I miss her



This was taken the day Mar Mar started her mission in front of Pizza Factory.  I don't know why I thought an oversized Element Tshirt was appropriate attire for that day.



Meet Mary. 

She's my lil sis. 

And here's the deal. I adore Mary. I really really do.

There's something magical about sister relationships.  Something about them that is so special you only find it in a sister-sister bond.  Think about it: there's no one else in the world who I could possibly already have more in common with.  We share: parents and genes and experiences growing up and hometown and gender and siblings.  The moment she comes out of the womb, this girl is automatically my best friend- I mean, we've already got so much going for us!

She's gone now.  She's out to teach the good word to the peeps down in the southern hemisphere.  If there's one thing besides Mary that I absolutely love, it's the people of Argentina.  So I suppose that I'm quite jealous that my two loves are about to meet for the first time and they didn't bother to invite me.

When we were little, Mary and I used to sleep outside on the trampoline on summer nights.  We'd laugh and jump on the tramp and tell scary stories and scream until we heard my parents' voice coming from their open bedroom window, "Girls!  Quiet down!"  Then we'd whisper and giggle until we decided we were hungry and one of us would "sneak" back into the house ever so quiet, and make cinnamon toast to bring back out for a little midnight snack.  We were quite the sly ones, getting past my parents like that.

When I was 15 and Mary was 11, my parents left us alone for 10 days while they went to Europe.  I didn't have my driver's license, but I drove all over the town anyway, often with Mary in tow.  (As you can see, my driving problems started at a young age)  I made her promise not to tell the parentals.  She never did.

A few weeks after my dad died, Mary called me several times one Friday night.  I was playing cards, goofing around with my friends, acting normal as can be, but inside I was hurting.  Mary said she was just thinking about me and wanted to come over to hang out.  So she played cards with us all and we laughed and joked and acted like we hadn't seen a sad day in our life.  And when the neighbors went home and the roommates went to sleep, Mary slept over with me.  And we laid in my bed and cried and cried because we missed our dad and we didn't understand.

This wasn't the first time we slept in the same bed.  Growing up we had separate bedrooms, but I always wanted to sleep in Mary's room with her.  We'd laugh and tell stories and giggle late into the night, knowing that the next day was school and we'd be so tired.  We'd try to discpiline ourselves, coming up with quiet time and "sides" on the bed so that we wouldn't cross over and distract each other.  We made punishments and rules and the whole system was quite complex, but when it came down to it we just broke all the rules anyway and stayed up late laughing.

One summer night a few years ago, Mary and I drove down to St. George to meet our family.  I told Mary the only way I would let her drive was if she went at least 90 mph all the way down.  If I ever looked over and the odometer was below 90 we were switching drivers immediately.  I didn't want to be in the car all night, for crying out loud!  And Mary was obedient and went exactly 90.

My first day of college I was homesick and rethinking the whole decision.  I sat on my dorm bathroom floor and unpacked, scared as can be to be all on my own.  As I unloaded my bathroom supplies, I found a note, tucked underneath shower gel and tampons.  "50 reasons I'll miss Bonnie" the title read, and underneath were 50 things Mary would miss about me.  And the tears silently rolled down my cheeks because I'd never live with my little sister again.

Every Sunday growing up, Mary and I would do "Half Hour".  I was real busy those days turning 12 and all, and I hadn't had as much time for her as I used to.  So I invented "Half hour" to give us some quality time together.  Every Sunday Mary could choose whatever activity she wanted and we'd do that for half an hour together.  That was the idea anyway.  When Mary chose trolls or polly pockets they were quickly vetoed for more superior activities, like Barbies or Monopoly.  And even though I said it was only 30 minutes, we'd play for hours.

We've watched countless hours of Jeopardy! together.  I had long suspected that Mary might be just a hair smarter than me, but I had never said it out loud.  Just days before she entered the MTC, we sat down with pen and paper in hand and played Jeopardy!, to settle the matter once and for all-  who really was the smartest?  What is ribosome?  What is Old Man and the Sea?  What is Indonesia?  Mary answered em all.  After 22 minutes of trivia, she was the uncontested winner, and I admitted what I had long known- she was smarter than me (not an easy pill to swallow, folks.)

When I was living in Hawaii, Mary was in high school and she would call me and say, "Bonnie!  Mom and dad are so mean!  You are the only one who understands!  They are always so mad at me just because my room is dirty!"  And I did understand because I used to keep a dirty room myself and if there's one thing my mom hates, it's a dirty room.

The day before my wedding I visited my dad's grave with my mom and sisters.  Hours later when I couldn't find my keys, I figured I must have left them in the graveyard.  Mary came with me at midnight to search for them.  We bundled up against the cold and braved the elements, flashlights in tow.  We searched and scoured and while looking Mary asked "Can you believe you're getting married tomorrow?  I'm happy for you.  But kind of sad for me."

And when I was 17 and Mary was 13, we performed a piano duet at the stake talent show.  Something went terribly wrong and we couldn't get back on the right notes.  We were up there for the whole world to see, pounding away The Barnyard Dance hitting wrong note after wrong note, giggling uncontrollably.  And we laughed and shaked and hit more wrong notes and laughed harder.  Mom was turning the pages as we massacred the music and hissed, "GIRLS!"  And you better believe that shut us right up.  But we laughed for years after, always chiding each other for inappropriate behavior by yelling, "GIRLS!"

And now she's gone and I miss her at our family parties and I miss her random texts throughout the day, and I miss our inside jokes, and I miss having my BFF around.  I know we'll be ok because we already endured such a separation when I was down South, but it doesn't make it any easier.  Argentina doesn't have a clue in the world how lucky they are.

This is not a love note.

He slipped it to me shyly after fifth period.

"This love note isn't for you, exactly.  I just thought you would enjoy it," he muttered, looking down.  Then he turned around and shuffled his way out of the classroom, never meeting my eye.

The note was decorated with hearts and folded in a typical middle school note folding fashion.  On the front was the disclaimer, in all caps "THIS IS NOT A LOVE NOTE," and then with an arrow pointing to a heart, "But this is a heart."

I waited until all students were out of the room, sat down at my desk, and examined the note, half expecting that at any moment it would explode into a homemade concoction of hearts and confetti.

I briefly considered just throwing it away. Never dealing with the uncomfortable love confession (or was it to be a hate confession?). Never having to talk to an administrator about the school boy crush. Never having to avoid his gaze in class. Just pretending like the whole thing never happened. Curiosity has always had a strong hold on me, however, and I quickly decided the best thing to do would be to just open it up and bravely confront the contents of this "unlove" note.


