On babies...

My whole life I have been a step behind all the other girls my age.

You want an example of this, you say?  No problem.  I was flat as a board and looked like I was eight when my friends were hitting puberty.  By the time I reached puberty,  my friends were laps ahead of me, now staying out all night kissing boys.  When I finally arrived at the kissing-boy stage, all my friends were already in college.  I tried to catch them at college, being single and carefree, but by that time they were all getting married.  In March I thought I had caught up for good when I finally tied that knot and settled down. 

"Look who's the late bloomer now!  I'm married!  Take that!" I yelled triumphantly to my friends.

But they were all too busy taking care of kids and being pregnant to hear my yell.

Yep.  Still one lap ahead of me on this never ending racetrack.

And like always, I'm not ready.  Hey, I haven't even been married for a year, there's no rush to have babies yet, right?  Oh, but some would disagree.  I'm 25, going on 26 and we all know a womb doesn't last forever!  Those eggs are getting rusty in there.  Time to get going!

And the honest, sincere truth is that I do know that I want babies, and I know that I need to have babies, and I know that not having babies and spending all my time playing volleyball, sleeping in, and going out to eat is a selfish lifestyle, not a celestial lifestyle.

But I just can't do it yet.

So I made a deal with God.  I do that sometimes, you know.  Like the time when I knew that God wanted me to go on a mission.  And I was scared.  So scared.  And I didn't really want to go yet, but I knew I had to. So I told God, "Okay, I'll do it.  I'll go on a mission.  But you have to promise me that I don't get called to Russia.  Or Idaho."

I got called to Argentina.  God kept his part of the bargain and three months later I was on a plane to Argy.

My recent deal with God was similar.

"I'll have those babies.  By golly, I'll have em.  And I'll take good care of them, and I'll love them and sacrifice the world for them and I'll raise them the best gosh darn way I can.  But can you give me just a little more time?  Time to be carefree and selfish and have Hubs all to myself?  Then I'll have those babies.  I promise. 

Oh... and one more thing... could you not give me baby girls that will eventually turn into teenage girls that hate me?"

And you know what?  I'm pretty sure God is keeping his side of the bargain on this one.  Which means for now I'll spend my days being selfish and taking care of myself.  And I'll be happy.   And in the future I'll spend my days being selfless and taking care of my kids.  And I'll be happy then, too.

It sounds like a deal I can handle.

Just a little mistake...

On the whiteboard I had written three words:

"A whore's vengeance."

(Not my own words, a direct quote from Arthur Miller's The Crucible, mind you.)

My class was riveted, alive with deep thoughts and intelligent insights.  Is Abigail deserving of the name whore?  Is this really all about vengeance, or is there something more lurking underneath the surface?  How does one person's desire for revenge infect the entire community? Oh, we were digging deep, we were.

Then the bell rang, my juniors gathered up their books and shuffled out of the classroom, and in pounced my sophomores.  Oh, sophomores.  So energetic.  So unsuspecting.  So dumb.

I dived into my sophomore lesson, completely forgetting about the words that were left on the board.  We read, we took a quiz, we immersed ourselves in a heavy discussion.

Out of nowhere I heard Gail's peppy voice from the back row, "What does 'whore's' mean?"
I realized at once what she was looking at- my forgotten quote on the board.  "Is that like a horse?"

The class erupted in laughter.

I, myself, could not contain my own giggles.

And so I answered the only thing I could.  "Yes.  Yes, Gail.  That's exactly what it is."

Because afterall, who am I to tell little Gail the difference in a whore and a horse?



Abigail Williams... a most notorious horse whore.



Singing the Blues

And thus it begins...

My least favorite part of the year.

I know everyone's got this idea up in their little heads that hell is burning hot.  Our culture describes hell  with fire and melting and endless heat. 

When you google "hell", this is the picture that comes up. 

Point proven.

But as far as I'm concerned, everyone's got it all wrong with their images of a burning hell.  I think hell is cold.  Dark ugly and cold.  In my mind hell is disgustingly similar to the three months that we are currently embarking upon.  January.  February.  March.  I think hell is short days, and dark, cold rides to school in the morning.  I think it is scraping ice off the car windshield, and unlimited shades of brown and yellow scenery.  I think hell is wind, and dirty snow, and no holidays and week after week of school without a day off.

Yes, it is my hell.

And I am staring it down the throat. 

It doesn't help that today is my first day back to work after our meager Christmas break.  My first day back was supposed to be yesterday, but I just couldn't live with a six day winter vacation.  I needed more time or else I would surely end up behind bars for manslaughter of a minor.  Or many minors.  And yes, that crime exists, ask my friend, Sally, or my brother, Travis.  They're lawyers and they know the law like the back of their hand! 

