Comeptitive much

Let’s see… Saturday off of school, Sunday off of school, Monday off of school… That’s a three day weekend my friends! You better believe that after only five days back teaching I was already desperate for a little time off. Hubby’s friends invited him to San Jorge (St. George, for those of you who don’t speak Spanish) for the loooooong weekend. A hellish commute home from school Friday afternoon, and we were off!

It took three days of fun and games to discover I’ve got a problem.

I am ridiculously, out of this world, extremely competitive.

For a long time I thought it was a positive trait of mine. I mean, no one wants to play a game with someone who couldn’t care less if they win or lose, right? And I’m passionate. I care. I really care. Sometimes more than anything else in this world.

This weekend I came to the sudden realization that whatever control I once had on my competitiveness (Is that a word? If not, what is the noun form of competitive? Oh, English Language, you have so many holes) had gone out the window. The realization came in the following sequence…

1. We played hours upon hours of mafia. I understand that game was popular in the sixth grade, but somehow a group of twelve 20-something-year-olds managed to absolutely feast on the game. Hubby suggested the game on Friday night, everyone seemed okay with it, and it’s like we just never stopped. Every night about 11 we would start the game and go into the wee hours of the morning, stopping anywhere between 2 and 4 am. Saturday night while playing, Hubby turned to me and said, “Oh my gosh, I think Bon might be the mafia.” Well, I wasn’t the mafia. And for some reason I was incredibly offended that Hubby suspected me. So I did the most logical, sane thing to do, and freaked out. “What?!” I demanded. “You are the WORST at this game! It’s not me! I can’t believe you don’t know me better to know that I am telling the truth right now! I would think you could read me better!” Wow. Hubby was offended. I was embarrassed. We were both in such rotten moods, that we just left the group early and went to bed (…early being 2 am…) And all the fun was gone from the game...

2. Hours that weren’t spent detecting pretend mafia members were spent doing a little a-bump-set-spiking. After trying out and getting cut from the volleyball team both eighth and ninth grade, I am still somehow incredibly devoted and committed to that game. Unfortunately the love is unrequited. Vball will never love me nearly as much as I love him. I want so badly to just dominate that sport. And yet, I feel like I have maxed out at my ultimate skill level, and I am still just barely mediocre. Hubby is always nice enough to let me be on his team; the only problem is he thinks I am alot better at Vball than I am. Meaning that he expects a lot out of me. And when I miss the ball (…and sometimes even miss it multiple times in a row…) he is frustrated. And he tries to give me pointers. And sometimes I take the pointers the wrong way…(I mean, come on, people who suck at vball are going to be extra sensitive when others criticize their vball skills) and then snap at him…which is what happened this weekend. The conversation went something like this:

Hubby: stop running up to get the ball. Just stay in your spot because you’re not where you need to be when I pass it to you.
Bon: I’m just running up to grab the ball when I’m supposed to get the first hit!! You’re supposed to get second!! (Imagine a very upset, frustrated short brunette yelling this with all the passion in her little heart)
H: Whoa, calm down. I’m not yelling at anyone. I’m just saying to stay in your spot.
B: How am I supposed to stay in my spot when there are only four of us?!?! We’re all running like crazy!!!!! (Once again, imagine me yelling…fiercely….)

And then all the fun was gone from the game…



That's me, middle center.  You know I look intense.

 
3. At this point I knew my competitive drive might be on… well, overdrive… (Get it? Admit it, it’s brilliant) But the real icing on the cake came Monday night. Back from San Jorge, and on our last eve before we had to head back to work and school, we decided to invite over Hubby’s brother and brother’s wife to play a little Settlers of Catan. We debated between playing the game and watching a movie, but I always beg for a game over a movie, and I promised to behave.

You should know a few things about Settlers. The game is extremely competitive. It has some kind of evil power to it. It can make people do bad things. It can make you wish awful catashtrophes upon those you most care about in the world. About halfway through the game, Hubby came out of nowhere and blocked my two roads that I had built in preparation to build a settlement. I had all the exact cards in my hand, just waiting for my turn. I was bugged, but tried to be a good sport about it and just brush it off. 
 

Five minutes later, on a completely different part of the board, Hubby pulled the same move, coming out of nowhere and blocking me exactly where I was about to build a settlement. Once again I had the exact cards in my hand, and was just waiting for Hubby’s turn to be over so that I could build it. The worst part was that I TRADED with Hubby to give him the cards he needed to build those dang roads. And then he used it to once again block me off.

Now, if you never played Settlers, you probably think this isn’t a big deal.

It is.

And so, once again, I did the most logical, sane thing, and freaked out. “You son of a b****!” I cursed, emphasizing each word with a fiery passion. (I’m so sorry mom if you ever read this blog which I know you don’t)  I'm not a cusser.  And yet, somehow, that was the first word that came to my mind.

And then all the fun was gone from that game...

Hubby was shocked at my sudden outburst.  And hurt. (I haven't met anyone, afterall, who gets pleasure out of being called an S.O.B.)  And I felt awful.  Awful.  Who calls their husband that, no matter how competitive the game is?

It is now very clear to me that my competitiveness isn't anything positive.  But I've given up trying to control the temper.  It is way too freaking hard.  It lashes out so quickly and unexpectedly- as if it is a different part of me.  Instead I am going to take the easier road, and just not play any more games.  I am converting me and Hubby to a life of staring at the tube instead.  How mad can you get at someone when you're watching a movie, right?

