The Life of Bon: 2010

Thursday, December 09, 2010

Kissing Revisited

The last time I posted I told the story about my rowdy sixth period class, and P.'s decision to read excerpts from "The Art of Kissing" to the whole class. Well, Monday we needed to go over a test. A copy of the test was on my computer that I planned to project to the class. Stupidly, I turned the projector on without checking to make sure that what was on my computer screen was, in fact, the test. Immediately there was a loud murmur spreading through the class. Then, "What? Kissing? Ms. Blackburn! What is that?" I looked quickly, realizing too late that because I had been checking my blog during my prep period what I was projecting to my sixth period class was NOT the test, rather, the blog post that I had written about them.

"The Art of Kissing."

I rushed to the computer, trying in vain to pull the test up before they could read what the blog post. Too late. My ancient computer wouldn't pull up a new screen even close to fast enough to cover the post. "What is that? What? What's going on? What do you have there on your computer?" Say what you will about high school students- they're quicker than we all give them credit for.

And so... in a moment of weakness I decided What the Hell? (Sorry mom if you ever read this blog). I'll let the tykes read what I wrote about them.

The reactions were mixed.

"Um, Ms. Blackburn, we're 17 not 15!" corrected one girl. (15 year olds... I mean 17 year olds... get get real offended if you get their age wrong. It's important you know.)

B, the genius who sits in the back, looked bored and irritated that we were taking up his learning time.

"Holy sh**! (that one I will edit out for my mom) You should write for a magazine!" someone else chimed in.

"The line that Pepeen was reading out in the hall was about kissing the ear! It wasn't that a good kiss should take you to another world. You got the details mixed up!"

C woke up to listen in... something I haven't been able to get him to do for weeks.

And P's reaction? The star of the last post? He loved it. Absolutely beside himself with glee. "Ms. Blackburn you think about me at home?!?!?!" He cried out in pure delight.

I guess everyone likes to know they're thought about...

Thursday, November 04, 2010

The art of kissing

It seems I may have failed to mention that I am currently spending all day every day with the riff raff of West Jordan. I am officially a full time teacher at Copper Hills High School. An adult. Responsible. Legitimate. A career woman.

The kids are out of control.

The first ten minutes of class all kids are supposed to bring their own book and read. Most of them forget. Or just don't bring it. Or prefer to sleep. So I supplied some of my own books so that they don't have an excuse to not read. I guess I should have looked through the books a little more thoroughly before allowing fifteen year olds to let loose on them.

In my stack of books is "The Art of Kissing." I stole it from my sister's house a couple of years ago, skimmed through it, found it interesting, and then threw it in a closet, not to be retrieved again until I was desperately looking for books to put in my classroom. I carelessly threw it in a box with other books, not glancing at the title or the scandalous pic of people making out on the cover. I carried the box into the school, the book never surfacing. An aide put the books on my shelves for me.

And that is how, without my knowing, The Art of Kissing successfully manuevered its way into my classroom and onto my shelf, free for any horny fifteen year old to read.

This morning I was giving a passionate and intense lesson about effective thesis statements. The class was focused. In the zone. I had convinced them that creating a strong thesis would make their whole life complete.

I heard snickering from the corner.

"Yes? Is everything okay?" I asked P, the class clown.
"Ms. Blackburn this book is genius! It is changing my life!" Unlike the rest of the class, P. had not put his book down when the ten free reading minutes were up.(An interesting fact to know is that P had a fat hickey on his neck last week. I teased him mercilessly about it)
"P., I don't think you need to read any more about that subject. Put it away and get out your notebook."
"But Ms. Blackburn. I mean wow! Why you even got this book?" And then reading outloud "A successful romantic kiss will take you to another world. You will be so involved in the kiss that you can't think about anything else." The whole class burst into laughter. I was biting my lip trying to fight the smile.
"P, if you can't be quiet you'll have to go out in to the hall." Usually this threat works. It scares them. Makes them think the hall is evil. Or possessed. Didn't work with P.
"Yah sure I'll go in the hall if I can keep reading this book!"
"Just go!" I demanded. P pranced his way out of the classroom, the book carefully tucked beneath his arm as if a fellow student was going to try to snatch it away from him. He stopped just outside the wide open door and started reading loudly "One of the most sensual places to kiss is behind the ear..."
"P! Close the door!"

At this point the class was gone, their raging hormones causing them to lose it completely in hysterics of giggles.