Cautiously, I unfolded the piece of notebook paper.

Nothing happened.

To the naked eye it appeared to be a pretty typical note. The first half of the note was in elegant red and pink cursive. At the bottom of the page was a quickly scribbled note in pencil, obviously written at a later time. It read like this: (punctuation, spelling, etc are copied exactly from the note)

Love is like a roller coaster.  It has its ups and downs, its twists and turns,

and the occasional loop-de-loop. 

Which cause you to either barf or your restraints fail and you fall to your death.

in other words

love sucks!

- Daniel Aaron, 2008

*note that was written when i was single in 8th grade. Because I was bored in a week long health class.

But I had to share it with you.*

I'm sure you can imagine this note left me with many a question.  Why the pink and red cursive?  Why the negative feelings about love?  Why had he saved it for three years?  What am I supposed to say to Daniel in class next time?  Why did he give it to me and then bolt?  And the most burning question of all--  exactly why did Daniel just "have to share" this with me? 

Ah, these kids.  Right when you think you have them all figured out, they throw you a curve ball.  With hearts on it.

Stupid questions

I would like to have a word with whoever first started telling people there are no stupid questions. He has given my students the perfect excuse to immediately spit out whatever question might be running through their pretty little head without even a moment's thought. Instead of pondering the question and determining if they actually already know the answer, they shoot their hand up and wait for someone else (AKA me) to figure out the answer for them. I feel like they're saying in their little minds, "Maybe I shouldn't ask this question, I could figure it out on my own with just a little thought, but naw, like they always say, there are no stupid questions!" And up goes the hand.

Of course there are stupid questions! And now, thanks to some unknown individual, I have a plethora of students constantly badgering me with ridiculous, dumb, obvious, and yes, even stupid questions.

Some recent stupid questions:

Student: "Teacher? What do we do if we can't find what page we're on?"
My reply: "Uh... find the page you're on..."

Student, immediately after having received a test I passed out a final test: "Is this test going to go on our grade?"
My reply: "Of course not. Why would I put a final test on your grade?"

Student: "I left my homework at home and can't hand it in until tomorrow. Does that mean it's going to be late?"
My reply: "Nope. When you hand your work in a day late, I actually count it as early."

Student, six weeks after school has been in session: "What time does school let out?"
My reply: "Five o'clock."

Student:  "If I'm late do I get a tardy?"
My reply:  "No, I reward students who come to class late."

Student:  "Do we answer both of these questions for this essay?"
My reply:  "Read what is written.  See that first sentence?  Where it says "Answer one of the following questions"?
Student:  "So we only answer one of them?"

Student, referring to a 40-something-year-old male teacher who has walked into the room: "Is that your husband?"
My reply: "Yes.  I am married to Mr. Johnson.  Which is why my last name changed to something totally different last year."

Student: "Do you wish you got paid more money?"
My reply: "No, I think the amount of money I get paid is very fair for the amount of work I do."

Student:  "Did we do anything in class yesterday?"
My reply:  "Nope.  We all just sat here and stared at each other."

Student:  "When you were in high school were computers invented yet?"
My reply:  "I went to high school seven years ago."
Student:  "So were they invented yet?"
My reply:  "No, not yet.  The world was a very primitive place seven years ago. I had to use a type writer for all my assignments.  Cars weren't invented either so I had to walk to school.  In the snow.  Uphill.  Barefoot.  Because shoes also were not yet invented."

(*they say that sarcasm has no place in the classroom. My reply is that neither do stupid questions.*)

A weekend of miracles

Twas a weekend of miracles.

It started on my drive home from work Friday afternoon when Hubs called to say he had bought a new TV.  Our old TV hasn't been working since we moved from our haunted apartment to our new apartment (one day I'll inform you all of the details of the first apartment we lived in, but just know now that it was definitely and undoubtedly haunted).  I tried to blame the broken tv on the ghost.  Hubs said that most likely I broke the cable while disconnecting the TV, and I probably should let him handle things of that nature from here on out.  I agreed.  I've got no problem sticking to my gender specific roles.  That is man's work, and I'll just get back into the kitchen and make some chocolate chip cookies, thank you.  We have considered buying a new TV, but since we don't typically have hundreds of dollars on hand to buy things of such nature, we have just settled with our TV without cable.   Naturally, when Hubs called me on my way home from school and informed me he had bought a new TV, I was worried about exactly when and where he had stolen the money from. 

"No, no, Bon!  It was cheap!  It only cost me $11.69"
 "What kind of a TV only costs $11.69?" I was skeptical. 
"UVU was having a surplus sale, and all TVs were on sale for $20 so I just bought it!"
"Ok...that still doesn't explain why it was $11.69"
"Yah... I think the girl rang it up wrong or something.  I didn't really understand what was going on."

I wasn't expecting much out of this so called "TV" considering it was bought for less money than it takes me to drive to work every day, but lo and behold, the TV works perfectly!  It's an old clunker, none of that plasma, HD, flat screen crap that's going on now days, just a super regular TV.  But it works, and we got it just in the nick of time to watch conference.  A conference miracle, if you will.  All for $11.69

Miracle #2 came when CrazyA called and informed that she had some tickets to the BYU football game that night and did I want to go?  I know nothing about BYU football (except for the fact that Hubs unknowingly offended the quarter back Jake Heaps) nor do I care.  My history with football is this:  I feinged interest for a brief time when I was a freshman at the Y.  My then-boyfriend was a football freak and so I followed him to the game and pretended like I enjoyed the sport.  That lasted about a game and a half until I could no longer pull off my stellar acting job and admitted that I was bored and miserable.  We came to a sort-of-half-compromise where I would go to the games with him, but he had to allow me to sneak treats in and bring a crossword book.  I soon wisened up, broke up with the boy, and never again was dumb enough to buy an all sports pass.  I have spent my fall Saturdays since doing anything but watching four hours of football.

ANYWAY... I reluctantly agreed to go to the game, mostly because I didn't want to disappoint my friends and Hubs was busy performing Othello.  (I'd already seen it three times, and there's only so many times you can watch a man smother his wife with a pillow, afterall)  The miracle wasn't that BYU somehow won in the last 15 seconds of the game, but rather, that for the first time of my life I enjoyed the whole game!  I consider football a far less superior to basketball or volleyball or baseball, so the fact that I sat through the whole game (okay most of the game, I took some breaks) and enjoyed it might just be a turning point in my life.  Perhaps this shall be the beginning of a beautiful relationship with football?