#hip?

I like to think I’m pretty hip… but I have enough self awareness to realize that probably ain’t so. As far as bandwagons go, I’m just about always the last one jumping on. I was sitting in church the other day, a little bored, and decided to send my hubby a spicy message. I whipped out my flip phone and started texting away. The girl next to me looked over and whispered in complete seriousness, “So… do you not know how to use a smart phone…. or are you trying to make a statement by holding out with the flipper….?” I was shocked. I didn’t even realize I was that behind. Obviously I have noticed that the….uh… current trend… has been to have a little cooler phone than mine, but I didn’t realize it was to the point where people would comment on my bandwagon tardiness.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, either. I was real stubborn about the whole CD thing. Convinced that the ipod craze was going to fade away into oblivion, I just kept lugging my CD case around. I finally caved six months after my mission (about four years after the general public hopped on) I called my lil sis to let her know of my ipod decision and she replied, “YOU are getting an ipod?! Everything I know about the world is changing.” (The one exception is facebook. I joined in 2004- that’s right- 2004! I was driving that bandwagon!)

So… in an attempt to stop being the last passenger aboard the old wagon, I am secretly enlisting the help of my students. They might not be the brightest when it comes to writing killer thesis statements, but believe me, they’ve got the technology thing down pat. My latest obsession is the meaning of the tic tac toe sign. You know the one. #What does that mean??? I’ve seen it everywhere. Why does it exist? What is its purpose in our society??? I tried to slyly ask some students for more info without giving away that I had no clue what it meant. I got my only semi-informational response by a girl who hasn’t said a word all year “It’s a hashtag,” she explained with a look of pure boredom, “You use it when you don’t want to speak in complete sentences.”

Hmmm… this is kind of weird… but I think I I’ll give it a try…

Am I doing it right? #confused
I am craving some ice cream…. #pistachio with chocolate and cherry pieces
I need to run to the bathroom. #holding it
Gotta plan two lessons for tomorrow and have no idea what to teach. #ready for weekend
I sent my aid to do an errand and he never came back today. #truant, sucka!

#mastery
#Bonnie
#genius

Confessions

I'm doing poetry with my creative writing class and I had them write a "confession poem".... you know the little things you do that you're not supposed to do but you still do them? So, I wrote my confession poem along with them because I'm trying to write more and be more creative. And because I am also trying to publish more, I figured I would post it on my blog. Hey- putting stuff on your blog counts as getting published doesn't it?

Before you read it... some of these are exaggerated to make the poem better. I really am not that awful of a person...

Alright so you want me to confess?
Ok, but I'm warning you, my life is a mess,
Went to college to learn and grow
But spent my time partying- just couldn't say no,
Stayed up til four in the morning night after night
Slept through my 9 am classes- yah that wasn't too bright

By seven each day I'm supposed to be at work
When I show up at 7:30 around the corner my boss lurked
"Ms. Blackburn, why did you show up so late?"
"Oh my gosh traffic was awful!" That lie seemed my only gate.

These confessions are getting easier, I'm finally warmed up
When my friends aren't looking, I drink from their cup
I used to cheat to beat my sister in Monopoly
She never even asked where I got all that money
Wait! Driving 20 miles over isn't okay?
I guess you could say I learned that the hard way.
My feelings get hurt at the drop of a hat
Even if it's nothing, I cry "Why'd you say that?!"
I eat way too much ice cream, this much is true
And if I get fat, it's Dreyer's I'm planning to sue.

Wow! I feel so much better getting all this off my back,
But now I'm so tired that I've just GOT to hit the sack.

Things I used to not care about....

The design of my shower curtain....

How many miles since my car's last oil change...

The price of chicken breasts...

How often I change my sheets...

If I have to buy the spatula, can opener, mixing spoon, separately or if I can get them together in a package...

Retirement Plans...



It's official. I'm a grown up. Congratulate me. I've entered a new world.

Crying over spilt milk

As you might already know from previous blog posts, finding a wedding dress has been no simple task. After several dress shops and countless hours of selecting, trying on, taking off, adjusting, asking price, how soon soon could you do this, ETC... I found my dream dress. I bought it without hesitation. I left it in the hands of the trusted store employees to make the necessary alterations, and I was out the door, wildly relieved at having finally found THE dress.

Friday I had a fitting. The dress was all ready for me to pick up and take on home, just had to try it on one last time and make sure it was perfect.

I tried it on anxiously, yanking my jeans off and carefully slipping my gorgeous wedding dress over my body. I pranced out to the full length mirror to examine myself in this most perfect of dresses.

I hated it.

despiseditloatheditdetestedit

The shoulders had to be raised up and now the neckline was high enough to make me look like Jane Eyre. The bust of the dress didn't fit with my actual bust, and since I'm not exactly... *ahem*.... busty in the first place, saying I look like a sunken cave is a vast understatement. I had asked the chick at the shop to put some flowers by the neckline and what she made was one flimsy flower that looked like it was wilting, conveniently placed right next to the sunken cave. Then she charged me $15 for it.