"Okay guys. Why is it so important that a thesis be debatable?" I tried in vain to get them back. To get them to concentrate. To convince them that they love thesis statements. They were all blusing and smiling and asking if P. could come back in and read more of that book. And then I realized that getting them to refocus on thesis statements was an absolute and utter lost cause.

I mean really... since when has a thesis statement ever been able to compete with the art of kissing?

Monday, September 13, 2010

So long Sizzler

For the past four and a half years I have worked at Sizzler. Pathetic, I know, to spend that much time at a restaurant. In my defense I did take a religious sabbatical of sorts... and a four month vacation/ "semester" to Hawaii... but still, I have put in way too many hours at the Sizzler in Provo. And now, with a full time teaching job career under way I guess it's time I say goodbye officially and forever to my favorite little ghetto white trash restaurant.

Here are some favorite memories:

- One Saturday afternoon I didn't want to work my shift because all of my girlfriends were having fun without me and I wanted to join in. I told my manager that I wasn't feeling well and could I go home? He replied, "Yah, you look like s***. You better go home." I was feeling fine.

- Once I was taking a very large woman to a table when she insisted on sitting in a booth. I hadn't given her the booth option because...well... she was huge. "Uh... the tables are much more convenient for getting up and down" I tried to convince her. "No! I want a booth! They're more comfortable." So I took her to a booth. And watched awkwardly and she tried to shove herself and her mammoth bosoms into the tight space between the bench and the seat. Finally, several unsuccessful mintues later she gave in, "I guess I'll have a table."

- A lady ran up to me one night in a panic telling me she needed a plastic bag because her sick friend in a motorized wheelchair was going to puke any minute. The friend was ridiculously overweight. Rolls were hanging over her. Her face was lost in the enormity of her cheeks and neck. There were hairs on her chin. I got the bag, watched as the lady wheeled on over to a different part of my section, puked, and then brought me back the vomit filled bag to put in the garbage. When I came back out of the server station, she was back at the salad bar loading up on food. Wait... weren't you not feeling well? Didn't you just puke up all your food...?

- One lady was so rude to me the whole night, throwing out demeaning comments and acting like I was an idiot. She went up to the front to ask for her waitress and when the manager asked what the waitress's name was she replied, "I don't know! Piece of sh**!" The manager said, "No... really... what was her name?" "Brooke or something like that. She has a pink streak!" They figured out it was me that was the server, so I went out to the table to try to help her out. She chewed me out for five minutes, told me how to do my job, put me in my place (given at this point I probably deserved it because I was completely ignoring them because they were so rude). At the end of the night I brought her a comment card that we are required to give all of our tables. Instead of putting my name, Bonnie, I put "Brooke." Yah, I'm a smart A. She called and complained that night. The next morning I had a nice long lecture. Almost lost my job over that one.

- An hour into one of my shifts I realized I wasn't wearing any underwear. I was supposed to work a double that day- 11 am to 9 pm. We weren't busy yet so I asked my manager if I could go home to put some underwear on and come back. He told me to just go home. Score.

- The Mexican cook surprise kissed me outside the side door on the cheek. He asked me to go to Mexico with him. When I asked him what we would do for work, he replied, "Work in a hotel in Cancun." Wow. You are Romantic, Juan! Nothing sounds more heavenly than running away to Mexico with you and working in a hotel! Later I found out he was married with kids. Figures.

- Some couple from California was in Provo for a Nuskin conference. They came in every day while they were in town and for some reason fell madly in love with me. They tried to set me up with their son. They tried to recruit me for NuSkin. She tried to convince me to work at Sizzler in Cali. She took pictures of me and then sent them to me months later postmarked from Southern California. It was weird.

- Mothers Day everyone had to work so to make up for it, the managers bought a bunch of food for everyone and put it in the break room. When my shift was over, me and my BFF who worked with me filled sacks with the mothers Day treats and booked it out of the restaurant. Some other server saw us and ratted us out. The managers called and we had to return hours later with all of the stolen goods and apologize. Almost lost my job over that one.

- Dated a boy from work. I wouldn't suggest it, unless you're good at getting boys to break up with you twice, feel bad, and do all your work for you... in which case you might want to look into it.

- I was taking three people to a table, an old lady and a young couple. I showed them their spot and said, "Is this okay?" Everyone looked confused. The old lady began to sit down. The couple looked at her. Then at me. Back at her. Back to me. "Uh... she's not with us..." The old lady, looked around, also confused, and then wandered off. Minutes later another server in the station was staying, "My table can't find their grandma! They have no idea where she went..." HA!