Miracle #3 and the most miraculous miracle of all happened late last night.  Othello closed Saturday night, meaning that Hubs is a free man when it comes to his facial hair.  And he shaved his moustache!  Now don't get me wrong, I love a good moustache just as much as any other woman out there, but it was time for this one to go.  It was sexy, yes, it was adorable, yes, but it had lived its life.  (When Hubs spoke in church about the importance of work he referred to his moustache, saying "This moustache in and of itself was alot of hard work and dedication and focus."  Which is true.  It took almost two months to grow it out.)  It sure made Hubs look dashing in his 1940s Othello suits, but the hairs were starting to come down over his lips and into his mouth.  It was getting harder and harder to kiss him without tasting facial hair.  Now he's clean shaven and I can kiss his smooth lips all I want. 

Look at that skinny boy and that beautiful moustache!

I wanted Hubs to take a pic with me last night before we shaved it.  I was sitting on the bed and said, "Come here lets take a picture,"  Hubs answered, "No.  Not on the bed.  I refuse."  "Why?" I questioned.  "People will think things," he replied in complete sincerity. I would love to know what goes on in that head of his.

And a little close up for you, just in case the other two pictures weren't enough!

(P.S.  Not a miracle, by any means, but something of note:  We went to my mom's house for Sunday conference. Somehow the blog got brought up and my mom snappily replied, "Oh, by the way, Bonnie, I do read your blog so you can stop swearing in it and then saying "Sorry mom, but you never read this."  Dang it.  Guess I can't use that joke anymore.)

All in a day's commute

I live in the heart of Provo.  I work in the heart of West Jordan.  The difference between the two is a matter of 50 minutes.  I don't exactly love the drive, especially in the morning, when I have to leave my house at 6:10 a.m. to be at school on time.  Hubs is always still warm in bed, snuggled up in my down comforter, and I look at him and sigh, "Oh to be 23 again and not have class until 10".

And then I kiss him goodbye and walk out the door and begin my commute.

People often ask me what I do during my almost-an-hour commute.  The question verbatim actually is "Oh my gosh.  How do you do that every day?" 

Well, if you must know, I shall tell you... this was my commute today... a very typical drive.

6:21  Enter the car.  I am 11 minutes late.  That means I will have to drive extra fast today.
6:22  Switch the radio to 97.1 ZHT.  I am quite entertained by this morning talk show.  Dare I say that I even look forward to it each day? Today they are talking about the rumor that Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore are getting a divorce.  This makes me sad because I think divorce for anyone is awful, even if they are filthy millionaires.
6:23  I hit my first red light.
6:23  I run my first red light.  (Hey if it's pitch dark and there's not a soul in sight and you're the only one sitting at a light, I say go for it!  No one's getting any younger around here.)
6:24  I hit my second red light.
6:24  I run my second red light.
6:26 I hit my third red light.  This one's at a busy intersection, so no running it.  I pour my instant breakfast into the milk and mix it up while waiting at the light. 
6:27  I look for my cell phone to answer a text from last night.
6:29  I get on the freeway.  It's busy for this early, and a diesel is right where I'm trying to merge on.
6:32  I change the radio station because it's commericals now.  I switch to 1050 am.  They play oldies music, and I like it because it reminds me of the music I used to listen to while driving with my dad.  They are playing the song "Knock Three Times."
6:40  Back to 97.1.  They are announcing a big Halloween party they are throwing.  Hmmm.  Maybe I'll talk Hubs into making an appearance with me.
6:41  My current favorite song comes on, the one that has the line "I might have a little bit too much to drink tonight.  And I might take you home and make you feel alright."  Not that I regularly engage in drinking and picking up random people at clubs, as the song suggests.  Only occasionally.
6:43  I notice the man in the car next to me is talking on his cell phone, and I wonder who in the world he could be talking to at this hour.  I also notice it doesn't look like he showered or got dressed this morning.
6:45  Commercials on every radio station so I listen to my book on CD for a few minutes.  It's a biography on Shakespeare.  So I'm a nerd.  So sue me.  The CD is talking about how The Globe Theatre used to do bear baiting where they would put a bear up against a bunch of dogs and see who died first.  Apparently the ultimate form of entertainment was putting a chimpanzee on a horse and make them go against the dogs- the chimpanzee hanging on for dear life on the bucking horse while the dogs attacked them was all the rage. People in the 1500s- they disgust me.
6:49  I exit the freeway and get onto Bangerter heading westbound.
6:50  I hit the red light right off of Bangerter.  I start putting on my make up.  (Please.  There is no way in H-word that I am going to get up ten minutes earlier every day to put my makeup on at home when the car works just as nice!)  Foundation is on before the light turns green.
6:52  I check to see if the commercials are over.  They are.  97.1 is talking about the X factor with Simon Cowell.  Apparently, they haven't gotten as good of ratings as they had hoped from the show.  I could have told you that.  Simon's mean. 
6:54  The minivan in front of me is going crazy.  He is switching lanes every thirty seconds, but not speeding up to get around anyone.  Just switching, confusing the heck out of anyone behind him.
6:56  Next stop light.  I manage bronzer and blush.
6:59  I finish my instant breakfast.
7:03  An unexpected phone call from my mom.  She has just woken up and wanted to catch me before I started teaching.  She is wondering about getting tickets for Hubs' play, Othello.  I give her needed information and we arrange a time we can go together.  I like talking to my mom in the morning.  Makes me feel like I'm still just a kid headed off to school. 
7:05  Red light.  Eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss.  (It's an extra long red light, you know how it is waiting for an arrow.)
7:06  The sun is starting to come up and it's finally getting a little light.  Driving in the light is uber-million times better than driving in the dark.
7:08  97.1 is playing back some of the audio from the court case that is going on right now against Michael Jackson's doctor.  I don't know how they got audio of Michael when he was all drugged up, but he sounds stoned.  (This radio station should be paying me to advertise for them!) *ahem, ZHT, take note please*
7:09  I roll into CHHS parking lot, nine minutes late.  Not good, but definitely not the latest I've ever shown up for work.  I pull up alongside Mrs. Smith, who is just getting out of her car.  We always arrive at the exact same time.  I suspect she might be stalking me. 

And that, my friends, is exactly how I do it every day!

Go ahead and give me around of applause if you want.


If Hubs had any idea I drove like this he would kill me.  Lucky for me, he never reads this blog.

