Hark! Hark! Hark!

Last night my mom said to me, "Oh, you have to see this group on this TV show! They're Mormons and they go to BYU and they're darling."   And since all Mormons love to see other Mormons doing anything mildly famous, I fell right for it.  We sat down to watch, and what do you know?  Staring right into my eyes across waves and waves of television (Does television come in waves?) was a familiar face. 

But first... let me rewind a little bit.  Allow me to take you to the summer of 2007.  I spent my days studying the gospel and learning Spanish in the midst of dozens of boys who were two years younger than me.  The MTC.  Elder Welch was my Zone Leader and he taught me the ways of the missionary center.  He showed me not only how to survive in that jungle, but how to become master of the place. And I did. With his help. (But not in any way that involved anything romantic or us being alone with each other.  Or even within six feet of each other. People. This is the MTC we're talking about here.)

The truth is,  Elder Welch's and my relationship had not always been a bed of roses.  It all started when I was having a bad day and just wanted to go to lunch and not read my scriptures anymore.  (All things in moderation, I say!)  I was annoyed with the following:  Hot, stuffy classrooms. Smelly 19 year old boys in suits. A language that was not coming to me.  Too much gospel study.  Elder Welch. 

You see, for weeks Elder Welch had been singing a hymn.  Not just any hymn either... the most annoying hymn in the history of the history of all hymns.  It goes like this:

"Hark! Hark! Hark! -'tis children's music! Childrens' voices oh how sweet!  When in innocence and love, with the angels up above, they will happy hearts and cheerful faces meet." (Hymn #307 -In the Lovely Desert.  I mean, come on, with a name like that, you know the hymn is gonna be a bust.)

I think Elder Welch found out that I hated that hymn and thus started singing it incessantly.  Or else maybe he started singing it incessanly and then I began to hate it?   You never can tell when you hate something so much.  Thought becomes schewed. 

Now... you might think this hymn appears innocent enough on the surface.  But it is anything but, my friends.  Each Hark! was sung by Elder Welch in a high, barking falsetto. It sounded like a dog was singing at me.  A dog with a high voice.  I mean, can you imagine?  A dog singing at you?!  It would be complete and utter torture!

Shoot.  I'm getting off track here thinking about dogs singing falsetto.  The important thing that you know is 1) I hated the song 2) Elder Welch sang it alot.  To annoy me.  On purpose.

Finally, after a long morning, it was lunchtime.  Forty five minutes of respite and peace.  A time to do nothing but stare into that bowl of Lucky Charms and wonder what all my friends were doing at home without me.
It was silent and I was enjoying my solitude.  (And by solitude I mean my companion was sitting right next to me, but you get the point.)

"Oh hey Hermana Blackburn.  Don't mind me."  Elder Welch sat down across from me. 
I did not look up.
And then.

In a soft voice, "Hark!  Hark!  Hark!"

"Elder Welch.  I swear.  If you do not stop that, so help me--"
"Children's voices oh how sweet..."
"Seriously."
"When in innocence and love,"  He was singing higher and higher with each phrase.
"No! This is not innocent!  And this is not with love!  You are doing this on purpose to irritate me;  now cut it out!"
He stopped.
"Thank you."
Silence.
Lucky Charms crunch.

"Hark!  Hark!  Hark!"  Unbearable falsetto.  Excrutiating pain.
"Elder Welch!  If you do not stop that, I am going to pour this soda all over you!"
"The Children's voices!"

So I did it.  Just like that and without a moment's thought.  I dumped my MTC-approved-caffeine -free-diet-coke in his lap.
Silence.
But not the good kind.   

You know the silence where something was supposed to be funny but it went totally awry and people are actually legitimately upset now and nobody knows quite what to say because they've never been in this kind of a situation before and it's awkward all the way around so nobody says anything it's like the world freezes over for a split second?

That kind of silence.
Elder Welch stood up, the diet coke and ice falling from his lap to the floor, motioned to his companion, and they exited the cafeteria without a word.

In my defense, I did warn him.

The next few days were strained around Elder Welch.  Avoided eye contact, nothing to say to each other, weird vibe whenever we were in the same room, etc.  All attempts at conversation fell flat. 

After four days of tension, I couldn't take it anymore.  I decided to repent of my wrongdoing, beg his apology, and end the matter once and for all.  I wrote him a note- something like this:

Dear Elder Welch,

I am sorry I poured caffeine free diet coke in your lap.  It was supposed to be a joke, but I realize now it wasn't funny.  I took it a step too far.  You are the best zone leader ever.  And the only zone leader I've ever had.  I want to still be friends.  I hope you will forgive me.  Also, I am sorry because sisters aren't allowed to write elders in their zone and now we're breaking a rule. 

