The Life of Bon: February 2012

Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Ed Part II/ Women are crazy

Remember when I wrote about Ed?  His opening line to his critical analysis essay was this:

We all know that women are crazy.

Well, today I had the pleasure of reading and grading Ed's essay in its entirety.  And let me tell you what, it was a pleasure!

Just to give you a little taste, here is one especially rich paragraph, word for word, spelling, grammar, punctuation completely in tact:  (The essay prompt was to analyze the reasons why the narrator of the story goes insane.)

Back then the men had to work and pay for everything like bills, food, Rent and clothes for him and thire wife’s if they had one.  Most women back them would be washing, cleaning “In” side their house’s with nothing else to do but that.  That’s why most women go insane like my Mom because, If you don’t take her out for the weekends she will be so grumpy for at least 3-5 week and it’s not good when shes grumpy because she makes me do so much stuff like clean her car even though it’s already clean and clean both bathrooms and so much more.  Man I feel like a women that go insane without going out with friends and all that fun stuff I like to do and that’s why most women go insane!!

And now you know why I love my job.

This is what will happen if you don't
"take us out for the weekends."
Grumpy conditions will last at least 3-5 weeks.


***Secret:  I won't actually do the drawing until tomorrow night.  If you entered the drawing during the day tomorrow (Thursday), I'd probably let it slip and throw you in the drawing anyway!***

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

I cannot stop touching... hair!  My hair!  My hair!

Touch touch touch, all I want to do is touch my hair my hair hair hair.

It's short, it's light, it's low maintenance- everything I require from a good haircut.

I'm pretty much obsessed with it.

I just can't do long hair.  I can't.  Please don't make me ever try that again  Long hair is for people who don't wake up at 5:55.  Long hair is for people who have thick, beautiful tresses that holds a curl.  Long hair is for people with patience.

Short hair is for people who only give themselves four minutes to get ready every morning.  Short hair is for people who like to shake their strands around and whip it to and fro like a rocker.  Short hair is for ME!

Something weird about cutting your hair when you teach high school is that you have to stand there while 240 pimply pent up pubescents slowly realize that something looks different about you today.  Some of my favorite responses the past two days:

"I thought you were a substitute!"

"Why'd you go and do a thing like that?"

"Oh my gosh, I didn't even recognize you."

(said in muddled whispers to another student) "Wow.  She looks way edgy."

"You look a lot older.  You won't be able to pass for a student anymore."

"Did your husband say you could do that?"

"You look a lot younger."

Male Student:  "I like your new do."  Me:  "Thank you."  Student:  "I got a new do too."  Me: "I like it.  It looks good."  Student:  "I like yours too."  Me:  "Thank you."  Student:  "I got a new do too."

"I dig it."

"Teacher, is that you?"

"Whoa.  Has your hair always been that color?"

Student:  "Oh wow, Chase is going to freak out when he sees it."  Me:  "Why."  Student:  "Because he's a freak!"

Yes, all pictures were taken by myself while sitting at my desk at school.  Not weird at all.  Yes, I am procrastinating grading essays, thanks for always calling me out.

P.S. Sorry about the plethora of pictures of just me lately.  I promise I will stop being so narcissistic as soon as my new haircut is no longer a novelty.  When that will happen, I cannot say.
P.P.S.  Don't forget to enter the awesome giveaway!  It closes February 29/March1 at midnight!  AKA Tomorrow night!

Monday, February 27, 2012

It's a leap year giveaway!

I know what you're thinking.  I can hear those little thoughts spiraling around in your head from all the way over here.

"This blog's alright, I guess.  The font's cool and every now and then there's an interesing picture, I can dig that.  It's just that, well, this blog it'd be a heck of a lot cooler if it gave me more free stuff."

That's right. I can read minds.

And because my ability to read minds has lead me to this great insight about you wanting more free stuff out of the blog, I am announcing.......

More free stuff!

Check out this beautiful little necklace I've been sporting today.

Isn't it gorg? (That's how the Kardashians say gorgeous, I'm trying to be just like them, you know.)

Well, it's from Wonton Mommy, and let me just tell you, I'm in love!

Here's the deal with jewelry- I like jewelry that stands out and really adds to what I'm already wearing, without stealing the whole show. (That's what my face is for, isn't it?)  Therefore, this is the perfect kind of jewelry for you and me.  It's a piece we can wear to spice up a plain outfit, but it's not the type of necklace that people are going to look at and go, "Whoa!  Where'd you get that big old honkin thing?" 

Because we wouldn't want that now, would we?

And now that you've got me started on how much I love my necklace, let me just tell you this.  The necklace is surprisingly light weight.  Sometimes I buy necklaces and earrings and they just weigh me down, you know?  They WEIGH ME DOWN.  But this thing is made almost entirely of FABRIC, meaning that it doesn't have that heavy, this-is-pulling-my-neck-down-and-I-want-to-die feeling that much of the jewelry has that we buy nowdays.  Half of the time that I am wearing it I do and don't even notice that it is on and isn't that the way that jewelry should be?

In addition to being gorgeous, the necklace can go with so many different outfits. Blue, yellow, white, and green?!?! Oh my! And if these colors don't suit you, Wonton Mommy has plenty more to choose from because she's awesome like that.  And if necklaces aren't your thing, by golly she's got earrings and rings too!

So here's the deal- you can win the necklace I am wearing or ANYTHING from Wonton Mommy that you want.  She is offering one lucky winner a $30 gift certificate to her shop.  That way you can have any piece of jewelry that your little heart desires.  You only have to do two simple things to be entered into the drawing to win:

1.  Be a follower of Life of Bon
2.  Check out Wonton Mommy and then leave a comment telling me which piece of jewelry you would MOST like to win.

That's it!  Easy as pie!