Oh, wow, we got lost there, didn't we?  What I'm trying to say is that I absolutely NEEDED that extra day off of work and Hubs and I lived it up, sleeping in, getting lunch at Cafe Rio, and treating ourselves to hour long massages.  And the whole times my students were in school, laboring over the school work I had left them.  Suckers.

So, yes, I successfully delayed my return to school by one day, but I couldn't delay it forever, so I crawled out of bed at 5:55 this morning, climbed into my cold car in the dark winter's morning, and was back to school by 7:00 am sharp.  Okay fine.  7:10 am sharp.

Do you want to know what I thought of as I drove?

Yep.  How much I hate January.  February.  And March.

I've got the January blues.  The Jan-jan-january blues.  Can someone please transport me to April?  PLEASE? 
I think sometimes God knows that I've got the January blues, that I'm sad about waking up early, about my long drive, about the end of Christmas break.  And when He realizes I've got the blues, He sends me something to cheer me up.  Do you want to know what He sent today?

This. 

Shelden Williams hit himself in the nose while dunking the basketball in a game last night.

It doesn't get much better than that, people.

And that's why we should all be grateful 1. That the NBA Lockout is over and 2. That people like this exist. 

What else could combat the January blues in such a stellar fashion?

2011 Highlights Part 2

A continuation of yesterday's post... the highlights from 2011.

July:

• Greg goes to London ten days before me, and I am left a single woman in Provo. Somehow, I survive. Journal entry from July 24, 2011: "Well, I am a lone woman in the garden of Eden and have been for the last week. Mandy came down on Monday and stayed until Thursday morning. It was like we were roommates again! We had so much fun and spent the days sleeping in, swimming, playing volleyball, playing Settlers of Cataan, and watching late night TV."

• I spend some quality time with Mary before she leaves on her mishky. July 27, 2011: "One night this week I spent up at my mom's and I slept out on the trampoline with Mary. It was so fun, just like we were little kids again! I do adore Mary. She has one of the best hearts of anyone I know. It is pure all the way through. With Mary, no matter what stage of life we are in, we've always been able to talk and laugh for hours. We get a kick out of the same things. I'm sure going to miss her when she leaves on that mission of hers. I'm stoked for her, though. I know how much my mission meant to me and I want Mary to be able to have that same kind of experience."

August:

• London, Paris, Edinburgh! Journal entry from August 1, 2011: "Paris is beautiful. There really is some ineffable quality about the city that somehow makes it magical. We wandered around the streets, eventually making our way to the eiffel tower. It was astounding. It is one thing that I feel like totally lives up to its hype and even beyond. There is nothing that could prepare me for the beauty, majest, and grandeur of that structure. It really is breathtaking! I think the thing I was most surprised by was the size of it. It is so much bigger than I could have ever imagined, and its massive size simply blew me away.

• We miss our flight to Scotland- the second flight I have missed in my life. Journal entry from August 7, 2011: "I'm in a realy pissy mood. Today has been the worst day ever. We had to get up at 4:30 am, leave at 5:15 am to get our flight. We all missed the plane. Everyone was looking for someone to blame, but the the truth is, we just didn't allow for enough time to get to the airport. So Chris had to find flights for all 15 of us leaving from a different airport. We have spent all day long in the airport. We left the apartment 13 hours ago. It wouldn't be so bad if I had Greg with me, instead we got put on separate flights. The other super sucky thing is (I feel like I might as well get it all out now as long as I'm ranting and raving) that in Scotland all the girls share a room together and all the boys share a room together. Meaning I'm staying apart from Greg. BOO HOO! I am so sad. I'm seriously in the worst mood right now. Very pouty and whiny and self-pity. I realize it's annoying to read, but I don't care, all I want to do is POUT!"

• I see a show at the Globe Theatre, a lifelong dream of mine: Journal entry from August 12, 2011: "My favorite thing that I did in London was go to a show at the Globe! Seeing Shakespeare at the Globe was seriously like a dream come true for me. The play was awesome. Oh my gosh, it was so amazing to lean up against that stage and see the best Shakespeare in the world being performed and to share it with my hubby and to laugh and just be completely immersed in that play. It was a magical night with perfect weather and one of the best dates of my life!"

• Our bed and breakfast in Stratford is plagued by a ghost and keeps Hubs and I up half the night. Details too scary to post.

• Mary leaves on her mission. Journal entry from August 30, 2011: "Saying goodbye to Mary was hard. She's my best friend besides Greg and the family feels so different without her around. I know it's been especially hard for mom. Ever since dad left, Mary's kind of been mom's right hand man. Mary does everything for my mom and has been there in a way that I never could be."