Hermana Blackburn

P.S.  Hark!  Hark!  Hark!  The children's voices!

And suddenly everything was better.  Okay.  Maybe not 100 percent better instantly.  But the awkwardness left, and we were back to being friends.  We acted as if the diet coke incident had never happened.  There was a kind of unspoken agreement that neither of us would whisper a word about it, and we were oh-so-faithful to that agreement.

Which brings me back to watching TV last night with my mom. (Well!  I bet you never thought I was going to bring this back around, did you?  Well, surprise, surprise, I did!)  Imagine my delight last night when I was watching TV with my mom and I saw Elder Welch's smiling face. (Or shall I say cheerful face and happy heart?)  ON THE TV!   Right smack in the middle of The Sing Off. 

There he is, the little stinker.  I put a giant red circle around his face for your convenience in identifying him.

Can you believe the nerve of the guy?!?  This whole time he had had a great voice, but he had been tricking me into thinking he was an awful singer by doing annoying fake falsetto.

And even worse-  he had made it to the big time and he hadn't even bothered to tell me about it.

 
But that's beside the point.  The point is...
 

He's practically famous!

Which makes me practically practically famous!

You see, where would Elder Welch be if he hadn't had me to practice his falsetto notes on?  If he hadn't had all those hours and hours of voice training singing In the Lovely Deseret with me in the MTC?  If I hadn't so patiently, lovingly, willingly listened to him?  Coached him?  Encouraged him?

He wouldn't be making the big time now, I can tell you that much. 

He really owes me one.

I am not Bonnie's sister

Hubs had a comedy show this weekend.

Let's see... what to say about that...  It was funny, it was amazing, I was entertained for two straight hours when usually I get bored in 20 minutes.  He's brilliant, he's clever, and I love everything he does.

Ok, I think that about covers that.  Now moving on to other major events of the weekend.

After Hubs' show, someone  insisted that we go to IHOP with all his friends at midnight. (I won't say who because I'm never one to point fingers and drop names.  It was Hubs).  I've never had good service at IHOP, let alone on a weekend night in Provo Utah when the sexy single spouse searchers (Ha, how's that for alliteration, students?!?) are on the prowl.  Basically what I'm trying to say is we were surrounded by single people.  And couldn't get a table.

The man at the podium (Podium?  Is that what you call those things in restaurants?!?  Have I been going to too much church?) said it would be 10-15 minutes to seat our group.  So we sat on the waiting booths and wondered what in the world we were doing at a crummy flapjack joint for hip youngsters in the middle of the night when we're just an old married couple now. 

Then Pete walked in.  And I love Pete.

You see, Pete was in my singles ward when I was at the Branbury.  He was in my FHE group.  He spent some time at my apartment.  He even had my phone number. 

Pete is also the most awkward intelligent human being I have ever met.  You know the type, I'm sure.  Every time he talks it sounds as if he is giving a speech in the radio.  It's just so... formal.  And he says the funniest awkward things.  You'd never understand in a million years how great this kid is unless you met him.  So I'm not going to bother explaining.  Just know that I delight every time I see him.  I delight in his presence so much that one time when Mary was over at my apartment I insisted we called Pete up so she could meet him and just be in awe.  I talked him up alot, guaranteeing her that she would be completely entertained.  Project entertainment did not go quite as well as I had planned when Pete came over and Mary's face turned the shade of my thighs in the winter.  "Hi!  It's good to see you again!  How you've been?"  Apparently old Pete had met Mary at the CougarEat, asked for her number, and she had been ignoring/avoiding him since.

ANYWAY... that was beside the point and I'm all about cutting out the tangents but that one was oh so good, dang it, I couldn't resist!  So don't start telling me about how an English teacher should know about staying on topic and being organized because maybe there was a reason for that tangent and where was I?

Oh yes.  Pete.  He was introducing himself to some chicas en el grupo (yes I speak Spanish, and if so inclined I might switch languages at any point, so watch out!) "Hello Katie.  Nice to meet you.  I am Pete.  Hello, Darla was it?  Oh spendid.  I am Pete."  etc.  He was shaking all the girls' hands in the group.  Now I've never been a guy in Provo, and I never had to pick up on no chicks, but I know enough to know that shaking hands with the girls ain't gonna get Pete nowhere. 

I stuck my hand in to join in with the group because I was feeling left out and and because I've never shaken hands with a man in IHOP before.  It's all about experiencing something new every day, after all.  He shook my hand with a confused expression on his face (and let me tell you, that guy can shake!)

 

"Pete!  It's me!  Bonnie!  Remember me?"