The giveaway ends on Wednesday, FEBRUARY 29 at 11:59 p.m.  I mean, hey, it's a leap year giveaway, it's got to end on leap yea, right?

P.S.  Here's a little secret from me to you.  If you want to order something from Wonton Mommy, shoot her an email at  Tell her I sent you and then she'll give you 20% off of your order.  Now, ain't she a sweetheart?!?!

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Why I haven't seen The Artist

Tonight was the Oscars.  For those of you who didn't watch, it was pretty much Hugo and The Artist making out like bandits while every other nominated movie watched in humiliation.

I like to think that I keep up with movies, books and pop culture, and that I am aware of what is going on in the entertainment world.  I am with it, and I am relevant, thank you very much.  That's why I felt pretty lame as I watched The Artist win best actor, best director, and best picture for 2011.  Yes, I felt lame indeed.  You see, I have not seen The Artist
Oh, but it wasn't my fault that I didn't see The Artist.  No, no, not my fault at all.  My mom and I decided to go see it one Friday night when it finally came to Provo.  Oh, but stop.  Tragedy had struck that theatre the night we went to see The Artist.  All credit card machines were down.  No checks were accepted.  Only cash, please, at this oh-so-exclusive theatre. 
I don't carry cash.  Ever.  And so, with no cash, no checks, and no cards, I obviously could not pay for the movie.  Looks like it was time to mooch off mom.
My mom arrived at the theatre and I told her of our predicament.  Much to my chagrin, (and while we're on the subject, isn't chagrin the coolest word?) she was also not carrying cash. (The apple does not fall far from the tree, does it?)  We made the quick decision to go across the street to Costco to see if they would give us cash.   Their answer was "Yes, you can get cash from your card as long as you buy something."  So my mom bought weight loss drinks.  Then they said, "Oh we meant cash from your debit card, not a credit card." 
My mom didn't have a debit card.
Neither did I.
We were S.O.L.
"Let's run real quick and see if we can find an ATM!" My mom suggested.  Man, that girl was determined to see the movie!  "Mom... at this point the movie started twenty minutes ago....  I think it's time to give up." I broke the news to her gently.
Discouraged, dismayed, and some other dis-word I can't think of, we threw in the towel on our quest to silent movie bliss.  Instead, we headed on over to see Hubs' production of Secret Garden and figured we'd have to catch The Artist the next weekend. (And F.Y.I. Secret Garden was every bit as good as a best picture film, I assure you!) 
And because all good tragedies such as this one have to have a heartbreaking ending, I will now tell you that The Artist left town two days later.  Yes, my mom and I were officially and forever denied our desire to see French cinema at its finest.  But let the record show, we tried to see that movie.  WE TRIED. 
(The end in French.  Because I'm smart like that.)


Saturday, February 25, 2012

Hubs' Third Wife


Hubs' first wife was this chick:

She was naive and sweet, but pretty dumb.  She knew nothing about marriage.  NOTHING.

Then another wife came charging on in and kicked the first wife right out of the house.  A second wife.

The new wife was smart and good at paying bills.  She could also be a little naggy.

Hubs sometimes yearned for his first wife, but wifey #2 would hear none of that, no, no, she was here to stay.

But then today, unexpectedly and rashly, the second wife decided she had had enough.  She was flying the coup and nothing could make her stay.  Nothing.  This is the last known sighting of the second wife.

You can tell she was at her wits' end, can't you?

Then this happened.

And suddenly this lady showed up.

A third wife, if you will.

You can consider her the best of the two wives, sweet and angelic, but still smart AND pays the bills.  Not naggy.  Not dumb.  Can't argue with that can you?

So what do you think?  Will Hubs go running into the arms of wifey numero tres?  Or will he continue with his endless yearnings for the return of the first wife?

Thursday, February 23, 2012

"More than eleven" and other important happenings

A student came rushing into my classroom after lunch, excited and out of breath.  "Teacher!  Did you see all the cop cars outside?"

"Um... no... I didn't..."

"Yah!  They're everywhere!  We think it's a drug bust!  There were  more than eleven cop cars outside!"

Which makes me wonder, exactly how much is "more than eleven"? 

I was supposed to make my students nominate a prom queen and king this week.  Do these instructions seemed messed up to anyone else besides me?

Have students raise their hands if they want to be nominated?  That feels awkward.  And embarrassing.

SLOWLY eliminate the lowest voted nominee until we are left with one male and female nominee?  Does this seem like cruel and unusual punishment to anyone else besides me?

Our heating bill for the month was $90.  NINETY BONES, FOLKS!  I about threw up all over the living room when I saw that number popping out at me.  Especially because Hubs and I could hold hands and stand in every room of our itty bitty apartment.  AND especially because after a steep electric bill last month I went crazy in February, not allowing the heat to be left on for more than ten minutes, constantly turning lights off, etc.  And yet somehow our bill was still higher!

Then it dawned on me.  Could this be the baths' fault?  I have been averaging at least one hot bubble bath a day for the month of February.  I can't help it.  I come home exhausted from work, and all I want to do is melt into a hot bath.  Not only is it amazingly relaxing, but I figured I would save on heat if I just kept warming my body by submerging it in scalding water instead of turning on the heat. 

Welp, looks like I just spent $90 on bubble baths. 

It was (almost) worth it.

***But I'm being serious here, does a water heater contribute to your electric bill?  Help me on this people!  I don't know a thing!  I'm just a little girl trying to be an adult and getting charged 90 bucks for electricity in the meantime.***

Wednesday, February 22, 2012


Do you want to know what the weirdest thing is that happens while I am at work?

My apartment makes a mess!  Isn't that rude?  I come home, exhausted and cranky and what does my apartment have to greet me?  Dirty dishes and hair on the sink and an unmade bed!  The nerve of the apartment to go dirty itself up while I'm slaving away with those high schoolers!