So sorry, Mr. President

My junior classes have been reading the book Tuesdays with Morrie, a story of a man who finds out he is dying.  Before we started the book I had the students get together in groups and write on a poster everything they would do if they knew they were going to die in the next six months.  Some students were serious about the assignment (spend time with friends and family, say sorry to anyone I may have offended, etc.) while others were not-so-serious (steal a car and drive all across America picking up hitch-hikers, act in a movie with Leonardo Dicaprio, eat an In-n-out hamburger every day for lunch).  The posters looked good enough, I skimmed over them and said to my student aide, "Aide!  Tape these posters in the hall so everyone can see how hard we've been a-working in here!" 

And that was that.

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk in between classes.  You know, just dinking around, surfing the net while the little ruffians wandered their way into my classroom.  "Teacher, may I have a word with you in the hallway?"  The sterness of the voice made me jump.  It was the Vice Principal of the school.  In my classroom.  Watching me scroll around on Etsy.

I obediently followed VP out into the hallway.  I could quickly tell that the situation was one of utmost gravity.
"Teacher.  I have to talk to you about something quite serious."
"Ok..."
"We can not have anybody making any death threats to the president at this school.  It is strictly prohibited."
"Ok..."  I thought quickly to the last time time I threatened to kill Obama.  Nothing came to mind.
"I hope you understand."
"Um... yah, actually... I don't.  I have never threatened Obama.  In fact, I couldn't possibly care less about the guy."
"The school received a report of a death threat.  On these posters in the hallway, the students have indicated that they are planning to kill the president."  VP directed my eyes to a comment written on one of the giant posters hanging in the hall.

It read: "If I found out I was going to die from a terminal disease, I'd shoot the president."
I turned red immediately.  Kids these days.  They'll write anything if you let them. 

"Oh, wow.  I'm sorry.  I didn't notice that."
"It's okay.  Just take it down.  You were reported this morning, so I had to come down myself to investigate, and I found the claims against you to be true."
Whoa whoa whoa.  Now this was starting to sound like some kind of a criminal case.  I was reported?  What does that even mean?  Somebody really thought that I've been down here in this corner of the school, plotting with my students to kill Mr. Prez?

"I'm sorry VP."

"It's okay, Teacher.  You just need to be aware that those threats are inappropriate, and the posters need to be taken down immediately.  This kind of behavior should not be encouraged."  Which surprised me, because I always had thought it was okay to encourage assassination.
"Okay no problem.  I'll take them down right now."
VP started walking away and I stared at the posters in bewliderment, trying to figure out what students had written that, how it had gotten past me, and what teacher cared enough to read the poster and then "report" me.
"Oh and Teacher?"  VP turned around.
"Yes?"
"You'll also need to take the poster down with the threat to Justin Beiber."
"Justin Beiber?"
"Yes.  It is not okay for your students to write they are going to slap him across the face."

And with that, VP was gone, marching down the hallways to maintain the perfect order that exists within these four walls.

Once he was out of sight, I studied the posters carefully.  Upon further examination I discovered I had actually been let off easy.  In reality there were three threats to the president, (don't ask me why they all suddenly want to kill the poor man.  You know how it is with16 year olds- one person says something and the whole lot of them jump on the bandwagon.) two threats to Justin Beiber, and one disillsioned student wrote that he planned to "knock up Selena Gomez" before he kicked the bucket.

Welp, looks like I'll be reading my students' work a little more closely from here on out.  Those kids, they'll pull a fast one on you if you're not careful.

A good wife

Lookie, lookie!  I can be a good Mormon wife too!  I can re-decorate and re-paint and be craftsy and cutesty and twirley.

This is our apartment before hand...

and this is our apartment after...

Pretty nifty, eh?  I welcome any comments about the new look.  Unless, of course, you don't like it.  In that case, I would appreciate it if you keep the comments to yourself... 

Most people haven't.  Kept the comments to themselves, I mean.  For example, Hubs' brother walked into our apartment and declared "Good golly, what happened to the walls?" 

Also, Carlos at Wal-mart was not too complimentary about my choice of colors. (**The names of any Wal-mart employee mentioned in my blog have not been changed to protect their identity.  Come on, why would I protect em?**)  

"What do you think about this color for painting my living room walls?" I asked Carlos, even though my mind was already made up and nobody, not even Carlos, could talk me out of retro-seventies-green.  I was just trying to make conversation, really.

"I think you should go with something a little more neutral" he replied in a very thick Mexican accent.  Which surprised me.  I thought Carlos would be more supportive of my choice given that every Mexican house I have ever been has been painted this exact shade of green.

"Neutral?"

"Yah... you know... like a color that can go with a lot of other colors.  I don't think there is very much that can go with this shade of green."

At this point, I was quite defensive of my choice.  What does a person like Carlos know about a thing like painting?  "Yah, but I like it.  It's bright. Fun. As long as it doesn't give you a headache when you walk into the room."

"I think it would give me a headache when I walked into the room."

Wow!  Wal-mart employees these days, they've sure got a lot of sass!  Between him and Joel you'd think they were trying to teach me some kind of lesson on how to live my life!

"Can you just mix the paint?"  Who asked Carlos anyway?

I went on home and painted with a fury rarely seen this side of the Mississippi.  I wanted those walls to look like a masterpiece, and I wanted to surprise Hubs when he came home from rehearsel.  I enlisted the help of CrazyA, who was mostly surprised at how sloppy I was doing the whole thing.  "Don't you want the walls to look nice?" she questioned.  "Yes," I admitted, "but mostly I want to be done in an hour."  Time, afterall,  is always my number one motivator.

We painted, we painted quickly, we painted sloppily, and we painted passionately. 

One hour later (I stuck to my time limit!) I wasn't too pleased with the results.  It just looked sort of... weird?  This could be due to the fact that we painted as fast as we could.  Another reason, I reluctantly admitted, could be the color choice.  Dang it.  Carlos was right.

Hubs came home and checked it out and said it looked fine and what was for dinner?  I fed him and asked him, "Yah, but what about all the pictures of us on the wall?  Do they look weird?"

"Yah, they do," he replied. 

Well he's not a liar, I guess I gotta give him that much.

"Yah, I need to work on that, but do you like the color of the walls?"

"Yah.  It's cool.  I feel like I live inside an avocado."

Hmmm... not exactly the review I was looking for, but I'll take it!

Let's face it- I'm completely helpless when it comes to decorating/cooking/sewing/taking care of children/anything that has to do with being a good wife or mother. (Ah, I'll never forget good old S. who broke up with me because I didn't like kids enough. Thank goodness I found Hubs!)  I do have a very low tolerance for bad smells, so maybe I'll make up for my wifey-ness ineptitude by becoming the fastest dang diaper changer in the world.  You gotta have a goal, people.
 