"Yes... I do..."  Pete said slowly.  He was searching through my soul, reading my secrets.  You know the stare.

"We lived at Branbury together....?"

Suddenly something clicked in that old attic of Petey's "You're not Bonnie!!!  You're Bonnie's sister!"

"No I'm not.  I'm Bonnie."

"But you're Bonnie's sister!"

"I am not Bonnie's sister.  Bonnie's sister is on a mission.  I'm Bonnie."

"But Bonnie has short blonde hair.  Yours is long and brown- just like Bonnie's sister."

"I grew my hair out.  And dyed it."

"Wow.  I could have sworn you were Bonnie's sister..."

And at that point Hubs was growing impatient and SO WAS I because Bonnie can only get told she is Bonnie's sister so many times before Bonnie starts to want to go home.  Also, it had been 30 minutes and podium man lied and told us it would be 10-15.  Old married couples like ourselves need to hit the hay, so we decided to bale.  (ahem, a little recongintion for the brilliant pun please.)

I interrogated Hubs on the way home while studying my face in the rearview mirror "But do we really look that much alike?!?"  

"Of course not, you are much prettier." Hubs replied.  He has the right answers memorized. 

I thought about the "You are Bonnie's sister" comment for the next three days. I mean, I'd just let the matter die but the thing is this isn't the first time I've gotten the "YOU LOOK JUST LIKE MARY!" since I have dyed my hair. I have gotten it from my mom.  My niece.  My uncle.  My cousin.  Basically all close family members.  Which makes me wonder. And worry. Have people been looking at my hair this whole time or my face? When I am conversing with someone are they staring straight into my eyes or my side bang?  Say I changed my face and kept the exact same hair- would they recongize me then?

To settle the matter once and for all I did an experimentation/research project/trial-and-error. 
 
Okay fine.  Basically I colored around on Paint.  But this is what I discovered in that process.

Mary and I do not look alike.

Please see exhibit A.

EXHIBIT A

Red markings:  My sister and I have different shaped and colored eyes.  Hers are brown, mine are muck colored/hazel.  Hers are more almond shaped, mine are more round.  Also, please note that my lazy eye is my left eye and Mary's lazy eye is her right eye.

Green:  The shape of our noses is much different.  Mary's nose slants more/ is more pointed.  Mine is more round.  Please note the lines that come down from our noses.  Mine are curved like a circle.  Mary's are straight.  More triangular, if you will.

Yellow:  Our teeth/gums.  Nowhere near similiar.  Mary has small teeth with little gaps in between.  My teeth are perfectly sized and aligned.  Basically my teeth are perfect and, Mary's are less than perfect.  (HA!  Mary isn't even here to defend herself, sucker!)

Blue:  The dimple!  Mary's trademark is that gorgeous dimple on the left hand side of her face.  I was not endowed with such a beauty symbol.  I guess it makes up for the teeth...

There are many other differences in our facial structures... Mary's chin is more pointed, mine more round.  Mary's eyebrows are darker and more defined.  Her skin tone is darker/more olive.  She has more freckles.

I rest my case.  Please concur with me in that I do not look like my sister.

Baby-sitting gone bad

Friday, 5 pm
I was buried in my down comforter, in a world far far away where disciplining 16 year olds, surviving parent teacher conferences, and grading papers doesn't exist.  Somewhere in that half asleep/ half awake world I heard a commotion.  Footsteps.  Door.  Bang.  Something hitting a wall.  Grunt.  Backpack dropping.

"Bons!  I'm home!  I got a surprise!" 

"Leave me alone!  I'm sleeping."  I'm not exactly a sweetheart when I'm tired.

"Bons!  Wake up!  Look!  Look! Look!  I brought something home for you!" 

Fine.  I mean, who could resist that?  I lifted my head high off the pillow and poked around the corner to see this:

"We're babysitting him for the weekend!" Hubs declared.
"Babysitting?"
"Well,  you've been wanting a baby and all. So I thought we could practice this weekend!"  (It's true.  That one conference talk about kids got me momentairly-most-definitely hankering for a baby!)  "You see, we didn't have anywhere to put him before the show tomorrow,"  Hubs continued,  "so me and you get to watch him.  Come on...let's just pretend he's our kid.  It'll be fun.  I promise!" 

Not totally sold on the idea, I questioned  "So what exactly do we do when we babysit a giant teddy bear?"  "Whatever we want!"  Hubs declared, as he carefully arranged Big Bear to be laying on the couch with one arm in back of his head, sending out quite the sexy vibe.  "How would you like to wake up to this every morning?!?" Hubs pointed to the bear.