Then I remembered that I didn't do the dishes last night.  Instead I cuddled up with Hubs and fell asleep.  Then I remembered that I never wipe off the bathroom counter.  And then I remembered that I ran out the door this morning without making the bed.  Hmph.  Looks like this is MY FAULT.  Alright, apartment, you won this time.

So I set to work.  I cleaned out the fridge, scrubbed down those dishes, wiped the counter, folded the clothes, vacuumed the floor, made the bed.

While I was doing all this cleaning I got to thinking depressing thoughts.  Mine and Hubs' one year anniversary is coming up and I want to go a trip to celebrate.  Hawaii would be nice.  We can't even come close to affording it.  I entertained these evil little thoughts dancing around in my head while I scrubbed the base of the toilet.  I thought about how dirt poor I feel lately, how every month there is no room to breathe with the finances, how I want the freedom to buy clothes I don't need, to go on an unexpected trip, to eat out if I feel like it.  I pulled open a drawer and saw mine and Hubs' passports staring back at me, and I was overcome with.... with what?  Sadness?  Selfishness?  Depression that I can't afford to go on a huge international trip every year?

"I hate being poor,"  I thought to myself.  "I hate it.  I hate it.  I hate it."

I grabbed my jacket off the floor and went to put it in the coat closet.  Drowning in thoughts of self-pity, I opened the door to my coat closet.

This is what I saw.

And it hit me like a wave.  I was overwhelmed, this time not with self pity or selfishness or depression because I can't afford to go to Paris this summer, but with gratitude and embarrassment for acting so spoiled.  I looked at all the coats hanging there and I thought, "Good grief, Bonnie, anybody who has this many coats hanging in their closet is not poor."

And then I got to thinking.  "Poor" is all relative, isn't it?  The only reason I had the audacity to think for even one minute that I am "poor" is because our society is so driven by money and society forces me to compare myself to people like the Kardashians.  I remembered my 18 months spent in Argentina, and my visit to India, and the goals I made while there to never forget such poverty.  To always remember how blessed I have been.  To always remember that no matter what way I look at it, God has given me too much.

I pulled out my old mission journals and found this entry dated August 4, 2008:

"I guess I've become pretty accustomed to the way people live down here, but once in a while it hits me with full force once again and I realize how ridiculously blessed I am to be born with with I have.  The only difference in me and Neomi (an impoverished, illiterate 19 year old mother of two that we were teaching at the time) is that we were born in different countries to different monthers.  Why am I pursing an education at a universitiy, drive a car, live in a beautiful home, never expereinced real hunger, have family who loves me so much, and have been raised wit the teachings of Jesus Christ?  And why is Neomi illiterate, rides a broken bicycle, lives in a one room shack, is hungrey ever day, struggles to give her little children milk, has never known her father, and has never heard that Jesus died for us?  What in the world did I do to deserve so much and Neomi so little?  I used to think that any person could have what I have if they are willing to work for it.  But now I know that that is not true.  I am embarrassed to tell people that not only does my family own a car, we own several cars.  When I look at pictures of home I only see opportunity and wealth- things I have been given that the people here, for no fault of their own, will never see.  The inequality of the world just makes me so sad."

All the above pictures were taken in India.  Slums and poverty abound.

I remembered when I came home from my 18 month stay in Argy.  I remembered how overwhelmed I was by the wealth.  The country had hit an economic crisis during the time I was gone, but I saw no crisis.  I saw cars and carpets and microwaves.  Money.  I broke down at Burger King my second day back in the states because I could not handle the difference in wealth in the two countries.

I came to a stark realization this afternoon.  A realization that I have had time and time again.  I am not poor.  Not in any sense of the word.  I am wealthy beyond reason, beyond imagination.  Everytime I've learned this lesson in the past it was because I was visiting a third world country.  Today I didn't have to travel so far, only open the door of my coat closet.  And the lesson was just as powerful.

And next time I see the beautiful houses on pinterest, the new spring fashions, the clothes, the cameras, the cars that I can't afford, I'll try to be a little bit quicker about remembering. 

God has given me too much.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Because I'm not perfect

I know how you feel, bud.
Something has been weighing heavy on my mind all weekend long.  I thought it would wander off once the work week started back up, but instead it has trailed close behind and followed me right into the week.

Sometimes I'm a bad teacher.  Sometimes I can't reach students.  Sometimes I am not understanding enough/ I don't explain enough/ I expect too much/ I don't sympathize enough.

The entire year I have had a student who has been "difficult" for me.  She doesn't come to class much, when she does come she is late, and when she is in class she has no idea what's going on.  Making up work is impossible because she insists she can't come before or after school due to family circumstances.  She has told me that she has "problems" at home.  My ear translated that into "Excuses."

I have made what I felt like were "several" exceptions for this student.  So when she asked for another exception on Friday, I put my foot down.  No more favors, honey.  We are done with this charade.  You've got to shape up or ship out, pull your weight like the rest of the class, come on!  She had tears in her eyes, but I was certain it was just another tool to manipulate me. 

Aren't I the sensitive one?

Frustrated, I went to ask a vice principal  (also the same man who once lectured me for having death threats to Justin Beiber at our school) for advice.  "Ah, yes, the teacher who hates her!" V.P. said sarcastically when I brought up the student's name.  Apparently she had found the V.P. first to compain about me.

V.P. filled me in a little bit, recounting many of the details of her home life.  I was shocked at the life she was living, the things I did not know, drugs, abuse, foreclosure, she was enduring hell.  V.P. asked that I have a little more compassion on a child who has grown up in an environment completely opposite of the one that I grew up in.  He gently told me that I needed to be more...well... gentle.  V.P.  wisely counselled me to make every exception I can for her.  "She's not trying to con you, she's trying to survive."

