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.
Friday, August 17, 2007
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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