- My last shift working before my mission, the stupid closing server wouldn't check me off. He kept making me get on my hands and knees to pick up my crumbs. He told me I was probably going to half a** my mission just like I half a**ed my work at Sizzler. I walked out without doing any more of my closing work or checking out with a manager. I would have lost my job over that one if I wasn't already quitting. (I didn't exactly think I would have to come crawling back to them for a job 18 months later...)

- Best tip: $22 from an old couple who ordered a $10 meal... It's not that impressive, I know. I don't know why I never racked in those $50-$100 tips that other servers made.

- Worst tip: (Aside from the countless no tippers?) $1 from seven huge Navajo men who all had steak and all you can eat shrimp and kept me running all night. After that I refused to take another table of Navajos. You can call me racist. I call myself smart.

- Total hours spent at Sizzler: 2,500- 2,700.

- Total money in my apron at the end of three years: $40,500. Crazy to think of 40 Gs in one and five dollar bills left out on tables, huh?

So, thanks Sizzler for putting me through school, taking me to Hawaii to study, help paying for my mission, paying my rent, buying my clothes, and thank you now, for being a part of my past... and not part of my future.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The ridiculousness of it all

To start with, how do you make ridiculous into a noun? Ridiculousness? Ridiculoustion? Ridiculousocity? I feel like ridiculous is the only real way to describe my situation, yet there is no noun form of the word. Does the fact that I even noticed this make me into a huge English nerd?

The reason I so desperately want a noun form of ridiculous is because I am laid up on a couch with my knee elevated and heavily bandaged and lortab running through my veins. With a surgery 30 hours in my past, the knee is hurting like H***, giving me grief, and forcing me to stay inside on the couch on a beautiful summer day instead of running around outside.

And what exactly is it about the injury that merits a noun form of ridiculous? The knee was operated on due to injuries caused at a slip and slide.


In my defense, it was a pretty hard core slip and slide, with over a thousand kids and huge tarps spread out down a mountain. This was no friendly backyard yellow slider. It was business.

But still, I figure anything would have been cooler than getting hurt on a slip and slide. An intense soccer game, maybe. Or sky diving. Or working too hard and carrying too much weight. ANYTHING would have sounded better than the truth. You can imagine how stupid/ridiculous/absurd I feel everytime someone asks me why I'm hobbling around. "Oh, you know, I totally tore three ligaments in my knee from a child's summertime game where you slide around with water. Intense, I know. I'm lucky to be alive... really..."

Yep, I'm an idiot.

Sunday, June 27, 2010


I'm in an awesome limbo stage in my life right now. I have officially graduated from BYU. No longer a student, no longer have to be responsible and study and go to bed early and do my homework. No longer have to follow BYU rules. Lucikly, I have secured myself a teaching job for the fall. But I'm not YET an adult. Not yet a legitimate hard working, society contributing person. So for June, July and a part of August, I'm an inbetweener. Right smack in the middle of stages in my life... meaning I can do whatever the h*** I feel like.

I dyed my hair pink.

(Also, can I get a round of applause for my first ever picture on my four year old blog?)

People react very interestingly when you dye your hair a crazy color. Some of my favorites:

My sister: "That's not permanent, is it?"
Me: "Well nothing in this life is permanent... if you think about it."

My next door neighbor: "It's so cute so cute so cute so cute I want to do it too!!!!!!"

S, the boy I am currently dating: "Whoa. You dyed your hair."
Me: "yes. do i look like a rock star?"
S: "I guess...if that's what you were going for....."

P, from my ward: "Wow. You're hair is so hot that it makes me want to make out with every single strand of it."

A server at the restaurant: "You going to meet your boyfriend's parents with that hair? Oh... yah... they'll love you."

My mom: "WHAT is with your hair? Do you think you're a punk or something?"
Me: "No... I don't think I'm a punk...."
Mom: "You're a returned missionary! You need to cut this stuff out!"

A random person at the restaurant: "Does your hair grow in like that?"

My four year old nephew: "It's weird... I have never EVER ever ever seen anyone with that color of hair before."

The bishop's wife: "Your mom was right- returned missionaries should not dye their hair pink like that."

Thursday, June 10, 2010

Bad break-up?

In my blogging experience, I have steered clear of writing anything personal or anything of real posts are usually a healthy mix of random and completely useless information about myself. Because of my dedication to avoid getting too personal, I have completely avoided ever ever EVER writing about my dating life.

But... just this one time I couldn't resist. The story merits a blog post.