After paying $200+ dollars for alterations and a veil, I threw the dress over my shoulder and trudged out of the shop. I wasn't 500 feet from the store before the silent tears started rolling down my cheeks. I waited until I was in the car to break into sobs. G has this ridiculously calming effect on me, so my first thought was to call him and have him solve all my problems. The conversation went like this:

B: I'm stressing out. I can't handle this. I'm never going to make it to the wedding date. I can't deal with everything. I hate my dress.
G: (bursting into laughter because he already knows what a hard time I had finding the dress in the first place) Oh honey this is crazy.
B: I know but I can't help it. I hate it. I hate this. I can't do it.
G: This is going to sound harsh, but I think you need to hear it. You're being too dramatic. Everything has to be done the hard way with you. Just keep it simple. You're too picky. Can't you just have fun with the wedding?
B: That didn't help
G: I don't know what you want me to say, Bon. You yourself are making your life hard. Just love the dress.
B: But I can't. I hate it.
G: ....long silence.... what am I supposed to say?
B: Say everything will be fine.
G: It will be if you make it fine. You're just being so dramatic and this is not that big of a deal. You've got to cut the drama or this is going to kill you. You're stressing over nothing.

At that point it was crystal clear to me that G was not going to be patient and loving and tender with me on this one so I got off the phone

I went inside the house where my mom was fixing dinner. I told her I hated my dress. Her response:

"Oh No! What's wrong with it? Did they not do the alterations right? Tell me exactly what you don't like about it. I'll go down and get it right if they didn't do the alterations how you wanted them. I'll fix it myself if that's what it takes! They're charging you for those alterations and they better get them right! Oh honey, I'm sure you're upset, but anything is going to look gorgeous on you...."

And that's why sometimes you just need a mom.

Careless driver

"You're a rotten driver. Either you ought to be more careful or you oughtn't to drive at all."
-Great Gatsby

I've been home from my mission for two years.

In that time I have paid for:
Four speeding tickets (totalling $610)
Two tickets for running stop signs ($180)
One handicapped parking ticket ($100)
Countless BYU parking violations (Which, let's just be honest with ourselves... I haven't paid any of those...)
One tow ($130)
Two boots ($100)
Two traffic school sessions ($50 a pop)
One plea and abeyance deal that my brother worked out for me ($50)

Do the math, my friends. It's over a thousand bucks on poor driving and parking habits. That's not to mention the $1200 a year I have to pay for my premium car insurance (Hey! It ain't cheap to insure a careless driver like myself!)

I thought I would learn to drive safer after my last bout of tickets (this was in April when I got two speeding tickets within a thirty minute time period), but I've realized now that for me to stop driving like an idiot is both unrealistic and hopeless. (My fiance's hurtful-yet-true analysis of my driving: "You're reckless, you don't pay attention to what's going on around you, and you drive too fast.") So, instead of figuring out how to avoid getting pulled over, my latest goal is to figure out how to avoid getting the ticket once I've already been pulled over.

Unfortunately, my record is 0 for 6 in getting pulled over and not getting a ticket. I don't know what it is about me that ticks cops off, but the second they see the short blonde in the black car, it's like their minds are made up that they're going to give me that ticket and teach me a lesson, goshdangit! I have watched other people skillfully avoid getting tickets, but I can't seem to master the art. Or even have mild success with the art. My brother's been pulled over six times in a short period of time. He's gotten ONE ticket. I've been pulled over six times in a short period of time. I've gotten SIX tickets.

Here are some strategies I have used. They have each failed.
-Crying. The cop seemed more impatient and annoyed than sympathetic. I later heard on the radio that men just totally shut off when women start crying and that it literally turns them off. Hmmm.... probably won't try that one again.
-Saying yes sir, no sir, yes sir. You know, the whole super respectful thing. He didn't seem phased at all.
- Having the car window down, the enginge turned off, my license and registration ready, hands on the steering wheel. I think me being this ready for the pull over just made the cop think that I've been pulled over one too many times... meaning I'm getting pulled over and still not fixing my bad driving habits. And the obvious solution to that is to give me a ticket, right?
- Saying I have a sick friend/ super emergency. Although he appeared somewhat understanding, the cop still nailed me with the ticket. And then I felt crazy guilty for lying.
- Being very humble and compliant. "Yes, officer, I know I was speeding. Yes, I know it was wrong. Yes, I deserve to be pulled over. I'm very sorry. It's fine. Give me the ticket. I understand." Again... the cop was totally unphased by my complete and utter humility.
- Joking around with the cop. I got a laugh out of him. I also got the ticket.

I'm open to some new suggestions....

The Problem

I've been doing some wedding dress shopping. (Oh... did I tell the blogging world yet that I'M ENGAGED?!?!?!) It's like driving a hammer through my head and then turning it slowly. (Er...wedding dress shopping that is, not being engaged.)

This dress: Too hideous

This dress: Too mormon

This dress: Too expensive

This dress: Too immodest

This dress: Too "I'm-going-to-prom"y

This girl: Too picky

At least I got the guy I wanted, right?

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...

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?

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.

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.

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.

Pink

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."

Bad break-up?

In my blogging experience, I have steered clear of writing anything personal or anything of real significance...my 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.

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.

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 there...so 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.

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.

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...."

I hate Korea

Monday, Monday

I love Mondays because......

1. Easy crossword. Rock my world. I always finish the Monday crossword. BY MYSELF!
2. I have my volleyball class. And I love volleyball.

That's about it as for good things about Mondays...
Now I guess we just once again start the process of waiting for the weekend.