(P.S.  If you read this blog I request that you become a follower.  I'm not exactly sure why.  Or what it does.  It's just that google told me to do it, and I rarely disobey google as I realize they are on their way to world domination.  When google is in charge of this planet, I surely don't want to be on their list of people who once disobeyed them.  The link is on the top right of this page.  You just click the thing that says "follow."   Thanks!  Or,  as my buddy from Wal-mart would say, Gracias!)

Tragedy strikes at Wal-mart

Lately I have become pretty proud of myself for being quite the, dare I say, THRIFTY, shopper?  I get a coupon in one hand, double it because it's Tuesday, price match everything at Wal-mart, and boom, I'm saving $20 to $30 bucks a week on groceries. Yes, ma'am that's me, Extreme Couponing, here I come.  I often excitedly relate my triumphs at the grocery store to Hubs.  He is less interested in coupons than I am, but he tries to humor me. "That's great, hon, I'm glad you got my lunchables, fruit gushers, and Dr. Pepper much cheaper this week than you did last week."  Yes, that is what Hubs eats.

Back to Wal-mart.  I venture over once a week, and try to make it snappy.  No more than an hour.  In and out, thank you very much.  Set the stopwatch, and let's begin.  Some people say their husbands go shopping with them, but in my case it has been a lone journey from day one.  It's Hubs least favorite chore, and I don't trust him with the whole price matching thing anyway, so we're both happy that I go alone every week.  Ice cream, bread, milk, gushers, soda, celery (ok fine I never buy celery), check register and we're out of here.  However, due to my recent obsession with price matching, the cash regiester part of the whole shopping extravaganza has become quite the ordeal.

Yes, I am that woman in line.  The woman who has a different price for everything.  Who insists that the checker rang up something wrong.  The one who takes forever to just pay and get out of there.  I am she. She is me. She and I are one.

Last night, Wal-mart was a-hopping.  I don't know what it is about Wally's on a Monday night in Orem, but I couldn't move that cart anywhere.  I was surrounded by single FHEers, Polynesian groups of women with huge binders full of coupons, (and let me tell you, those women could certainly teach me a thing or two about saving a buck!) screaming babies, (my constant plea to Hubs: "please tell me we don't have to get pregnant yet" to which he sweetly responds "No, Bon, we don't have to have kids until we want to.  Stop stressing."  And I do.  Until my next trip to Wal-mart.) and women with their doting husbands pushing the carts for them.  I was shoving my way through them all, making it quick, grabbing my food, working hard to beat my last week's grocery store time.  (If you make it a race, somehow it all becomes a lot more fun.  That is competitive Bon speaking again)  (And, WHOA, talk about excessive parantheses in this paragraph!  If this were one of my students' papers, I would certainly tell them to cut back! on the dang parantheses!)  I was in line after only having spent 38 minutes in Wal-mart.  Not bad, Bon, not bad.

Unfortunately, due to the surge in population at Wal-mart last night, I waited in line for 17 minutes.  This sometimes happens during your grocery store race, and when it does, you just have to accept that you lost that week, hope for better lines next week, pick out a trashy celebrity magazine from the aisle, and enjoy your 17 minutes of peace to indulge in reading you would never get to enjoy if it weren't for long grocery store lines.  So I did just that.  After a quick 17 minutes, it was my turn at the register.  I organized the groceries so that all the normal priced ones went first (Makes it easier on the grocers you know, I'm looking out for everyone!), I was so proud of myself for how professional I was being about the whole thing. 

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  "Oh, that one's price matched.  That milk is only $1.75."  Cashier Joel types in new price. Disgruntled customer behind me sighs.  "The Capri Suns are $1.50 each" Joel types in new price.  I can tell the crowd behind me is getting antsy, but I waited patiently, so can they!  Plus, don't they care that I'm saving $20 here? 

"The avocadoes are .88 each" Joel does his thing.  And so forth. And so forth.  Approximately 7 minutes later, we are done. (Not a bad time, FYI)  "$43 dollars is your total" informs Joel. 
"Oh, I've got some coupons."
Joel raises his eyebrows.  "Great."
Beep. Beep. Beep. "Your new total is $38"  I dig around for my wallet thinking all the while, 38+17+7= 62 minutes... a little over an hour spent at Wal-mart.  Disgusting.  Digging around thinking, "Next week I will have to choose a better time to come.  Maybe right after school instead of 8:00 at night," Digging around thinking, "I wonder if Hubs is done with his rehearsel" Digging. Digging. 

Digging.

DIGGING. 

And that's when it suddenly became all too clear. 

I'd left my wallet...

...at home.

I could feel my face turning red.  The cheeks were hot.  Burning hot.  And flushed.  I suddenly felt weak.  I needed to sit down.  I looked around.  The people behind me were none too patient.  Joel looked bugged.  Or bored.  Or amused.  It's hard to tell with Wal-mart cashiers these days. 

"You'renevergoingtobelievewhathappenedIleftmywalletathomeIamsoembarrassed" I spewed out all at once, just like that.  
Joel didn't seem too phased. "You can just go get it and come back and pay." 
"But I live fifteen minutes away... it would take me half an hour to get back here to pay for these." 
"Well, what do you want me to do, ma'am?"

And that, I suppose, was the question.  What did I want him to do?  Babies were screaming behind me, impatient mothers were rolling their eyes, Joel wasn't going to let this conversation continue much longer, "I'll put your basket right here and if you come back to get it, it'll be here for the next hour and you can just pay on this register we'll have everything saved."
"Even everything that I price matched?"
"Yes, ma'am, although I don't know that that should be your primary concern right now."
Wow.  Touche, Joel.  And I shuffled out of the store.

These were the thoughts going on in my head at that exact moment at 9:12 last night, leaving Wal-mart, grocery-less, knowing I had to come right back: "Who goes grocery shopping without a wallet?  Are you 70?  You go to a store to  buy something, you take money to buy the thing with.  How do you forget that?  Now you have to drive all the way back.  And you spent 2+ hours in the car a day, and now you just made an extra 30 minutes of driving for yourself.  You're an idiot"

I drove home, grabbed the wallet, (just hanging out on the kitchen table, cool as can be) and hurried back.  32 minutes of driving to get back to Wal-mart. 

Groceries were still there. 

Joel was not.

Instead, David was there.