Resolved, I went back to my classroom determined to have a better attitude about the student.  I got back to my teacher duties, and when I went to put in the roll for her class period, her little picture had vanished into thin air.

Translation:  She dropped my class.

I was devastated.  I sat down in my oh-so-special teacher chair on that Friday afternoon, with a pounding headache and a smoker cough quickly taking over my body.  I was upset and frustrated with myself that I hadn't tried harder with this student.  I had failed her.  I had been hardlined and unmerciful.  I had refused to see her unusual circumstances, refused to help her, and refused to make a positive difference in what was already an extremely troubled life for this teen.

When I recounted the story to Hubs I asked him what I should do.  I have an intense desire to have everything perfect all the time.  "I need to make things right!"  I panicked, "Should I write her a note apologizing?  Should I hunt her down in her new English teacher's class and pull her out and explain?  HOW DO I FIX THIS?!?"

Hubs looked at me with that "You're-half-insane-and-I-don't-understand-you-but-I-for-bad-for-you-in-this-crazed-state" look.  "Bon," he said gently, "I don't really think you writing a note and trying to explain yourself is going to fix it.  It's done..."  And then he added, "maybe this just needs to be a learning experience for you."


So that's what it is, I suppose.  A learning experience.  To learn that I'm not perfect, that I make (big) mistakes, that as a human being I can fail to see other human beings who need help, even when they are literally standing right in front of me begging for my help.  It's a wake up call to be more aware of my surroundings, more alert to those who are struggling.  Less severe, more kind, more tender, more compassionate.  Because I guess we all need a little more of that.

Monday, February 20, 2012

You can just call my sickie

I have spent this holiday weekend holed up in my apartment with kleenexes, absurd amounts of medicine, and Season 2 of Teen Mom.

Let's just say at this point I am ready to get out of the house  I don't care what it is.  Just get me out.  My sickness has me practically running back into the arms of 200+ obnoxious seventeen year olds. 

Thursday I started feeling sick, Friday I barely survived school, and Saturday I literally could not get off the couch.  I attempted a run to the grocery store and came home twenty minutes later ready to pass out.  Sunday was much of the same.  I tried to make it to church, but after less than an hour, I was about ready to keel over with a fever, headache, cough, and runny nose.

IT WASN'T PRETTY, PEOPLE.  To quotes Hubs, "I am at least cute when I'm sick, you're just really gross."  Yes, he is rude, but it's the truth.  I'm not cute when I'm sick.

On the way home from church yesterday, Hubs, who has been strangely baby hungry the past three months, said hopefully, "Do you think you might be pregnant?"
"Nope." I replied
"Are you sure?"
"But what if you are?"
"I'm not."
"You have all the symptoms."
"A cough?  A cough is not a symptom of pregnancy.  I have the flu and I caught it from you, thank you very much, but I can assure you I am not pregnant."
"But we can never be 100 percent sure you're not pregnant...I'm just saying... you've got all the signs."
"Greg!  What exactly do you think are the signs of pregnancy?"
"Sickness!"  He insisted adamantly.
I could tell this was going to take a lot of explaining.  "But it's not at all the same kind of sick, pregnant sick is when you have cramps in your stomach and youre nauseated and throwing up flu sick is when you can't stop coughing and- "

I looked over to Hubs, who had a huge smile spread across his face.  And then I decided, heck, poor boy wants a baby, who am I to dash his hopes?

"Okay, babe, you're right.  I might be pregnant because I'm sick.  You better take extra good care of me today just in case."

Hubs smiled.  "I will."

Don't look at me like that.  I mean, hey, when you see an opportunity, you gotta take advantage of it, don't you?    You know you would have done the same.

The day was a dream with Hubs giving me a back massage, making dinner, and even watching an episode of Teen Mom with me.

Makes me think when I do get pregnant, it might not be half bad, huh?

Hubs doing the dishes for me on Sunday.  Um... he's a little sensitive to smells.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

What had me laughing all weekend long...

On Friday at school I was trying to help my juniors crank out rockstar essays.

We just finished reading the short story "The Yellow Wallpaper" about a lady who is driven mad after she is prohibited from leaving the house, talking to anybody, or doing any kind of physical or mental work.

The essay prompt was this: What causes the narrator to go insane?  Analyze the difference events and situations in her life that cause her to spiral into a pit of madness.  What could have prohibited this insanity?

I walked my students through the five paragraph essay process.  First step, the introduction.  "Now the introduction is a piece of cake," I told them. "I know all of you guys can handle it.  First, you hook your audience and introduce the theme.  Then you introduce the story and author, and finally hit the audience with a debatable thesis that answers the prompt in its entirety and guides the rest of the essay.

Of course, what is easy to an English teacher who has loved reading and writing her entire life is not always easy to a group of sixteen year olds who are 30 minutes away from a weekend.

"Practice your first sentences!"  I commanded.  "Write a hook!  Something that introduces the topic of the essay but still makes me interested in the rest of the essay.  I'm going to come around and check your first sentences.  Get writing!"

They wrote furiously, inspiration flowing through their minds, motivated by such an excellent teacher.

Okay fine, I'll tell the truth.  About half of the class scribbled out a half hearted attempt.  The rest stared blankly and wondered why they had to be stuck with the English teacher who assigned so much writing.

As I walked around the room, I noticed Ed, a Hispanic transfer student who has said no more than two words in the three weeks that he has been in my class.

"How's your essay coming, Ed?  You got a good hook?  Have you figured out how to ease your audience in to the essay?"

Ed smiled ear to ear.  "Yah... I think I got a good one."

I read Ed's opening line,

We all know that women are crazy.