September

• School starts back up and I resign myself to another year of a 50 minute commute. I tell myself I am strong and that it ain't no thing. I'm lying to myself, of course.  Journal entry from September 11, 2011: "School started back up.  I really do love my job and I am so blessed to have steady work that I genuinely enjoy doing.  It is like night at day the difference between last year and this year.  I am so much more comfortable teaching.  I know exactly what I am doing and it require so much less time and preparation.  I have a lot of juniors this year that I had as sophomores last year and it's so fun to have them again, to be able to joke with them and feel comfortanble with them.  It's fun to come back to a place where I know all the teachers, the principal, etc.  I don't have a doubt in my mind that I chose the right profession, nor do I have a doubt in my mind that I chose the right school to work with.
• I start blogging pretty consistently, and thus, almost stop completely writing in my journal. Oops.
• Hubs and I enjoy a long weekend in St. George that involves hours of Mafia, Settlers of Cataan, and volleyball.  In a moment of passion I call him a son of a b**** and at that point I realize I am too competitive and vow to take it down a notch.

October

• After several plans for fall break fall though, Hubs and I decide to vacation by staying home.  Journal entry from October 23, 2011:  "After four successful attempts, we finally just decided to stay home for the break.  And it was awesome.  We pulled the mattress out into the front room and had a movie sleepover, woke up and went to McDonald's for Lunch/breakfast, organized some volleyball in the church with friends, donated plasma, stayed up late, slept in, went out to dinner, etc.  It was a great weekend.  So maybe I don't need to go on a big trip to enjoy my time off of work."
• Hubs and I dress up like zombies for Halloween and I have nightmares of Hubs as a zombie for weeks after.  True story:  I had a dream featuring Zombie Hubs just last night.

November

• I release my anger and frustration over the NBA Lockout via a blog post.  After some encouragement from my aunt, I send the article in to the newspaper, and to my delight, it is published a few days later.  It is the widest audience I have ever had for something I have written and I am beside myself with glee.
• After seeing a strange dance at our Thanksgiving celebration, Hubs tells me that had he experienced that before our wedding, we wouldn't have gotten married.  That's why you gotta lock em down quick, people.

December

• I experience a surge of wifely desire and decide to decorate the house for Christmas.  Journal entry December 11, 2011: "Winter has definitely arrived and Christmas is right around the corner.  I decorated our little apartment with stockings and lights and even a little miniature christmas tree.  It's so cute and makes the apartment so festive.  It is mine and Greg's first Christmas together so that makes it extra special.  It'll be so nice to have the break, too, and to be able to spend tons of time together.  Lately he's been so busy with rehearsels that I've hardly seen him so Christmas will be bomb."

• The NBA Lockout ends and the Jazz's season starts up.  I promise myself not to get too emotionally involved, and after the two opening blow out games, I don't think it should be too difficult.
• I spend my first Christmas with Hubs' family, and manage to not miss my own family too much.  I have a sudden epiphany that millions have likely had before me:  No matter the difficulties, struggles, or sorrows, there is much more good in life than bad, more happiness than sadness, and more joy than pain. 

And that, my friends, is a wrap.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! 

2011 Highlights Part I

2011 has come and gone, thus warranting a little reflection on the year.  I was reading through my journals this afternoon and was amazed at how much has happened in one year.  It was just too juicy to keep to myself, so I decided to share the highlights and even a few journal excerpts of the year. ( Don't get too excited though, I obviously left the juiciest stuff out...)

The post is a tad long, as I am covering a year's worth of material, so I have broken it up into two parts.  Today is the highlights from January to June.  Tomorrow you'll get July to December.  Try to contain your excitement as you wait for part two, will you?  I know it's tough. 
 
 
January: 

• Start wedding planning.  Realize I hate wedding planning.  A journal entry from January 9, 2011:  "I am a stressed out mess everytime the wedding gets brought up.  I seriously can not handle it."
• I realize that I am making the absolute right decision in marrying Greg when he starts trying out all his accents out on me.  Journal entry from Jan. 19, 2011:  "Hello!  The boy does a Scottish, British, Russian, Indian, Mexican, Australian, and German accent.  Who wouldn't love that?"

February: 

• It becomes all too clear to me that being engaged is a terrible experience.  Journal entry from February 9, 2011:  "4 weeks and 2 days.  Not that anyone's counting down.  I swear I'm never getting married.  The wait for something has never been so long in my life.  I'm dying.  Absolutely miserable.  I can't handle the stress.  The planning.  The never ending details.  Not seeing Greg every day.  The sexual frustration.  I would say that being engaged is on my top five list of worst experiences.  Dating Greg was amazing. Being married to him is going to rock my word.  The engagement, however, is like cruel and unusual punishment."
• Hubs goes up to the cabin with me and my family and experiences his first time on a snowmoblie.  I'm in shock.

• Traffic ticket.  Journal entry from February 27, ,"In other news, I got a ticket for running a stop sign.  I'm such a careless driver.  My insurance is off the charts.  FML."