I started going out with this boy from the restaurant where I work. His name is S. Everybody said it was a bad idea to date someone from work. Post-break-up-work-life would certainly be hell. I ignored all warnings and went for it anyway. But the thing is I never really could make up my mind about how much I liked him, and so it was always stop and go, stop and go. Plus, I was in and out of town, graduating (oh yah... forgot to mention huge milestone in my life... I GRADUATED FROM COLLEGE in April. WOOT!), etc, etc. Also there were some other deadbeats who I have been dating who kept trying to make their way in to my life and were making me really confused about my feelings for S. Finally, though, I decided that I do indeed like S and that I was going to give the relationship an honest go. You know... put effort into it, act cute when I see him, be nice to him, the things you are supposed to do when you are dating someone. The next time I saw S, he said he thought it would be a good idea to stop dating. Uh.... okay? His reasons for breakup were #1: I don't like kids very much and that bothers him because he wants to marry a girl who freaking adores every kid who has walked the planet and #2: I am not obedient enough. (Which for the record, I am an "obedient" person, just in a different way than S, who is very down-the-line-perfect-mormon-boy).

Now here's the good part. I thought the restaurant would certainly be a disaster now that S+Bonnie = Love is no longer a true equation. False. Work is so much better than it ever has been. I think he feels guilty about breaking my heart because he has been beyond nice to me. First shift working with S post-breakup: All night long he ran all my food to my tables. When I came back with a tray full of dirty plates and set it hastily on the counter, I caught him sneakily taking it back to the dishroom and unloading it for me. One particularly crappy night he noticed I was in a bad mood and gave me a package of nibs licorice. Then, when he had a wrongly cooked premium steak at one of his tables he told no one but me and we went back to the breakroom and polished that sucker off just the two of us. When I showed up late for work he covered for me. He does my sidework if I am behind. He always gives me the best section in the restaurant.

As you can see, this has really been working out for me. My new work strategy: date every boy at the restaurant, make him break up with me, make him feel bad for breaking up with me, and live the most posh work lifestyle ever. They do everything. I do nothing. I win.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

My harshest critics

Two weeks ago I finished up my student teaching and bid adieu to the 15, 16, and 17 year olds who have been rocking my world the past three months. Strangely, it was harder than I thought to say goodbye to 200 high school punks. Before I left, all students had to fill out an evaluation. Although some of the comments the students put I really did take seriously, most of them were just absolutely hilarious. Here are some of the highlights, taken word for word, followed by my own commentary, italicized and in parenthesis:

Things you liked most about this teacher:
“She doesn’t make us think super deep about stuff that can’t be deep.” (HAHA! Is this a compliment or does it reflect poorly on my teaching meaning I didn’t make them stretch?)
“I love that she talks really loud.” (First time anybody has ever liked that about me)
“Pretty much everything has gone well except for the reading because I hate it more than anything.”
“She’s not just a boring fun-hating teacher.”
“We learned a lot, not only about English, but about Bonnie’s life. Like the fact that her names is Bonnie and she works at Sizzler and she’s a good prankster.” (Once those rugrats figured out my name they tried to use it as much as possible)
“Probably the most fun I’ve ever had” (EVER? Oh geez, I hope not.)
“The way she drinks her water.” (Yah, some of the things they said are just plain creepy.)
“She is always so happy and always has the cutest clothes!” (Man, these kids really know what counts, don’t they?)
“I loved the whole year! PARTY AT SIZZLER!” (
“This teacher is attractive.” (…that’s all they said….oh, ninth graders.)
“I like that it was cool. I mean it wasn’t boring. She kept it cool because when I get bored I just lose focus. But it was cool.” (Wow… so profound)
“She’s friggin hilarious.”
“She is nice… brownie points for her, I always like kind teachers.”
“Ms. Blackbird gives everyone a chance to speak in class.” (HA! Ms. Blackbird… oh so much that I said that didn’t enter into their heads.)
“She laughs at our jokes.”
“She’s got attitude and she knows how to handle talkers.”
“Finally, a student teacher who doesn’t have a problem with telling students to shut up! I really love this class (when she’s in a good mood, haha :))”