I looked at Ed, so obviously proud of his work, waiting for the affirmation from his teacher that he had written a killer opening line.  There were a lot of things I could have found wrong with that first sentence.  But the truth is, I had to hand it to Ed.  Looks like the kid has figured out what takes most men decades and insane girlfriends and failed marriages to discover.  

He's a smart boy.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

The Birds and the Bees

I have come to the conclusion that I am immature.

My students, even moreso.

This happened today while reading October Sky with my sophomores.  We have reached a key point in the novel where the main character, Sonny, has his first "experience" with a girl.

I could have easily cut out these pages, but I decided to leave them in.  There's a lot of reasons why I decided to do this, none of which I feel like justifying to you.  I did, however, feel like I needed to justify it to my students.  Here's a little tip for you.  If you ever decide to teach high school English you better get real good at justifying real quick.  You gotta have a reason for everything you read or else those parents will be on you like vultures on a corpse, "Why are you reading this if it's boring?" "Why are you reading this if it's hard to understand?"  "Why are you reading this if there is a cuss word/violence/sex (GASP!)" 

***(One day I'll post some conversations/emails from parents complaining about the material we read.  One complained that The Hiding Place was putting her child to sleep and couldn't I find any books that weren't "boring my child to death"?  Another parent complained about a scene in a book where a soldier lies on the bed next to his crush and touches her kneecap all night because he is afraid of losing her when he goes to war.  HER KNEECAP!)

So I prefaced the reading with this:  "I am going to warn you guys, and I ask you to be mature about it.  There is a sex scene in your reading for today."

Automatic whispering/rustling/excitement.  Hey, these guys are 16 years old.  You understand, don't you?

I went on, "The scene is pages 280-283.  It is very vague, and not at all graphic, but it is important to the plot of the story.  This has a significant effect on Sonny, on his goals, and how the rest of the plot develops.  However, if you feel uncomfortable reading this scene, you can skip it."

Instant mayhem.

"Why would we skip it?!?!?"  Dan said as he furiously flipped to the pages.
"Finally this book is about to get good!"  Brad yelled for all to hear.
"Wait... why do we have to read about sex!?!?"  Innocent Lara was offended.

I tried to calm them down.  "Guys, we need to talk about this before you dive in."  Didn't they understand?  I had to justify the book, dang it!  These kids needed to know why I felt it necessary to have them read this scene!  Didn't they care about understanding the impact of this one night on the rest of Sonny's hopes and aspirations and ultimately on his manhood?  DIDN'T THEY CARE?!?!?! 

My attempts were all in vain.  The kids were straight up ignoring me like some gangly, unpopular school girl.

"Okay, guys, I need you to calm down.  I need to tell you why we are reading this scene even though it could be considered inappr--"

Dan cut me off midsentence, "I'm sorry, Teacher, but if you think we're going to be listening to you when we can be reading about this- well, you're wrong!"

And then I had to laugh.  You know the laugh- the immature, awkward "I'm 15 years old" giggle.  I could feel my face turning beat red, and I just laughed and laughed.  I guess you can only pretend to be mature for so long before you crack.

The kids laughed with me for a moment, but I was shocked at how quiet the room grew so quickly.  They sat in silence, all forty students deeply immersed in their books.

And I guess when it comes down to it, you can't complain about a quiet classroom can you?  Now, let's see if this immature teacher and her immature students can survive next class period where we have to analyze the impact of this event on Sonny's life. 

Stay tuned.  This could get good.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

I salute you, Campus Policemen!

Happy Valentine's Day to all- and to all a good night!

Hubs and I had a quiet, peaceful Valentine's Day.

We went out to our favorite Mexican restaurant, Joe Vera's, gorged ourselves in chips and salsa, sipped soda until we were going to puke, hunkered down on juicy steaks, and then somehow found an entirely different stomach to fit in a little deep fried ice cream.

While eating we watched youtube videos of the phenomenon that is Jeremy Lin and talked about how we are going to survive now that the Jazz no longer have a winning record.

Were we made for each other or what?

On a completely unrelated note, every couple of weeks, my alma mater, BYU, releases a police report with their newspaper.  (I feel like this sentence has way too many commas, but for the life of me, I can't figure out which ones are unnecessary.  HELP!)  You know- criminal activity, drug cartel, the many rapes and murders.  I should warn you beforehand, this is a private religious university in a religious college town.  Let's just say the cops don't have as much to keep them busy as one would hope.  (Hence, my extensive history with traffic tickets.)

And now, without further ado, I present to you....


Feb. 8 – A student reported his bike stolen from the JSB bike lot. The lost bike and specialized helmet were worth about $350. The student said he did not lock the bike.

Feb. 10 – A student reported his bike stolen from the new Heritage Hall area. He said he did not lock the bike because he lost the lock.

Feb. 12 – A female student reported her iPhone stolen at the Cannon Center. While eating in the cafeteria, she left her phone on the table and went to get more food. When she came back, the iPhone was gone.

Verbal Altercation
Feb. 8 – Two male individuals were reported having a verbal altercation in the Smith Fieldhouse. One of them was a student, the other was not. They were arguing about a girl they both knew and dated.

Feb. 8 – An 11-year-old boy was reported missing at the Smith Fieldhouse by his father. They occasionally come to work out together. A BYU police officer was dispatched. A custodian reported the missing boy, who was wandering around in the building, to the officer. There was no crime and the boy was reunited with his family.

Feb. 12 – A husband resident of Wymount Terrace reported a missing wife. He told the officer his wife had not come back from grocery shopping. During the interview, the wife walked into the room.

Criminal mischief
Feb. 14 – Graffiti was found on a metal pole at the point of Maeser Hill. It was soon removed.

Feb. 8 – A deer was caught in the metal fence around the BYU Student Health Center area. The deer was soon freed.