In other news, I got a parking ticket. I'm sure many of you will be satisfied to know I finally got what was coming to me. It happened on Friday- November 13. I am still amazed as to how I went two and a half months without getting a ticket. If you are wondering if I am currently parked in faculty parking... I am. I'm going to keep taking the risk, even though they pegged me once. I think they only ticket on Fridays. I'll keep you updated. Since I know it's a huge concern to you and all.

epic

Have you ever noticed how a lot of times people will just start saying a word that has been around for years but not used that often? And then people are suddenly going nuts and inserting that word in every sentence possible? It happened with the word random. Nobody ever used that word and then one day people would use it for everything- even when the word didn't apply: "I just got a random phone call from my mom" Uh... why was that random? She calls you every day.

Anyway, the most recent trend in words is.... Epic. It makes me crazy. Everytime I hear the word/read the word/think about the word it makes me want to put a gun to my head. I just don't understand why all of a sudden the entire world is using this word to describe EVERYTHING. The definition of epic is "very imposing or impressive, surpassing the ordinary or of heroic proportions". So wouldn't this mean that the more people use this word, the less significance the word actually has? Because if it means that it surpasses the ordinary... and we begin to use it for quite ordinary things, well then it's not epic at all.

I can't figure out exactly when this trend started. For the last nine months I've been blaming any new trend or anything at all that has happened in the media or in our culture on our mission. So obviously when everyone started using epic, I tried to say "wow, I must have been on my mission when the whole country started using epic like it was their job" But then I realized that the first six months that I was home from my mission nobody was using that dang word at all... so it must be a more recent affair...

I'll cite to you some examples:
In a review on Adam Lambert's new music video: the just-premiered video is an epic and explosive affair.
In the same review: I can only imagine how epic it will seem when it runs in multiplexes before Michael Jackson's This Is It...
(really guys, really? You're going to use this "impressive and grandiose" word twice in the same review?
A girl commenting on that video: it's not epic, it's biblical.
(Uh, you're retarded. Don't compare Adam Lambert to the bible. Ever.)
An invite on my facebook page: EPIC BONFIRE.
(Wow, that 21 year old boy off his mish must have just figured out what epic means and now he thinks he can use it to describe the dinky fire he and his friends are going to have in the back of his apartment complex?)
An article in the Daily Universal: the new agenda should be pretty epic.
(PRETTY EPIC? PRETTY EPIC? Isn't that an oxymoron? Don't use as strong an adjective as epic with a word that is meant to subtract the significance of the adjective)
My friend last night on the couch: We should do a road trip. That would be epic.
(Yes, it might be fun, but if you say epic one time during that road trip I'm going to run you over and leave you to die on the side of the road)

My advice to anyone who finds themselves using this word: It's okay to use it, just sparingly. Epic cannot describe every event in the world. Just because you just found out what the word means doesn't mean you can use it more than once a minute.

My Dirty Little Secret

I live too far away from campus to walk. Bus passes are $120 and that's too much money to pay for just one semester. And it's pretty much a universally known fact that parking on campus is insane so how do I manage to get to school every day? No, not hitchiking- my days at BYU Hawaii are long past.

I park in faculty parking.

No one has noticed.

I've been parking there for over a month.

No tickets.

It started back the first week of school. I was late for class and looking desperately for a spot in the undergraduate parking. No spots. Anywhere. Class was starting. I was frustrated and late and didn't want to look anymore. So I zipped on up to "A" lot, parked my car in a spot where I knew I wasn't supposed to, and mentally accepted the fact that I would have a $30 parking ticket that would someday have to be paid if I want a diploma. Imagine my surprise when eight hours later, there was no ticket on the car. I thought it odd, even creepy... but decided to just try parking there the next day and continue to push my luck.

And the luck keeps on pushing. Some 30+ days later, still no ticket. I don't even look for a ticket anymore when I go out to my car. I've just accepted the fact that A) My car somehow has faculty registration so when the police parking dudes come around my car scans in as faculty or B) No one checks that lot (which is ridiculous because BYU are such Nazis about fining anyone who parks inappropriately) or C) The BYU parking dude recognizes my car on me and has a crush on me so is cutting me a break or D) I actually get a ticket every day, but someone who hates me takes that ticket so that I don't realize I'm being fined and keep parking there. Maybe by the end of the semester I will have 75 $30 parking tickets. Yikes. Over $2000. That's as much as tuition. Just to park.

Whatever the reason, I continue to live it up. I can come and go to campus whenever I please. I run home for a quick lunch or to grab something that I forgot. I go to lunch with friends and then two hours later that beloved faculty parking spot is still wide open for me. No more having to stay on campus for eight+ hours because I have a good spot and if I leave in the middle of the day someone else will get the parking spot. The doors it has opened are endless.

Toe crisis

I feel like I should have a welcome back party for myself. Of course, I think that every time I post on my blog. I enjoy doing it, and yet somehow it is hard for me to be consistent.

For some reason I never feel like posting about anything significant. So I've decided all just continue positing about the minuscule and unimportant happenings in my life. Can your toes keep growing? Today I looked down at my foot. I was sitting in a rather boring class and the subject material had long ceased to hold my attention. I wiggled my toes around, looked at the sore on the top of my right foot and scratched my heel. Then I noticed. My second toe is longer than my big toe! I know this isn't that unusual; tons of people have longer second toes. But here's the thing, I have always prided myself in the fact that my toes are perfect. Each toe is the appropriate length. Each progressively shorter than the one before. So one day I distractedly look down and notice that my second toe has grown longer than my big toe? How does that happen to someone?!?