Things you would like to see this teacher do differently:
“Make specific homework assignments. We need exact numbers of things, not just “I don’t know.” (Oops. Stupid kids always wanted to know EXACTLY how many paragraphs exactly how many sentences to write. Just write you idiots.)
“Sometimes she wore squeaky shoes.” (They really couldn’t get over the fact that I have a pair of squeaky shoes)
“I would have liked her to not have assigned homework.”
“Nufin. She ballin. Nuff said.” (HAHA! And I call my student teaching experience in ENGLISH a success?)
“Well she smells like a horse. Her shoes squeak but… APRIL FOOLS! She’s cool. Even though Aquafina is better than Arrowhead and she drinks arrowhead and she’d be cooler if she’d accept our friend requests on facebook.” (I had them write the evaluations on April Fools… looking back it was not my best idea.)
“Don’t wear squeaky shoes… and I like your hair.” (Umm… Thank you?)
“She says like way too much. Reminds me of a teenage girl.”
“She could have made a fun spelling unit.”
“When kids goofed off, it was, I think, like, a little hard for Ms. Blackburn to stay in control.” (First, notice the excessive units of commas. Secondly, I love the way the student phrased it… hard for me to stay in control. Can’t you just picture me freaking out and throwing my high heels at the students?)
1. “Do 50 pullups in succession
2. Work me in call of Duty
3. Paint the Mona Lisa
4. Give me more extra credit” (I knew exactly what student wrote this evaluation… he was always begging for extra credit.)
“Less stupid books and no essays.” (YES SIR! No more reading and no more writing in an English class. Your wish is my command)

Man, I'm going to miss them.

Tuesday, April 06, 2010

No purchase necessary.

About a month ago, McDonald's made what I viewed as a terrible mistake. They printed a coupon in the BYU newspaper, "The Daily Universe." One free smoothie. No purchase necessary. No. Purchase. Necessary.

My little sister called to inform me of the good news and suggested that we meet up at... Hmmm... Lets say McDonalds... later on in the day. I agreed. My sis kifed dozens of newspapers from that day so we could have an endless supply of free smoothies. I let my roommate know, who was still on campus, and she loaded up as well on the newspapers. Between the three of us, we probably had 50 smoothie coupons. Yes. We win.

Now here's the deal... McDonalds was making a huge mistake. Stupid fast food restuarant. They don't know jack crap about marketing. You can't print a coupon with NO PURCHASE NECESSARY and expect to make any money. What idiots. BYU students, especially me and my smart little friends, were going to give them a run for their money, use and abuse the system, and make McDonalds regret ever having printed that dumb coupon. Every day. Free smoothie. And after the coupons run out, if you think we're going to pay full price for one of those little smoothies, you've got another thing coming for you, McDonald's. We aren't. We won't. Ever. Pay full price.

So we met up at McDonalds later that day as planned. And here's the deal. Even though I didn't HAVE to buy anything to use the coupon, once inside the restaurant I really really wanted French fries. And I figured since I wasn't paying for the smoothie, paying for French fries wasn't going to hurt me, right?

Three weeks ago, my sister wanted to hang out. And of all the places to get together, where do you think we chose? McDonalds, of course, to use the free coupons. Only she was hungry for real food. So she bought a burger and a wrap.

Last week I convinced a group of four or five to go to get free smoothies, my treat with the surplus of coupons I have. Well, they were out of smoothies. But we were all in the mood now for something delicious. So we all bought ice cream cones.

Three days ago me and my friend rolled into Mickey D's for some smoothies. I discovered I didn't have the coupons with me. So we couldn't get smoothies. Only we were now already craving something. And we were already at McDonalds. So even though its not my favorite place to eat, we were already we might as well get something to eat, right? And we blew money on food from McDonalds.

And that's when I came to the realization. McDonalds got the best of me. I did not take advantage of them, i did not use and abuse, I did not rape, pillage, and destroy the system like I had planned. No. McDonalds had used and abused ME!!! Not once did I plan on spending money at that freaking restaurant. Not once did I ever really even want to eat McDonalds food. But I did. Every time. Even with that stupid "No purchase necessary" printed so clearly to see on every coupon.

Fine, McDonald's. You win. You always do.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Boys, Boys, Boys!

My oldest sister, Becky, has four boys under the age of 12. My oldest brother, Phil, has two boys under the age of 6. Somehow this week I got the pleasure of seeing all six of my little nephews within a three day period.

Saturday I went home to Price. Phil was telling me about a conversation with his six year old, Sam. It was Phil's birthday. Sam, a week earlier had asked him,
"Dad... is it your birthday next week?" Phil replied, "Yes, It is." Sam, nearly unable to contain his enthusiasm explained, "Well! Looks like we're going to have to make a trip to the dollar store this week!" Sam was listening as Phil told me the story and chimed in, "Which we did!" HA! And when Phil opened the socks that Sam had thoughtfully given him, there was no question in our mind as to exaclty how much they cost.