Wow, rough week on the job for the Provo police, huh?  What, with the woman missing at the grocery store, the deer caught in the fence, and the two boys arguing over a chick they both liked, I don't know how those policemen survived!

My favorite line:  "A husband resident of Wymount Terrace".  What exactly is a husband resident?  And how does that differ from an aunt resident?  How about a grandpa resident?

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

A most romantic conversation

Today is Valentine's Day.

Naturally, Hubs and I have been having many romantic, sexy conversations all day long.

Hubs and I were talking about a certain celebrity that Hubs is not a fan of.  His exact words:
"I would rather make out with a good looking man than make out with that woman because she looks just like an ugly man."

I mean, does this guy know how to talk sweet or what?!?

Doesn't get much sexier than this, does it people?

Monday, February 13, 2012

Tuesday is a Special Day...

Well, well, well, look who got a new look around here!

ME!  It was me!  I got a new look!

Linsey from Life with Linz is an absolute doll and did my whole design for me!  Let's be honest with ourselves here, I never could figure out the gadgets, the fonts, and the colors by myself.  But aren't I happy that there are people in the world who host blog design giveaways, and that I am one of the winners of said giveaway?  YES!  Yes I am happy.  So, please, weigh in on the new look (and when I saw weigh in I mean  say something nice! We don't do well with negative criticism around here, do we Linsey?!?!)

A word of caution: we are still working out the kinks.  For example, messed up right side bar.  No biggy, like anyone cares about that anyway, RIGHT?  Also,  I am having trouble figuring out what to say on each of the pages at the top.  For a good example of this, please see my About Me page.  It's about as awkward as an About Me page as the blogging world gets!  Go ahead, read it, get a kick out of my awkwardness, and thank me for the laugh later.

Now... for a special celebration.  You all know that this Tuesday is a special day, don't you?


Nope... it's not what you think.

Tuesday is not special because it is Valentine's Day.  Nope, Tuesday is special because it is...

My Blog's birthday!!!!


Six years ago I posted my first blog entry.  Longing to become a famous writer, I was inspired to start blogging by a boyfriend when I was 19 years old. Actually, by this point, he was an ex-boyfriend, but I was desperately trying to win him back via daily email correspondence.  (Let's just say 19 year olds don't always have the best tactics for getting old boyfriends to fall back in love with them.)  Out of my failed attempts at rekindled love, something even better was born:  a blog.

Now, as a special blog birthday/ Valentine treat, I am going to allow you to indulge in actual excerpts from the email correspondence that induced the birth of my blog. Aren't I nice, allowing perfect strangers to read my personal emails?

February 9, 2006
Dear Fred (of course that wasn't his name, but I feel weird posting his real name) I want to be a writer. I guess I have always known this, deep down in my body somewhere. Today I consciously came to the decision that I want to write. It came after I talked with my women's studies teacher. She said I write clear, concise, and with voice. I have never been so flattered by a compliment. Now that I have come to this definite decision, I don't know what step to take next. It would be cool to write for some kind of paper, but unless you are a communications or journalism major you can't write for the Daily Universe. I guess I could continue writing lame letters to the editor. Maybe I'll write a short story and try to send it to a magazine or something? It's how a lot of authors got their start. I thought you would have some good ideas of how to jump start this new focus of mine. You seem pretty smart with stuff like that.

Dear Bonnie: (I kept my name the same!) As always, I have life advice for you and everyone else who asks my opinion. Get a blog. Blogs are liberating. No one edits them and most of the time no one reads them, but it is exciting to think that potentially millions of people will read what you put on the internet. If you want a blog go to and for free you can participate in discussion on the world wide web. You should have no trouble finding a topic for your blog. It could be about you, or a weekly short story, or musings on BYU. It'll be great and I hope I get to see it. Make your friends read the blog and respond to what you write.

And thus, my first baby was born.  My blog baby. Eight days later, on February 14, a lonely and miserable Valentine's Day, I posted my first entry about my desire to stick it to the man.  (Let's just say I haven't grown up as much in the past six years as one would hope.) I hoped and prayed no one would read it. 

No one did.

The blog was inactive and inconsistent for the next five years, with occasional posts only when I felt wildly inspired.  My life was crazy with other important goals that pushed my writing goal right out the window: travel, mission, study abroad, teaching, moving, marriage, etc.  Now, with many of my "young" goals accomplished, I am turning back to my "older" goal, what has always been a passion and a desire of mine: to become a writer.
So wish a happy birthday to the blog, if you please!  Considering the complete secrecy of this guy's actual birth, he'd probably appreciate a little birthday attention for once in his life.  

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Lessons Learned from Blogging

It has been a few months now that I’ve been serious with blogging.  Before I just dated him occasionally, saw him when there was absolutely nothing more exciting going on my life, and always ALWAYS put him at the bottom of my priority list.  In fact, for years I didn’t even tell a soul about my affair with blogging.   I kept the relationship secret and our rendezvouses inconsistent and infrequent.

I had an epiphany several months ago that led me to embrace my relationship with blogging.  One day I will share said epiphany.  That day is not today.  In any case, I decided it was high time to not hide my blogging love anymore.  I made a goal to not be ashamed of my pointless ramblings, nor embarrassed at who might read the blog and discover that I am, in fact, a retard.  As I have tried to pursue blogging more seriously, I have discovered some interesting things along the way.  Because I am the kind of girl who doesn’t horde knowledge and keep it all to herself (hey, I’m a teacher afterall!) I have decided to share with you some of my most important blogging lessons learned in the first few months.  May it guide you in your quest to…to … um… I don’t know where I was going with that.

