizing kinder and safer dating practices.
Running is for jackasses.
I love running.
I thought I might actually be onto something when, in junior high, I was spectacularly average in running the mile in Phys Ed, as opposed to my embarrassingly abysmal performances in other sports. I didn't even need to stop and walk like the other girls (who were cool), who, in reality, were probably only really held back by the extreme strain of wind resistance on their aerosoled, gravity-defying hood ornaments of hair (try as I could, my hair never could never really take wings like that---not cool). This running could very well be my ticket into the elusive realm of jockdom (cool). I had the corner on the market when it came to the grades and music (not cool, but believe you me, I think I did make it a little cooler), but I had always been seduced by the siren song of that other beautiful and shiny athletic world of huddles and matching uniforms and getting out of class early (cool). Cursed by an unforgiving genepool and fear of the ball (not cool), I learned that redemption could be found in a sport so accepting that the coaches couldn't kick you off the team---even if they wanted to, as long as you kept showing up to practices like a bad penny. Here before me was a sport where you could succeed by sheer virtue of your stubbornness (cool). Jackasses apply within. So guess what that made me? (and don't answer cool)
My illustrious barely-varsity-even-as-a-senior running career should have, by all reasonable stretches of the imagination, ended right there in high school. But as if to spit in the very face of logic, running has not only continued as a hobby for me; it's asserted itself to a place of dominance in my life. There was a time while at BYU that the thought of missing my daily run was as crazy as leaving the house in the morning without pants. That's just how much I needed it. I'm convinced that the running saved me thousands in therapy bills.
I thought I might actually be onto something when, in junior high, I was spectacularly average in running the mile in Phys Ed, as opposed to my embarrassingly abysmal performances in other sports. I didn't even need to stop and walk like the other girls (who were cool), who, in reality, were probably only really held back by the extreme strain of wind resistance on their aerosoled, gravity-defying hood ornaments of hair (try as I could, my hair never could never really take wings like that---not cool). This running could very well be my ticket into the elusive realm of jockdom (cool). I had the corner on the market when it came to the grades and music (not cool, but believe you me, I think I did make it a little cooler), but I had always been seduced by the siren song of that other beautiful and shiny athletic world of huddles and matching uniforms and getting out of class early (cool). Cursed by an unforgiving genepool and fear of the ball (not cool), I learned that redemption could be found in a sport so accepting that the coaches couldn't kick you off the team---even if they wanted to, as long as you kept showing up to practices like a bad penny. Here before me was a sport where you could succeed by sheer virtue of your stubbornness (cool). Jackasses apply within. So guess what that made me? (and don't answer cool)
My illustrious barely-varsity-even-as-a-senior running career should have, by all reasonable stretches of the imagination, ended right there in high school. But as if to spit in the very face of logic, running has not only continued as a hobby for me; it's asserted itself to a place of dominance in my life. There was a time while at BYU that the thought of missing my daily run was as crazy as leaving the house in the morning without pants. That's just how much I needed it. I'm convinced that the running saved me thousands in therapy bills.
In 1998, I snuck into the St. George Marathon, my first marathon. I hadn't even trained, but was love at first run. I knew it would not be my last. I dedicated my efforts to my mom, and to this day I still give her all of my finisher medals. The ripple effect of this past quasi-illegal action (brother Spencer drove the getaway car) has been extraordinary, amongst the many ripples being a transformation of the way people perceived me. Now, for the first time ever, people introduced me like "This is my friend Camille, the marathoner." Without hesitation. . . in the same breath. What happened, all of a sudden, to "Camille the music major" or "Camille the girl who is addicted to Mountain Dew?" Surely these people were delusional.
Having now stolen the last lucky golden ticket from Charlie---yes, that's how lucky and kinda guilty I feel---I've miraculously set foot into that magical chocolate factory where jocks come from (and seen how the everlasting gobstopper is made). Lucky, because it still just seems so improbable to me, desperately impossible as my plight once was, that I could have entered this cool club as a product of my hard work. I mean, really, since when does hard work pay off? Plus, the cool kids never seemed to work that hard at it, so it's just really hard to associate the two now.
I feel guilty because now everyone thinks I'm something I'm not. To admire me for my athletic prowess is to be misguided by a little ignorance. At least it's harmless ignorance that's not keeping kids hungry in Africa. But let me come clean: Most people haven't run 26.2 before, so they don't realize that they could do it themselves. The truth is that, yes, it is very hard, sometimes excruciating, and so much work, but you don't need coordination or coolness to do it. . . just great joints. So admire me for that. Well, not for my unrelenting joints, but that I've set a goal and accomplished it.
I'm not cool because I'm in the club. I'm cool because I'm the stubbornest jackass in the club. But you are not allowed to introduce me as "My friend Camille, the . . . "
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Drumroll, please. . . .Ta-da.
Glassy-eyed from my most recent brain cell depletion---thanks to a teacher's best friend in the summer: the internet (though, say me and internet had been BFF, oh back in 6th grade, I'm positive my mom would have never let me spend the night at their house. Not even if she had met internet's parents, because that would be Al Gore, of course.)---I'm inspired to announce the arrival of the world's newest and most adorable blogger: me.
I was born 2 and a half weeks late, the morning after Thanksgiving 1977, a human bowling ball/Butterball, if you will, at a robust 9 lbs. 13 oz. And in comparison to my friends, I was always the last socially (a position I landed because I was the first in anything not gross motor skills-related)---to drive, to date, to graduate Primary (flashback: me trying to blend into the wall during the my last Primary program in 1989 as the only 11-year-old in the 7th grade, trying to devise some scheme so I can still face my friends the next day in junior high). Thus, it's only fitting that my blogging arrival comes only after all the cool kids have been doing this for years, and after I'm totally bloated with the weight of my own self-importance and entitlement, owing to multiple degrees (which have taught me how to interrupt others without feeling guilty because my opinions are more correct and important than anyone else's), emotional baggage that exceeds FAA weight standards, and the influence of riotous 8th-grade boys (who, incidentally, have taught me more about the way a man thinks than the combined frustration of all past relationships with boys my own age).
Anyways, I'm happy to be here with all the smartest people I know, who express themselves so brilliantly---I mean, it's poetic when they go number 2, I swear! For now, I'm just aiming for a beautifully pontificated burp to echo once or twice in my kitchen. And that's aight wit me.
I was born 2 and a half weeks late, the morning after Thanksgiving 1977, a human bowling ball/Butterball, if you will, at a robust 9 lbs. 13 oz. And in comparison to my friends, I was always the last socially (a position I landed because I was the first in anything not gross motor skills-related)---to drive, to date, to graduate Primary (flashback: me trying to blend into the wall during the my last Primary program in 1989 as the only 11-year-old in the 7th grade, trying to devise some scheme so I can still face my friends the next day in junior high). Thus, it's only fitting that my blogging arrival comes only after all the cool kids have been doing this for years, and after I'm totally bloated with the weight of my own self-importance and entitlement, owing to multiple degrees (which have taught me how to interrupt others without feeling guilty because my opinions are more correct and important than anyone else's), emotional baggage that exceeds FAA weight standards, and the influence of riotous 8th-grade boys (who, incidentally, have taught me more about the way a man thinks than the combined frustration of all past relationships with boys my own age).
Anyways, I'm happy to be here with all the smartest people I know, who express themselves so brilliantly---I mean, it's poetic when they go number 2, I swear! For now, I'm just aiming for a beautifully pontificated burp to echo once or twice in my kitchen. And that's aight wit me.
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