In other news I'm still mad about a parking ticket I got over a week ago. It was for parking in handicapped parking in Wal-mart. I'm not handicapped. They figured it out. One hundred dollars.

Reasons BYU hates me

Yah, it's true. BYU totally hates me.

BYU hates me because I never return my library books on time. Like ever. It's just annoying to have to remember to bring them back by a certain date... especially when I am not done reading the book by that date. I don't have much of an excuse because you can recheck them out on line... but the catch is if you miss the date, they won't let you recheck the book out online. And once the book is overdue, you might as well just make it really overdue and hand it in whenever the heck is convenient for you. I realized that BYU hates me when the librarian chick rolled her eyes at me and told me I had a $16.00 fine. "Well, can't you waive it?" I asked her. I know they can. They're supposed to. I used to have a BYU librarian friend and she told me they pretty much have to waive the fine. "No, we really can't..." "Well, I know you can because they always do. If you don't want to waive it, you don't have to but I'll just come tomorrow and ask the guy working tomorrow to waive it." "Uh, yah... I guess I could waive it but it's a pretty big fine. Why didn't you just bring it back on time?" "I forgot. I'm in the thick of finals. I couldn't get around to it. Can you just waive it?" And so she waived it and hated me. I can hear the conversation in her head, "Dumb girl thinks she's above the BYU library rules and I am only encouraging her by waiving this fine, but what can I do?"

They hate me because I don't buy their text books from the BYU bookstore. What books I absolutely have to buy, I buy online. As much as possible I just don't do the readings for my classes. When I have to do the reading, I go to the bookstore and just read the textbook there. They usually tell me to stop after a few minutes. So I take the book downstairs where they don't care and read it there. When I'm done reading, I return the book. And the bookstore makes no money.

They hate me because I've been here for four years and I only pay half my tuition. I'm sure they would love to figure out a way to not pay me to be here each semester, but a good GPA is hard to argue with, so as much as they hate it, they have to pay me.

They hate me because I left to go to BYU Hawaii for a semester and then demanded I be let in, and be let back into my major. Then I left to Argentina for a year and a half, and I demanded to be let back in, and to be let back into my major. And as much as they would have liked to have denied me, they couldn't. It's rules. They have to follow them.

They hate me because I sleep on their couches shamelessly, I use their computers on campus, and I get mad at them if their computers don't correctly save my homework. I wear pajamas to classes, (come on, who gets dressed for eight o'clock classes?) and I haven't once joined one of their clubs. I don't vote for BYUSA president and I don't support anyone or anything on campus.

Lucky for them, they're getting rid of me in a year.

Tell them what they want to hear

I've become pretty good at telling people exactly what they want to hear. Take M for example. He is my general manager at the restaurant. I used to hate his guts. Now I just tell him exactly what he wants to hear and we get along swimmingly.

Example: Last night a corny couple came into the restaurant. I was supposed to be off the floor- the night was almost over. Well, these two bimbos wandered over into my section and so I had to serve them. The lady was nice as all get out. She kept smiling and telling me how beautiful I was. Obviously, I immediately liked her- she was telling me what I wanted to hear. So I told her what she wanted to hear... how great it is to have them in the restuarant, how sweet they are, how I wish they would come back soon.

Next, the corny couple went on and on about how this resturant is so much better than other restuarants they have been to of the same chain. Whatever, they are all the same, but if these peeps want to think one resturant is better than the exact same restaurant in a different city, don't argue with them. Just let them think what they want. Anyway, I gave the credit of our "off the hook restaurant" to M. "He drives a tight ship," I confided in them, as if it were some great secret (I was practically speaking in a whisper). "He doesn't take any slack from anyone. If the shrimp are in the oil 20 seconds too long or 20 seconds too little, he throws all the shrimp away and the cook gets the ax. He demands perfection." And you know... I went on. Shooting the bull. Talking about how great M is even though I secretly kind of hate him. He's a moron, after all. I told him once, but he didn't like that very much. All morons hate it when you call them morons.

Well, what do you know, M happened to be walking by at that exact time and I called him over, "M! This couple is dying to meet you! They want to know why this restaurant is the best they've ever been to. I told them it's thanks to you. You keep us all in line." M hates me, but I think in that instant he almost loved me. He was beaming from here to the moon. And so he started talking to the corny couple. And I escaped so I could go do my sidework and get the heck home.

Results of my telling people what they want to hear instead of the truth: the couple left a healthy tip. When I tipped out to M that night he thanked me for being a great server and said he looked forward to seeing me tomorrow night. Right. Apparently you just tell him what he wants to hear- you know- "M drives a tight ship!" and life gets a whole lot easier.

It's official

This blog is now three years old. I guess I am making it official now. by making it official I have told somebody that I have it. before noboyd knew. it was like a secret blog. Secret and pointless. Actually, that's not true, my friend H knew about it. She was the only one who ever commented on anything. Now I have officially told my other friend, Ak. After coming back from my excursion in Argy I figure dout pretty dang quick that a lot of people have blogs. So I wanted one. But I already have one. So i guess now it's time to make this blog active. As in I actively post and follow other people's blogs, you know the whole blog deal.

But is it okay if I do this? My roommate C told me I can't do it. She says blogs are only for married people and that single people with blogs are weird. Well, I've always known I am weird, so I guess it's nothing new there.