LESSON NUMERO UNO:  If you don’t have a picture with your blog, people aren’t going to give a jack crap what you have to say.  Posting an entry without a post is like the cardinal sin of blogging.  Aren’t you glad you didn’t learn that the hard way?  PICTURES!  PICTURES!  PICTURES!

LESSON NUMERO DOS:  If you can dress cute, it’ll help.  If you don’t know anything about dressing cute or don’t have any cute clothes, post cute pictures you find on pinterest and trick the audience into thinking those are your clothes!  Works like a charm.  (I have a love/hate (but mostly hate) relationship with Pinterest)

LESSON NUMERO TRES:  You get what you put in.  Seriously.  The more time and dedication you put into the blog, the more it’ll grow.  Pretty simple concept.  I have been shocked to see the weeks that I put in a lot of time on the blog how the results are visible immediately.  More traffic, more followers, more comments.  The week I ignore the blog, well, he ignores me.

LESSON NUMERO CUATRO:  (If nothing else from this post you will learn your numbers in Spanish.) Some people are going to be really nice and try to help you out a lot.  When you tell them you’re a newb and you need all the help you can get, people like Mamarazzi, Erin, Janine, and Linsey are going to lend you that hand and make you feel like a million big ones.

LESSON NUMERO CINCO:  Some people are not going to be really nice and not try to help you out.  Some people are going to not return emails, ignore comments or questions, or think that you are too small to pay any attention to.  These people need not be named.

LESSON NUMERO SEIS: If you miss posting a day, you are going to be okay and it's not really the end of the world. Here's something crazy... most people won't even notice (gasp!)

LESSON NUMERO SIETE:  If you start getting depressed after looking at a million other people’s blogs, time to move away from the computer, scoop up a bowl of chocolate ice cream, and get your snuggles on on the couch. Blogging is supposed to make you happy, not sad, so the minute you feel insecure, depressed or not good enough… walk away.  Everyone needs little breaks from their relationships, and yes, that includes your relationship with blogging.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

What happens when I babysit

This weekend I baby-sat my sister's kids for a couple of hours.

My niece shortly after her birth.
During that time I.... fed five kids dinner, cleaned up dinner from five kids, attempted to put a 2 year old in time out, unsuccessfully arbitrated in several arguments between a ten year old and twelve year old boy, tried to convince a baby that she could change her own dirty diaper, reluctantly changed a dirty diaper, hid the wii in the tupperware drawer, poured hot oil in a giant plastic jug and ruined the jug, demanded to know why there wasn't any coke in the house, tried to teach a 4 year old how to play Settlers of Cataan, and explained why Whitney Houston's death was important enough to interrupt a particularly hilarious episode of America's Funniest Home Videos.

During that time I... discovered that I am nowhere close to ready to have my own kids.

I am now trying to convince Hubs that I need to postpone having babies for several more years in order to be the favorite aunt.  Think it'll work?

(Also currently trying to convince Hubs that I need to go back to the short, blonde look that you see in this picture.  Any tips to convince a boy that a short haired blonde is hotter than a long haired brunette?)

Thursday, February 09, 2012

The day I stole underwear

I never thought I would be the type of person to steal lingerie.

It is a desperate woman who strips a mannequin of her underwear.  Today that person was me.

Twas the best of times, Twas the worst of times.

Ummmm... I am having some trouble starting this post.  Afterall, how do you admit to the world that you hijacked a pair of underwear from Victoria's Secret?  Tell me!  How do you confess such a thing to the blogosphere?!?

It wasn't my fault.  I swear.  Fast forward to last weekend when I was casually shopping  and wandered into V.S. to look at some Valentine Day lingerie.  One piece of clothing (can you call it that?) caught my eye.  I tried it on.  I liked it. I decided to buy it.

Stop there.  There was already a never ending line on this Saturday afternoon, and I was already late to meet Hubs for lunch.  I looked at my watch.  The underwear would have to wait.

Rewind to today.  I strolled on into Victoria's Secret, confident as sin that I could buy my little pair of undies and head right back out the door, no problem.  I looked around casually first so to appear that I wasn't some kind of an underwear freak who knew exactly what she wanted upon entering the store.  You can't just make a beeline for something in a lingerie store, people!  Others will think you're a freak!

So I played it cool.  Looked at lingerie I knew I wouldn't buy.  Slowly made my way over to the display where my coveted undies were calling my name.  Once I arrived at the display, however, I discovered, much to my dismay, that said underwear was sold out.


OUT OUT OUT!  How does V.S. sell out of its sexiest undies four days before its biggest day of the year?!?  You don't see Santa running out of toys on December 21, do you?  Step up Victoria's Secret, and learn how to run a business for crying out loud!

That's when I saw the mannequin.  Mannequin wearing MY underwear.  Taunting.  Waving.  Seducing me.  That underwear could be mine in the blink of an eye with one quick maneuver.  I looked at the V.S. worker nearby, carefully arranging padded bras and lacy thongs.  She turned her back.  This was my big moment.

I worked quickly on that mannequin, my fingers moving with a ferocity never know before.  Within seconds I had successfully slipped the underwear down and right off of that mannequin forever.  It's a strange feeling to be stripping undies from a lifeless figure, taking something you're not supposed to have while at the same time leaving a skinny mannequin completely underwearless.

Let's just say I wouldn't recommend it.

With the underwear successfully in my hand, I glanced oh so casually around the store.  Had anyone seen my crime on this lazy Thursday afternoon?   I slowly wandered on over (play it cool, Bonnie, play it cool!) to the check out.  There was a buxom blonde at the register.  I assessed her, as you always must when committing a crime.  How smart was this lady?  Would she know the store was currently sold out of this particular style of underwear?  Would she realize that the only pair left was in fact just moments ago stripped from an innocent mannequin?  Would she take one look at my purchase and know me instantly for what I really was- a thief and a mannequin pervert?