Sunday was dinner at Becky's in Provo. Ben spent half the meal trying to convince me that he is actually 14, not 11. When the kids got too rowdy, Becky said, "Go do laps!" and just like that, all four high energy boys were bounding out of the house running "laps" around the neighborhood. Becky's response, "I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier." While the boys were running, we ate brownies and finished off the ice cream- hiding the empty container before the boys could come in and discover that the brownies were supposed to have ice cream with them.

Monday my mom was in Provo and offered to take Becky's boys, along with Sam, to In-n-out. Mary and I joined in. The dinner conversation included mostly talk about how Davy won't share a hamburger, drink, or milkshake with me because I have germs. Ben and Davy spent considerable time under the table. I didn't ask what they were up to. Eli drank an entire strawberry milkshake by himself. Ben got mad. Eli laughed. Davy complained about not having milkshake, but wouldn't drink any of the shakes there because of germs. Finally, I remembered the suggestion Becky had given them yesterday. "Go run laps." And the kids were off. I sat in peace with mom and Mary, only interrupted every thirty seconds as we watched the boys run past in the window. I wonder what the people at In-n-out thought... all those boys just running circles around the joint. A little girl at the table next to us: "Mom, can I go run outside?" The mom's answer: "No."

I love boys, but why so much endless energy? Why the hyperactivity, the hitting, the pushing, the shoving, the yelling? Can't they just sit down and keep to themsleves for a minute?

Conclusion: I'm not ready to have kids. And if I do have kids, I absolutely can not have boys. It's kind of like when I wanted to go on a mission, but I told God I absolutely could not go to Russia. And He didn't send me there. I am hoping that when I do want my own little bundles of joy we reach a similar kind of agreement with me not having boys.

Monday, February 08, 2010

Kicking it with 17 year olds.

I gave up life at BYU and headed back to high school. I guess BYU was just a little too prude/not interesting for me. For the past six weeks I have been spending all day every day teaching ninth and eleventh graders. Probably one of the most out of control things I have ever done with my life. Here's some of the funnier things that have come out of their mouths:

When asked to make a list of everything that came to their mind when thinking about the word white, one particularly rambunctious 17 year old shared his list: “Clouds, pure, temple, vanilla ice cream, Joe’s thighs (Joe’s his best friend who is in the class), cottage cheese, vanilla ice cream and cottage cheese mixed…”

A ninth grader: “What was Shakespeare’s last name?”

Me teaching Romeo and Juliet: “You guys have to understand how bleak this looks for Juliet. She just found out that she’s in love with her sworn enemy and there is no possible way for this to work out.” A tough kid from the back in an unintentional outburst of complete seriousness: “Awwwww, SUCK!”

Me checking students’ work: “Austin did you do your double entry journal?”
Austin: “I didn’t. I was really busy, okay? I had two dates in one day...Then I had to take a nap...”

A student's essay explaining why one character in a book was having an affair: "He'll just take whatever he can get, as long as he is getting boinked."

A girl explaining to me why she couldn’t type her essay on the computer at school: “I just don’t know how to use these big, old computers. I have a mac at home and it’s all I know. I just can't understand this old stuff.”

In a sentence requiring students to use their vocab words to describe people they know: “Laman and Lemuel were really quite insolent toward Nephi in the wilderness.”

When teaching the Great Gatsby and discussing Tom and Daisy’s marital problems: “Yah, he just needs to backhand her.”

An 80 pound ninth grader came up to me explaining to me why it takes him so long to write: “I had to learn to rewrite completely.”
Me: “Why?”
80pounder: “Because my knuckle got pushed back into my hand.”
Me: “How did you that happen?”
80pounder: “I punched it back there…”
Me: “How?”
80pounder: “With a wall.”
Me: “Uh… okay. Well I’m glad you’re learning to rewrite.”

This overweight Mexican ninth grader sent me an email about his essay. His email is sexybubba0225. I couldn’t help but laugh. My cooperating teacher came in today and was telling the students who was still missing their essay: “Luckily we got the essay from sexybubba guys, so no reason to fear. Wow, what a relief, I was really worried we wouldn't get to hear from sexybubba."

The bad thing is now I have to be a little bit careful what I do, even outside of class. A girl came up to me a few days ago:
Girl: "Ms. Blackburn, I saw you driving today."
Me: "Wow. How crazy."
Girl: "I saw you stopped at a red light."
Me: "Really?"
Girl: "I saw you run the red light, Ms. Blackburn."
Me: "Oh...."

Friday, January 08, 2010