"Uh, hi David... these are my groceries in this basket here... Joel rang them up for me.  I had to run home to grab my wallet.  But I"m here to pay now.  You know, like a good, honest, society-contributing adult."

David checked around on his register.  Made some phone calls.  Typed a bunch of buttons.  No record of the transaction anywhere.  Which meant.... get back in line. Wait.  The trashy magazines no longer posessed the allure they had earlier in the evening.  Hubs was texting "Where are you?  I'm home."  Nine minutes waiting in line.  Eight minutes to redo the price matching (Oh you better believe after all this hassle I was not about to pay full price for a dang thing.  It's hard being this stubborn sometimes, it really is.)

At this point my ice cream was completely melted.  Coming-out-the-sides-melted.  But even I have a little bit too much pride to ask them for a different carton.  So I just wheeled it away with me and the rest of my precious groceries.  Fifteen minutes driving back to the apartment, and finally, I was home. (38+17+7+32+9+8+15=126 minutes)  Two hours. Six minutes. Grocery shopping.

I collapsed on the couch, demanding Hubs put all the damn groceries away and don't ask. (So sorry, mom, if you ever read this blog. Which I know you don't)  He did it, and did it without saying a word or complaining.  I watched him, ready to pounce when he whined about having melted ice cream, as he pulled out the disgusting, soggy carton.  But he just put it away silently.  And when I was finally ready to admit to him what had happened- that I am an idiot and left my wallet at home, Hubs just laughed and said, "Thanks, Bon.  You're the best for always doing the grocery shopping.  I love you so much."

It almost made me feel better. 

Almost.

Fumble

A one act play

Starring: Jake Heaps

Cast
Bonnie: Full time English teacher, Mormon, married to Hubs, 25 years old
Hubs: Aspiring actor, full time student, Mormon, married to Bonnie, 23 years old
Bishop: In charge of church proceedings
Jake Heaps: Local college football celebrity. Has come under some heat lately for one of the most embarrassing fumbles in BYU history. (Please see the 20 second clip below for more info…Heaps is #9)

As the curtain opens, a typical Mormon church building is seen. Inside the sacrament hall, the pews are filling up with young couples in suits and dresses, apparently a ward full of newlyweds. On the stand are a man and a woman, looking to be early to mid twenties. The woman, Bonnie, is wearing a purple scoop neck blouse with a black satin skirt and unusually tall, shiny high heels.  Some might argue that they look like shoes for a witch.  The man, Hubs, married to Bonnie, is wearing a suit and tie. He is sporting a moustache, unusual for his generation and age group, yes, but sexy nonetheless. (Yes, Hubs is really sporting a stache!) Both Bonnie and Hubs appear a little nervous, but happy. They both look stunning in their church attire.

Bishop: We will now turn the time over to a new couple who will be speaking on hard work and learning. They have just moved in to the ward, and we are so excited to have them with us. Okay, Bonnie, the time is yours…

Jake Heaps sneaks quietly into the back of the cultural hall and sits down, unnannounced.  He wants to remain unnoticed. Neither Bonnie nor Hubs sees his arrival. They are apparently too focused on their upcoming talks to pay attention to who is coming and going

Bonnie: Thank you, Bish! I am so excited to have this opportunity to speak because unlike most people I really love public speaking (this is totally true. It’s like an adrenanline rush for me to speak in front of a huge group of people)...

Bonnie gives a truly enlightening talk... all listening are spiritually enlightened, emotionally enlightened, mentally enlightened, and yes, even physically enlightened. Upon finishing her talk she sits down, smiles, and feels good about her effort. Hubs stands up and takes his place at the podium.

Hubs: I’m also excited to be here… want to clear some things up that Bon said… yada yada yada… (talks for about ten minutes)… that is why it is important to be learned in all fields. I am a theatre major, but I should still know at least something about football.  Imagine if someone asked me about the BYU/Utah game last week and all I could say is “the football players are so big!” No. I have to be more educated than that. I should know the key words for football. For example, a word I would have needed to know for that game in particular would have been the word fumble.

(There is muffled laughter and groans from the overwhelmingly BYU-student-audience.)

Hubs: No? Still too sensitive? Ok, I guess I’ll have to give it another week before we can all joke about that one, huh?

Hubs resumes his talk, quickly recovering from any offending remarks he may have given. Or so he thinks. Unbeknownst to him, Jake Heaps, still sitting in the back, stands up and quietly leaves the cultural hall, never to return to church.

Curtain closes.

And that, my friends, is a true story.

Isn’t Hubs the greatest?



To nook or not to nook?

Yah, yah, yah, I'm always the last to jump on that stinking techonolgy bandwagon, but so what?  Sometimes I just like things the way they are.  Don't fix something that's not broke.  That's why when the nook and kindle first made their appearance and people were snatching 'em up like hotcakes, I just sat back and relaxed, paperback in hand. No. Thank. You.  An avid reader like myself had no interest in such a gadget.  I love books.  Why would I want my book to suddenly morph into a computer when
I love smelling books,
I love holding books,
I love taking bubble baths with books,
I love browsing through books,
I love writing all over my books,
I love skipping around in books,
I love folding the pages of my books to mark a page I like,
I love borrowing books,
I love falling asleep with books,
I love collecting books,
I love the way books look on a bookshelf,
I love having books in my home,
I love the covers of books?

That's what I've been telling myself for the last three years, anyway.  Lately, though, I am wondering if my decision to faithfully stand by my printed books always and forever is really the best decision.  It all started one day last spring when I came home from work to find a hyped up Hubs.  Today is the day!  I'm buying a nook, Bon!  And you can't stop me!  I've got the money in my bank account and I'm going to Barnes and Noble right now to buy one whether you like it or not!  You can come with me if you want, but that's what I'm doing!  (Hubs often makes decision like this- rashly and with a frenzy of excitement, and half scared that I will not allow him to do so).  So, we trekked on down to B&N and I casually sipped on my Italian cream soda and pretended not to care that Hubs was soon to be the proud owner of the book of all books.  I liked my tangible books and I did not want a nook.

And I didn't change my mind when I saw that Hubs could have any book in the world at his disposal within a few minutes.  And I didn't change my mind when I saw that Hubs could have the complete works of Shakespeare completely free whenever he wanted to tap into it.  And I didn't change my mind when I saw that Hubs had a back light on that dang nook and could read in the dark and didn't have to deal with any lamps or getting up to turn the light off.  And I didn't change my mind when Hubs asked me if I wanted a nook for my birthday and I said no, no, no, I like my books the way they are, thank you very much, and don't ask again!