I feel like I should have some kind of blog party to celebrate this. You know when gay people come out of the closet? Like they've been gay for years, but they finally come out with it and everything? I feel that way about this blog. i've been blogging for awhile, but I am finally coming out with it. now everybody is going to read it and probably discover that I actually have nothing interesting to say at all. I've seen some blogs with pics on them. i can't even imagine how to do that. I'm just going to stick with the simple blogs. Technology is really too advanced for me these days.

Apples in the library

What do you think the library people would do if they knew that right now, at this very moment, at 4:40 in the afternoon on Tuesday, January 20, 2009, I was eating an apple? You know that eating is very strictly prohibited in the library. They might even kick me out of the library. but do you know what? the girl sitting next to me is eating lettuce and frosted flakes. i think that's about the weirdest combination I have ever seen, but she is korean, so maybe in korean they just eat what they feel like. I wonder if she knows the rule about no food in the library. I'm sure she does. but if she doesn't I sure as heck wasn't a very good example to her because I just finished eating my apple.

But who even made that rule? Who is the person that owns this library that made the rule that I can't eat in here? Whose rule is it? that rule doesn't even belong to a person, it belongs to the insitution. It belongs to the man. And then when the nineteen year old student who is getting paid 7 dollars an hour to work for the library tells me to put the apple away, I respond, "Says who?"
"Says the library."
"Not says what, says WHO."
"The people from the library."
"yah, but who made that rule? The person who made that rule is long dead so is his rule still in effect even though he no longer exists? Does the rule have a longer life than the person who made it? Because it seems to me that all rules die with the person who made them"

That's what I would say, anyway, if the nineteen year old chick came to get mad at me for eating an apple. Turns out no one even noticed.

Water temperature

I went on sabbatical. I dont even know if I spelled that right, but I guess on an informal blog nobody in the world cares. I don't even know if anybody in the world will read this. I went to Argentina for 18 months. That is a long time. That is long enough to have 2 babies. But I didn't. I'm still baby-less. And I think I will be for several more years... mostly because my best friend came over last night and told me all about childbirth and how much her body hurts now that she gave birth four weeks ago. So I'm pretty happy with childless Bon.

The sabbatical was nice but now I dont fit into where I once belonged. And there are a lot of things I dont understand. For example, why is the water always exactly the temperature that I want? I can turn the knob exxactly to the temp that would be perfect for me. In the shower, in the sink, even when I am washing dishes. That is bizarre to me. In Argentina it just came out one temperature, and the temperature of the water depended on the temperature outside. If its hot outside, the water's hot. If it's cold outside, the water's cold. Simple enough. I wonder how they do it with the knob so that it comes out just like I want it.

Some things change and some things never do. I noticed there are still a lot of BYU prudes on BYU campus and I kind of want to stick it to them, but then I decide I dont want to because they are probably insecure and unhappy and nervous so then I just feel bad and decide to be nice. I dont knwo if I am as witty or clever as a writer as I once was. Well, as well as I thought I was, anyway. Who knows if I am really as great as I think I am. There is a tall white guy in a suit down here in this computer lab and I wonder why he's all dressed up. I also wonder why he's white. Everyone here is white. That's weird too. Where I came from I was the only white person and now I am just one of many many many in a group of endless white people.

procrastination

I always blog when I am supposed to be working on papers. I am so over papers. They bug me. It's nice that I never have to take tests, instead I just write massive papers, but I am still tired of it. I love reading and I love writing, but I don't really like the writing I have to do for my classes. Critical analysis is boring. Blah. I'd rather write on my blog all day than analyze short stories or mark twain or bret harte. seriously. that stuff is boring!

I've turned into a hopeless procrastinator. I used to not be quite so bad, but this semester it has turned ridiculous. Re-dunk-ulous as my friend Ben would say. I wonder what happened to Ben? He's probably still procrastinating his homework at BYU Hawaii. He was going to go on a mission but he's probably procrastinated his papers for that.

I wonder what would happen if someone procrastinated their whole life. I think I'm about to find out.

TMI

TMI means too much information. My dad says it all the time. And I like it. Because I think it says perfectly in so little words (or letters?) what I am always thinking. I'm supposed to be writing a paper right now. I am about three quarters of the way done. It needs some serious help, but I think in the 45 minutes that I have left to work on it, I will be able to get it at least to a B paper, which is honestly all I care about. I love Bs. Bs are the new As.

Anyway, it is important that I work on this paper but it is so hard because the people in this computer lab on BYU campus are spilling TMI! All around me people are talking and I just can't help but listen. About thirty minutes ago this crazy frazzled girl came in, say at the computer next to me, and made about a dozen phone calls to people about a wedding she is planning. I don't care where he reception is going to be. I don't care what her dress is going to look like. I don't care how stressed and busy she is and she can't sleep at night. I care about finishing this paper on time! TMI. Don't have private conversations in a public computer lab.

As we speak there are two people to the left of me. They are analyzing her life. I think the guy is her brother but it could be a boyfriend, but whoever he is, he is very kind to her and very concerned for her happiness. He keeps saying that she causes her problems herself and that she wants the drama and she wants the unhappiness that she is bringing upon herself. She agrees that maybe she is not as comfortable with herself as she should be, that maybe... oh this is great. He just said, "You are fighting it. You need to stop... you just... you know... you fight it." and she said "I can't help it" and he just said, "Every time we do something with guys you try to stop it, you try to fight it. You wouldn't do that with someone else, so why would you do it to me?" and then she said, "I don't know Aaron, I am being stupid. I am sorry, okay." I don't think she is really sorry do you?