I played it cool while I tried to figure her out.  Tried on some perfume here, some perfume there.  Took a bath in strawberries and champagne body spray.  Tested some more.  Put on some lotion.  Rubbed cream all over.  Blondie looked up, "You just love all those scents, don't you?"

Oh, shoot.  She was onto me.  Time to proceed to checkout.  Everything cool here.  No one doing nothing they're not supposed to.  I slid the underwear across the counter and then proceeded to talk a mile a minute (always ALWAYS my strategy when I think I am in trouble) "Isn't it crazy that it's already February, wow how the year goes, especially this year, hardly even had a winter, wow I love that watch, beautiful, my problem is I always lose watches or they break when I play volleyball or something like that, but I do love them, just can't keep them on my wrist, you know, I wish Victoria Secret sold their every day clothes in the store instead of just online, they're so cute, you know, I'm sure you'd get a lot of business, so you got any weekend plans? Friday is tomorrow you know an-"

"Ma'am.  Here is your purchase."  That speedy miss had already bagged up the lingerie, scanned my card, and completed the transaction before I had even gotten halfway through my monologue.
But the joke was on her. In that bag she handed to me was the stolen underwear, and with it my ticket to a successful getaway.  I gently took the bag and moseyed on out of the store, acting interested in pajama sets and tight tank tops.  Can't go blowing the whole gig now, you know.  Gotta play it cool until the very end. 

As soon as I was out of that store, though, I booked it.  Straight up ran out to my car.  I just knew that any second those workers were bound to see the bottomless mannequin and know that it was me who had so disrespectfully undressed their most prized display.

That's why you should never steal lingerie from a mannequin.
And that was the day I started my career as a professional underwear thief.
Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.
umm... having trouble ending this post.  Just know that I stole underwear today and lived to tell the tale.

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

So... this is nostalgia?

Nostalgia?  Oh yah, I get it all the time.  But do you ever get so crazy sick nostalgic for a part of your life that isn't even over yet?  Cuz I do...

Sometimes Hubs and I will sleep in on Saturday mornings and then when we wake up at a disgustingly late hour (I won't tell you what time because that would embarrass me, but I will tell you it's about a six hour swing from the time I wake up on weekdays) and take a nice little stroll over to McDonald's.  Nothing says breakfast/lunch/ I-woke-up-ridiculosly-late like french fries and a coke, right?  And then, when we're driving back in our pajamas with nothing else to do the rest of the day but hang out together, lay around, and chow on French Fries, the nostalgia hits.  One day this will end.  One day we'll have little kids and sleeping in until noon won't be an option anymore.  One day we'll have soccer games and chores and dance recitals and there won't be long, lazy Saturdays.  And one day we'll discover that McDonakld's french fries are gross, and we'll get no more pleasure from those grease-drenched slivers of fat.

Nostalgia often hits me at school.  When my students say something ridiculous, when they make me stop in the middle of a lesson to laugh and laugh, when they write brilliant essays.  And I look at them, all forty of them, filling the seats of my classroom, and boom.  Nostalgia wave.  One day this will end.  One day I won't be a 25 year old girl trying to teach forty pubescent17 year olds about the beauty of words.  One day I won't walk down the halls like I own them, I won't be able to yell at kids because they didn't bring a pencil, and I won't eat with my favorite teachers during faculty lunch where the topics vary from stupid questions our students ask us to first kisses. 

My most wave of nostalgia today was brought on my two things. 

Thing Numero Uno:

One of my students copied a picture of my face, taped it onto a book in my classroom, and then displayed it proudly (and stealthily!  I didn't discover it until who knows how long after it had been done?) in the room for me to see this morning.  Clever tikes, aren't they?

Thing Numero Dos:
I was in the middle of teaching some root words to my students.  "Alright, guys, who remembers what the root "fid" means?" 
Hand went up, "Faith!" 
"Yep.  You got it.  Where've you seen the root?" 
They all started hollering out of turn like they always do, kids got not control these days.


"Uh... fiddle doesn't quite work.  You got the other ones, though.  Now I'm going to show you how knowing the root can help you figure out what a word means.  So here's a word:  Fidelity.  Knowing that fid means faith, what would you guess fidelity means?

Silence.  Stumped em.

Smart little Suzy slyly raised her hand.  "The act of being faithful....?"

"Nailed it!"  I said enthusiastically.  Kids are really much smarter than they think they are.

Jared's hand shot right up.  He was clearly not okay with the answer.  "That doesn't make any sense." 
"What do you mean it doesn't make any sense?"
"Like when they say in the news that there were four fidelities...I don't get it."

I didn't get it either.  I stared at Jared trying to figure what the heck was going on in that little head of his.

"You're thinking of fatalities Jared!  There were four fatalities, not fidelities!" Amber, sitting next to him realized exactly what was going on.

"Oh... ha ha...."  Jared laughed sheepishly.  And then we all joined in, laughing because English is a confusing language where half the words sound the same as other words and none of them are spelled like they should be.

And in that moment, I had a sudden pang of nostalgia.  I missed teaching.  I missed laughing with my students about Jared who thinks fidelity means fatality, about Gail who thinks whores means horse, about our principal who thinks "has been stoled" is proper grammar.  I missed it so much.  Even though I was right there, smack in the middle of the classroom and forty bratty teenagers.  They're not really brats.  I just say that to sound cool.

I imagined my life without teaching and felt that sadness, that yearning to go back to... back to what I already had? 

There's not much you can do when nostalgia hits.  Especially when you are nostalgic for something you are doing at that exact moment.  So I made the goal to enjoy the moment I am in because it all passes much too quickly, and then continued on my lesson about the fascinating power of root words.

I mean, what else can a girl do?

Scenes from a classroom.  I love it.