And I didn't change my mind when we studied abroad and I stuffed my bag full of thick books and lugged the heavy thing all  over Europe while Hubs toted only a his precious little nook.  And I didn't change my mind when my best friend (heretofore known as CrazyA) let me borrow her nook and I realized I could read and surf the web on it.  And I didn't change my mind when I took CrazyA's nook to an oh-so-boring meeting and read oh-so-discreetly through the whole thing.

Okay... I might've changed my mind.  Just a little.

But then there was the time on a train where Hubs couldn't read a thing because his nook ran out of batteries and and so he stared listlessly into the aisle while I enjoyed my book.  So maybe I didn't change my mind. 

It's just that..... I don't know!   I'm stuck.  So so so so stuck.

Just a lil grammar mistake...

Yesterday right before school got out, our principal came on the intercom:

"Attention students!  We have an urgent announcement!

A red backpack has been stoled!

It has very important files in it, and we need it to be returned immediately.

I repeat, A red backpack has been stoled!"

Maybe if he had only said it once, my class and I would have been more forgiving of the error.  But he didn't.  And we weren't. We had a good, hearty laugh and collectively decided that our school was doomed.

But what else can you expect from a boy born and raised in Scipio?

My apologies, fall

I've always hated fall.  When I was a little girl my dad would say that it was his favorite season and I would stare back at him in shock.  Crazy old guy.  Doesn't have a clue in the world.  How could his favorite season be fall?  It means winter is coming!  It means school!  It means summer is as far away from us as it possibly can be! 

It's just... let's see...how do I describe my love for summer?  It has always been... Intense.  Passionate.  Overbeating.  Bordering on obsessive.

When other girls scribbled "I love Brad" in their notebooks, I scribbled "I love summer."  And it is due to this fierce loyalty to June, July, and August that I saw anything that followed it as an immediate threat.  Something that was never to be encouraged or enjoyed, rather it was to be loathed and detested.

Summer was swimming and vacations and no school and sun tans and sleeping in and it was everything I loved.  Fall was an end to all of those things and the beginning of school and homework and early mornings and shorter days and cold weather.  Each year with the first changing leaves, I would grieve.  This marks the real end of the summer.  Even the trees know it now.

For three years in a row, I went as far as to skip out on fall completely.  In 2006, I fled to Hawaii for the fall and in both 2007 and 2008 I was in Argentina.  I didn't want to deal with the mourning process of losing summer again.  Instead, I ran away from fall to places of eternal summer and endless sunshine.

This year I realize an apology is in order. So, fall, here it is..... (you better enjoy it, you're only getting this once!)

I'm sorry. 

You see, I know now that I have long underestimated fall.  It is beautiful.  Suddenly I realize that gone are the 100 degree plus days, sitting in front of the fan trying to get cool, with an air conditioner that doesn't come close to doing the trick.  Gone are the sweltering cars.  Gone are the merciless sunburns. Instead the weather is in the low 80s, still warm and pleasant, and yet a far cry from the miserable levels of heat inflicted upon me in the summer.

Gone is the crazy panic of summer, the chaos, the urgency.  Fall has settled in as a much more simple, relaxed season.  Comfortable with itself.  Summer is insecure and has this constant need to please everyone, whereas fall makes no excuses and says simply "This is it. Enjoy it if you want."  If the seasons were entertrainers, summer would be up there, center stage, juggling, dancing, singing, trying with all her might to get your undivided attention.  While fall would be in the background just playing a pretty song on the piano, not really caring if you notice or not.

This September has been a sweet, dare I say, sublime, month.  I don't think there's been even an hour of bad weather, and the days continue to be long and inviting.  I can wear short sleeves or long sleeves, pants or a skirt, fall doesn't care.  He invites all of my clothes.  Fall is summer without it's edge.  Without it's harshness.  Without it's demandingness. 

I've missed out on the beauty of 25 falls because I was too distracted grieving the passing of summer.  I'll always love summer and its craziness and spontaneity.  But now I love fall just as much.  And maybe more.  Say it's a change of heart.  Say it's a part of growing up.  But from here on out I'm a-welcoming fall with open arms.

(But to winter I say, my feelings haven't changed a bit, and I will always hate you.)


Hubs and me on our fall getaway to St. George



A fall evening drive to Wal-mart for groceries yielded this beauty.  Not bad, fall, not bad.

I love

Tuesday happens to be my least favorite day of the week.  So to pick me up and remind me why my life is awesome, I have compiled the following lists of loves...



I couldn't resist putting these happy little kids on the post.  If they don't make you smile, you don't have a heart.


1.  Getting on the freeway, stepping on the gas, feeling the car accelerate beneath me and hearing it go VROOM.

2.  Trashy reality TV shows: Lamar and Khloe, America's next top model, 16 & Pregnant, The Bachelor, Sister Wives, I love them all! (With the exception of Jersey Shore... that one doesn't do it for me.)

3.  Reading.

4.  When it's raining so hard I can hear it coming down on the roof, and I don't have to go anywhere all day so I can just wrap up in a blanket, cuddle with Hubs, and enjoy the bad weather.

5.  Conan O'Brien.  So witty.  So funny.

6.  Overhearing ridiculous conversations in the hallways of CHHS.  Two of the most recent ones:

"I thought Osama Bin Laden and Sadaam Hussein were the same person.

That's why I was way confused last year when they said Bin Laden died.

I was like, "didn't he die like five years ago?"

Girl #1: "I never can remember which comes first, March or April."

Girl #2: "I'm pretty sure it's April."

Girl #1: "Are you sure?  I thought it was March."

Girl #2: "No.  I'm not sure."

7.  Shrimp tacos and diet coke.

8.  Writing.

9.  When I get ready to go out somewhere with Hubs and I come out of the bathroom and Hubs stops and looks at me and says, "Wow.  You look pretty."

10.  My job.

11.  Any dessert with cream cheese on it.

12.  Parties.

13.  Staying up late.

14.  Going to bed knowing I don't have to set an alarm and it makes absolutely no difference when I wake up in the morning.

15.  Hubs' pouty face. He makes the pouty face when he wants something.  He slaps a big frown on his face, scrunches up his forehead, and casts his eyes way way down. He looks just like a sad, they-done-me-wrong little boy and I find it completely irresistible. I made the mistake of telling him how I melt every time he makes the face and now he uses it to his advantage to get whatever he wants from me. If my kids make this face, I'm a gonner.