I'm sorry that her useless bantering and her TMI is causing me to not write my paper!

Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say...

..on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day.

So I guess I miss Hawaii. Weird because when I was in Hawaii I missed home and now I'm home and I miss Hawaii. I hate that.

But I got an awesome Christmas present this year. Do you want to know what it was? Three As and Two A-s. a 3.87 to round off the semester. Pretty freaking cool.

I also got a harmonica. It was almost as sweet.

Baby it's cold outside!

I've been back in the state for four days. And do you know what? It is cold. Damn cold. And I don't even feel bad for cussing because that is how cold it is. I couldn't believe it when I stepped off the airplane and felt that gust of wind. I wa wearing flip flops and a short sleeved t-shirt with my casual jeans. It was more than warm enough in Hawaii. But now the wind cut through that paper thin material fast as lightening. My bags didn't come in from Honolulu. That's Hawaii for you. No one does what they are supposed to do when they are supposed to do it. So my bags were delayed a few days. I was stuck wearing the same cold T-shirt until my roommate and my sister let me wear some of their warm clothes.

I am already sick. I always brag about having the most incredible immune system in the world. Guess not. I'm sick. Four days in Utah and already coughing up mucus and a burning sore throat and stuffed up head... Can I go back to Hawaii now?

Favorite things to do in the cold:
1. Sledding
2. Go inside and warm up.

Favorite things to do in the heat:
1. Swim
2. Body surf
3. Hike
4. Lay out
5. Catch crabs
6. Slip n Slide
7. Jump off things
8. Take naps
9. Alright it's settled- I'm moving back to warm weather!

Ignorance and Indifference

What is the difference between ignorance and indifference? I don't know and I don't care.

Witty, don't you think?

Today I am both ignorant and indifferent. I have one more final left. I want an A. I need an A. I have to get an A in this class. But when it comes to the subject of study- I don't know and I don't care. Am I willing to put forth the hours of focused and dedicated study to ace this baby? Probably not. So what will happen? I will study half heartedly for thirty minutes, take it, and get an 85. a B. I always get Bs. It's like saying, "Yah, you don't suck, but it's definitely not good work." Bring on the Bs. It's hard to care when you only have one final left and then you have plans for the night and plans for tomorrow and then you're flying home to see all your friends and family...

So finals this is to you- I don't know and I don't care.

Nine months

I've taken a nine month break from this blog. Nine months. I could have had a baby. But I didn't. I finished a semester of school at the Y, worked all summer at the stupid restaurant, and then packed my bags and moved to Hawaii. Do you really think that living in Hawaii caters to writing every day on this online blog? It doesn't. That's why the blog has been inactive. But I am moving back to Utah in five days so I thought it was time to get it restarted. Actually, in all honesty, one of my best friends H (the only person who ever reads this blog) reminded me that I hadn't written since March. Wow, March. That is a long time.

Maybe I just don't have anything to blog about. But that is not true. There are so many things to write about that it is impossible to know where to start after nine months of inactivity. So I'll just say this. I enjoy hitchiking. I honestly enjoy it, look forward to it, like doing it. I don't have a car and I live five miles from campus and the bus is unreliable and my roommate is a brat and I am left to one option for getting to class on time: hitchiking. At first I hated it and was embarrased and barely stuck my thumb out there, feeling like a beggar and a bum. Now I stick it out with confidence. I even shake it around a little bit if the car looks like it won't stop. Sometimes I walk as I hitchike. Sometimes I run after the car if I am feeling hyper. I like hitchicking with my roommates, Ak or Am, but if I can't then I just do it by myself.

One person who picked me up was a lady visiting from North Carolina who just got a bitter divorce. She was a basketcase and kept telling me to make sure to finish school since men are unreliable pigs and as soon as they love you and leave you, you got to be able to support yourself.

One man stopped at 7/11 to grab a coffee and left me in his truck with the keys. I was tempted I admit.

I've had countless discussions about my religion and my beliefs.

One man took me and Ak around the whole island because he didn't have anything better to do so we just went for a little ride. We saw our friends and they wondered whose car we were in and where we were going but we just had to answer that he didn't know. That man gave us avocados that he had stored in the back of his truck. We cooked them with chicken, ranch dressing and melted cheese.

I've given out probably a dozen fake numbers from perverts who think picking up a hitchiker is a way to get a date.

One time a truck picked me up and had no room in the cab but said I could hop in the bed. There wasn't really any room in the bed either. He was carrying about ten bikes. I sat with a pedal jammed against my head and a tire rubbing on my leg. I was going commando in a skirt. Fun ride.

I've never felt threatened, scared, or in harm's way hitchiking. I've enjoyed every ride and gotten to know a variety of people from all over the world, coming to visit this weird island in the middle of nowhere. I'm told there are weirdos out there who rape and kill girl hitchikers, but I haven't found one yet. Most people who stop are maybe a little lonely, but very kind and selfless. It almost gives you hope in the human race.

My Biggest Fear

I have been on more first dates than there are stars in the sky. Sometimes they are fun and lead to more dates. Most of the time they are with weirdos who I never want to see again. The weirdos always ask pretty intimate, weird/awkward questions. Just recently I was asked, "What is your biggest fear?" I thought about replying, "Bad breath!" but I knew this prude of a guy wouldn't think it was funny at all. So I thought. And thought. And thought. I never gave him an answer, but I've been thinking ever since.