"I think it would be weird.  Are we still going out for dinner tonight?"  I was obviously less enthused than Hubs.

"Well, we can't now.  We have to baby-sit!"

"You're joking."

"Or I guess we could take him with us."

"Take him with us?!?"  I freaked.  (Here's the honest truth.  I'm married to the guy, I know,  But I still can't always tell when Hubs is being straight with me or when he's pulling my leg.)

"Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Bon calm down.  I'm teasing," Hubs said as he moved the bear to the kitchen table.   "Let's feed him here, put him to bed, and then go out."

Finally I could see that Hubs wasn't about to budge and I better just play along and make this as painless as possible.  So we sat Big Bear at the table for awhile. About 20 minutes later, Hubs declared, "Alright, Big Bear ate.  We can go out now."

"Thank goodness," I said reaching for my purse.

"Oh, but wait!" Hubs interrupted, "We haven't put him to bed yet.  Silly us, we can't just let Big Bear stay awake while we go out.  Who knows what kind of mischief he could get into." 

So I waited again, while Hubs gently moved Big Bear to the couch, fluffed the pillow, and draped a blanket over the big guy.

Friday, 8 pm

Dinner at my favorite restaurant, Friday night, life could not be any better.
Actually... I take that back.  Life could get better.
Because somehow Big Bear was creeping his sneaky way into my romantic dinner conversation.
"Isn't he a cute bear?" Hubs wanted to know, "Doesn't he do the greatest things?"

"Yes, he does.  Have you seen the waitor?  He didn't bring any lemons."

"Isn't it going to be cute when he has little friends that he brings over?  And when he starts to talk and walk?"

"Yes, yes, now lets talk about me.  Or you.  Or anything besides the bear.  How was class today?"

"It was good, but the best part was getting the bear.  You should have seen everyone on campus when I was carrying Big Bear on my shoulders.  They were all looking and pointing and they thought it was so cute."

"You know what's cute?  You're cute..."  I could see I was quickly losing the battle.  Flirting might be the only way to bring the boy back to reality.

"Ah, thanks Bon.  You're the best.  What do you think Big Bear is doing at home right now?"

And thus the dinner conversation went. 

Friday, 11:30 pm

I was climbing into bed, excited to cuddle with Hubs and do nothing for the next eight or nine hours but sleep and snuggle.

"I wonder if I should sleep out on the couch with Big Bear.  I don't want him to be afraid." Hubs said.

"No.  You're sleeping in here."   My patience with the stuffed animal was long since gone.

"But, Bon, I need to take care of him."

"No you don't!  ME!  You need to take care of me!"  I snapped. 

"But, Bon, the bear needs attention."

And that was it.  Right there.  The moment he said the bear needed attention was the moment I truly lost it.

"ENOUGH!  I want Attention!  I need attention!  A BEAR does not need attention! Stop talking about that dumb thing.  All you ever do is think about him and talk about him and put all your energy on him!  And he's just a bear!  Will you just think about how that makes me feel?"

"Yah, that's true... I sure do love that bear.  Imagine how much I would love a child."

"Oh, you'd be bat crazy over a child!  I'd never get a lick of attention around here!"

"So... that probably means you don't still want a baby soon?"

"No!  I most certainly do not!  Six hours with that bear and I am convinced I am completely not ready to share you with kids!  Convinced, I say!"

Hubs chuckled to himself.  "Okay, Bon.  I'll sleep in the bed with you.  I think this is starting to get to you- we can stop pretending now if you want."

I breathed a deep sigh of relief.  "Thank you..."

He gave me a peck on the lips and then rolled over in bed.  He mumbled something.

And while I can't be certain, it sounded an awful lot like, "I knew it would work."

Over reaction?

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

I'm not afraid of the parents.  Bring em on.  In fact, if anything, I like meeting the parents and having a good chit-chat with them.  It's always fascinating to see the people who spawned the riff raff who occupy my classroom on a day to day basis.  Plus, it's my chance to rat them out. 

Oh yes, Kacee is very smart, but he comes late every single day after lunch and that has got to stop. 

I've already had to move Rebecca's seat three times because she won't stop talking.  She doesn't shut up!

I think Chase could be passing the class if he would do something, but he comes to class every day and just sits there.  He never participates in anything.

Is Carl sleeping enough at home? Because he sleeps through my whole class on a consistent basis!

Laura is brilliant, she answers all the questions in the participation and I can tell she knows the material.  She just doesn't hand the assignments in, and that's a problem.

HA!  Take that, kids!  Your teacher is a-striking back!  I'll teach you to misbehave in my class again- I'll tattle tale on you! 

And that is why parent teacher conferences rock my world.

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.