16.  When the trash is taken out and the dishwasher is unloaded.

17.  Payday

18.  Going on vacations/trips/getaways/ living an unroutined life for a few days.

19.  Winning

20.  Discovering little gems like the one below.  I found it through a blog and am now obsessed with this music video and song.  Just watch it for 30 seconds and if you're not compeltely enamored with it by the end of the 30 seconds you can send me an angry email demanding your time back. 

But you'll love it.  I promise. (Please pay special attention to the dance moves at 2:09 and 3:04... ish... They're amazing.)

HAPPY TUESDAY! 

I hate

1.  Talking a lot of trash before a big game and then watching in dismay as my team gets obliterated.  (What could I be talking about?  A 54-10 spanking for my Alma mater... more of the horrific details can be seen here )

2.  Three lanes of traffic- three cars going the exact same speed.  No one passes, no one speeds up, no one slows down, they all just stay neck and neck with each other, not allowing anyone else to pass.  (I really hate it when they are three diesels hogging up the lanes.)
 
3.  Pretzels, walnuts, and spicy food.

4.  Getting unexpected/ undeserved fees from internet companies, cable companies, banks, etc, and then having to haggle on the phone for an hour to get the ten dollar charge taken off.  No, it's not worth an hour of my time to argue with these people, but it is worth my pride.  I won't let people walk all over me and sneakily slide my money out from my bank account while I'm looking away, dang it!

5.  The alarm clock.  Everything about it.  The look of it, the sound of it, everything it represents, the mere fact that it exists.

6.  Having the color dull on a bright, beautiful blouse because I was stupid enough to wash it with my jeans.

7.  Getting too competitive in games and taking all the fun out of it.  For detailed information on how I unfailingly do this, see here.

8.  Not seeing Hubs all week because of crazy rehearsal times and complete opposite schedules- AKA all last week.

9.  Long meetings where information is inefficiently given and the same thing is said over and over in different ways and yet somehow everyone still leaves the meeting confused (kind of like the meeting I am in right now!)

10.  The way my car smells kind of gross all the time due to the large amount of time I spend eating in it, drinking in it, putting makeup on in it, lugging stuff around in it, other doing other daily living activities in it.

11.  Peeking through the cracks in the bathroom stalls to try to find an empty one and making sustained eye contact with someone sitting on the toilet.  Then having to wait in a stall until I am sure they are out of the bathroom so I won't have to see them again.

12.  Seeing a friend or aquaintance and staring them down to get their attention, and when we finally make eye contact I realize it was not the friend or acquaintance I thought it was, but rather, a complete stranger.

13.  Making eye contact with people in cars as I pass them.

14.  Basically.... any accidental eye contact.

Toilet talk

No, this picture is not from the actual incident described below.  I could lose my job for that people!

Copper Hills has not yet been kind enough to provide the teachers with a faculty bathroom on the bottom floor.  Which means when I gotta go in the middle of class, I've got two options: A) Trek across the school and up the stairs to enjoy the privacy of the only faculty bathroom while all hell breaks loose in my unattended classroom or B) slip out when my students don't notice, use the public/student bathroom around the corner, and make it quick. 

In my one year and one month here at CHHS, I have yet to choose option A. 

Today I was once again faced with that choice.  I once again chose option B.  I got the class started on some work, snuck out of the room, and rushed to the bathroom.  Upon entering, I noticed three girls just a-gabbing away, doing their makeup (At this point you may have two questions.  1. Why weren't these girls in class?  2. Why were these girls doing their makeup at noon?  Unfortunately, I do not have the answer to either question.)  I brushed past them, into the stall. 

Oh, but wait. Wait.  These girls weren't just talking, I quickly discovered.  They were talking dirty.  Crazy gross naughty inappropriate talk. 

I was shocked. 

Okay...I was a little shocked. 

Okay... fine... I wasn't shocked at all. 
(I work full time at a high school,  for crying out loud, I expect this kind of behavior out of the students.  Will my mom be disappointed in me if I said I wasn't even phased? )

I was finishing up when suddenly the dirty talk came to a screeching halt, to be replaced with frantic whispers.  I didn't know why.  Nor did I care. I exited the stall, washed my hands, and noticed that the girls were in what appeared to be a chicken frenzy- chucking opened mascara bottles and cheap red lipstick into their backpacks and flapping out of the bathroom. (And if you don't believe that high school girls can flap, believe-you-me, they can!)

At this point, I was done with my bathroom business, so I followed them out.  Apparently, in their complete panic mode, they failed to notice I was right behind them.  This is what I overheard: 

"...... oh my gosh that was a teacher???......... but she's like four feet tall......... thought she was a student..........oh my gosh is she going to report us to the vice principal?............I thought she would never leave, she was in there for like seven minutes!!!...........  so embarrassing........ do you think she even knew what we were talking about though?.............. are you sure it was a teacher?...........If they call my mom I'm screwed......what a perv! she just stayed in there to listen us.........."

(To whom it may concern: my acutal height is 5'4 1/2, I had a whole can of diet coke which is why I was in there for longer than normal, but it wasn't a whole seven minutes, yes, I did know what they were talking about, and no, I am not a perv.)

At this point, I was bored with their worryings about me overhearing the conversation.  Plus, they were walking too slow, and I needed to get back to my classroom, so I passed them. 

Conversation: Abrupt halt
Atmosphere: Extremely awkward
Tension: You could cut it with a knife 

Upon returning to my classroom and finding my class surprisngly well behaved, I sat down to ponder the incident for a moment.  After considerable reflection, I decided that when faced with my bathroom-during-class-choice it might be time to start going with option A- the private faculty bathroom.

Actually...

I think I'll stick with option B.

I like to keep those high schoolers on their toes, after all.

Tell me how you really feel

I recently graded the students' first writing assignment of the year.  The prompt was to tell me what the purpose of reading and writing is in the world, why it's important, what their past experiences with writing have been, etc.  I got some real gems out of the kids.  Here are a few of my favorites: 

No, he is not really one of my students.  Yes, I wish he was. 

  
• "Language Arts makes me feel many ways. I feel that Language arts is boring, it makes me want to fall asleep, I feel like it’s never going to end."
• "Writing to me is also like cheerios. They might both be good for you but they both are boring and plain. Both Cheerios and writing are for old people. Writing and cheerios taste the same just like paper and cardboard."

• "It wasn’t easy coming up with our language. People making things like silent letters; come on who thinks of that?"

• "When I think about American Literature some things come to mind. Like how the Native Americans got screwed."

• "I think we should do away with writing altogether."

I got to say, though, I agree with the kid about the silent letters.  Those things are tricky little devils!