My biggest fear is of missing out. It is why I am so insistent that I don't get married young- getting married at 19 is a guaranteed way to miss out on loads of fun single experiences. It is why I want to study in Hawaii next year and why I want to travel the world- I don't want to miss out on a thing. My fear of missing out explains why I want to go on a mission so bad- so that I can have that experience and not miss out on so great of an opportunity.

Once I figured this out, some of my greatest problems suddenly seemed much less complex. I have often wondered why I can't hold a job for more than three months. I get bored. I want a change. I don't want to miss out on any other jobs. I have worked every type of job possible: laundry, teaching piano, retail, food service, tutoring, waiting tables, banquets, etc. I don't want to miss out on experiencing any of these dinky part time jobs. My fear of missing out explains why I have to be the last to leave the party, why I date so many different types of guys, and why I am making no significant progress toward graduating. I am too busy taking all sorts of classes so that I don't miss out, that I am not concentrating on my major enough.

My mom says I need to be more content with my life. I don't know how I can when I am so worried that the whole world is passing me by and that I am missing out on something very important. Someone somewhere is experiencing more and having more fun than me. It is this thought that I simply can not stand.

Law school decision

My dad wants me to go to law school. I want to teach English to bratty high school punks. A lawyer would make at least $100,000 a year. A teacher will be lucky to scrape by with $30,000. As much as I would like to think I don't care what they say, I am very much so influenced by my parents. So as my father pushes me to go to law school- I consider it. It has occupied a lot of my thought lately- if gonig to law school in two years is really what I want to do. I already knew I probably didn't want to go because I dated a guy in law school and his school life seemed like torture, but today my question was answered once and for all. I was going in the law building for an undergradute class. As I was passing a group of law students I noticed the attire of all of them. None were well dressed and none seemed at all aware of any kind of fashion laws. One was wearing a baggy T-shirt tugged into his jeans. The jeans came to about mid stomach. The jeans were also too big for this scrawny looking law student. He held them up with none other then a braided belt. He was wearing sneakers.

The group was standing outside a classroom, waiting for the other class to vacate so they could hold their class. It was almost 11:00 and the group was anxious to get in. Braided belt commented, "Well, we'll just have to use adverse possession and go on in there! Their time is up!" What makes the whole situation worse is that everybody laughed at this comment. Never in my life do I want to be a part of lame law jokes. The group, unaware that they had just convinced an innocent underclassmen into avoiding law forever, marched into the class, excited to learn about property laws. Call me vain if you want. Call me stupid for basing my decision to go to law school on this one experience. Call me whatever you want, but I am decided. I'll teach high school punks any day rather than hang out with the likes of the law school students.

The terror of bad breath

My first experience with bad breath was in fourth grade. I was on the bus sitting next to Nicole Willey- a freckled faced pug nosed girl with glasses. She was telling me excitedly about who knows what. I couldn't pay attention because she had terrible breath. I can still smell it today. She was breathing so heavily and sitting so close to me and all I could think of was "When can I get off this bus??? Nicole- your breath REEKS!!!" I'll probably remember that day for the rest of my life. It has triggered an intense fear that runs to my very bones. I hate bad breath.

I noticed my manager with bad breath the other day. This guy must have had just awful breath because I was in no way shape or form standing close to him. He was telling me how much silverware to roll and I could smell that breath so strong. Don't people realize when they have bad breath? Is it so hard to detect? I can taste when I have bad breath, why can't others? And most importantly- why can't they stop breathing all over me when their breath reeks of onions, sewage, poop, vomit and boogers?

I avoid people with bad breath like the plague. As soon as I notice someone with it, I stop talking to them. If ignoring them is not a possibility, I cover my nose and mouth discreetly and stand as far away as possible. I am terrified of getting stuck in a small enclosed space with a bad breather. Even worse is the thought of kissing someone with bad breath. Luckily it hasn't happened yet, but I am sure that when it does I will absolutely just puke in the other person's mouth.

A necessary eight hours

I have lately made it a priority to get eight hours of sleep each night. Okay, I admit, it is a little more than a priority. It is an absolute freakish obsession! I love hanging out with my friends at night, but as soon as it gets close to midnight or 1:00 in the morning I stare nervously at the clock wondering when things will wrap up so I can bury myself up in my beloved down comforter. I realize that I could always exit the party early and just go to bed, but I love "hanging out" too much to bow out early for sleep. Oh, but I am starting to love sleep more and more. During the day I daydream about that soft hotel pillow from the Marriot in Las Vegas that is now on my bed. (they stole my pillow, I figure it is fair game that I take theirs!) I close my eyes and see the comfort of my pink flowered sheets. For over two weeks now I have been getting a consistent eight hours of sleep. I sleep through my first class if necessary, but I am obsessed with 480 minutes in my bed! Most days I don't even have class until 10:00 so that means I only have to get to bed by 1:30 in order to wake up in time. I plan and stress over how to arrange my school work, my social obligations, and my waiting tables to accommodate my sleeping schedule. Even now my eyes are starting to feel heavy. I am supposed to go see a movie with a cute boy tonight, but I have a sneaky suspicion that throughout the entire movie I will only be thinking about my down comforter and my amazing hotel pillow. Eight hours of sleep a night is so wonderful. Once you start, you can never go back.