March:

• Journal entry from March 11, 2011- the night before my wedding:  "The real reason I'm writing tonight is so that I can look back on the night before my wedding and have my kids read it and know how supremely happy and one hundred percent confident their mother was before she married their father.  I've never been so sure of something in my life; I have absolutely no doubts.  When I think of the future I feel joy, peace, and overwhelming calm and assurance.  I know that marrying Greg is the right decision and I am so excited.  So so so so excited.  And happy.  Sooooooooooooooooo HAPPY.
• Wedding day!  Journal entry from March 12, 2011:  "From the first word that Pres. Backman spoke to us in the hall to the end of the sealing, I don't think I stopped crying.  I just felt the spirit so strong and I was so crazy happy and I felt dad so close to me and I just couldn't believe that I'd finally found someone who makes me so incredibly happy.  And as I sat there, squeezing Greg's hand, tears rolling down my face, I could feel both my father and my Heavenly Father cheering me on.  Saying "Way to go, Bop,"  "Atta Girl," "I love you, sis".  I know both my fathers approve whole heartedly of my decision to marry Greg. 

• After the endless pictures at the temple, we make a stop at McDonald's.  Journal entry, March 12:  "We were both starving so we drove through a McDoanld's  I think this will always be a funny memory for me... driving through Mickey D's on the wedding day.  I had changed out of my dress, but Greg was still in his tux and I remember asking him, "Should we tell them we just got married?  Tell them we just got married!"  I also remember looking at the person at the window and thinking, "March 12, 2011.  The day I've been looking forward to for months, counting down to.  The biggest day of my life and what have you got on your schedule? The afternoon shift at McDonald's.  It's weird that the most important day in my life is just an ordinary day to everybody else in the world."

April:

• Newlywed life begins.  April 3, 2011:  "We have had to move in to our apartment, open, organize and return gifts, get back to work and school, etc.  It is a whirlwind, but at the same time really exciting and fun.  It's just so exciting to start your life with someone, to move in to your first home together, to make your bed that you share, to have everything together with someone you're madly in love with.
• The Jazz's season officially goes down the drain.  I don't cope so well.

May:

• Newlywed life continues.  I go three and half months without writing in my journal- the longest I have ever gone in my whole life.  I was clearly distracted.
• In a moment of insanity, Hubs and I decide to blow every penny we've ever earned (and then some) to go to Europe for four weeks in July and August.
• I receive my second traffic ticket of the year, this time at 6:30 am.  It causes some tension between Hubs and I.  Hey, you can't just go throwing away money on speeding tickets anymore.
• Hubs plays a woman in a play.  I've never been more attracted to him.
• Hubs' first wife leaves and he gets a second wife.  In other words, I dyed my hair brown.

June:

• I survive my first year of teaching and I think by the end of the year everyone at the school realizes I am, in fact, not a student, but an actual teacher.  I think.
• Summer begins and I get a job working at Old Spaghetti Factory.  Let's just say it was shortlived.
• I turn 25.  My expectations for my birthday are way too high and Hubs gets stressed out living up to all my birthday demands.  One thing we learn quickly:  There's a huge learning curve the first year.  And that's ok.

TO BE CONTINUED... 

An Obligatory New Year's Post

Okay, fine.  I'll post about New Year's.  But not because I want to.  Let the records show- I am doing this out of pure societal pressure!

It's just that  I hate New Year's Eve.

But really.  Just think about it for a minute.  New Year's is the biggest let down of a holiday, and you all know it.

My realization that New Year's was all walk and no talk came the year I was 13.  2000 was fast approaching, and I wanted to celebrate in style, by golly!  All of my friends were a year older than me, and thus permitted to attend the big New Year's Eve Stake dance.  Thirteen year olds can't handle the kind of intimacy acquired from a slow dance, so only fourteen and uppers are allowed to attend, you understand, don't you? 

My little sister, Mary, begged me to stay home at watch 101 Dalmatians with her.  Please, Mary, that is sooooo lame for a 13 year old's New Year's celebration, don't you know anything?  But as much as I didn't want to, I was about to be destined to celebrate the coming in of the millennium Dalmatian style with my nerdy nine year old sister.  Except for one little detail. 

My parents were out of town. 

And so, I did the most predictable thing a short, scrawny, puberty-less, party-loving thirteen year old would do. 

I ditched Mary and snuck into the stake dance with my 14 year old friends. 

The dance went like this:
Not one boy asked me to "slow dance".
I was much too self conscious and awkward to even try to "fast dance."
Immense amounts of guilt were attacking me and telling me I was a lying sinner for having snuck in before I was of the rightful dancing age.
I stuck close to that always-loving, accepting wall for hours.  Midnight could not come soon enough for me.

In other words:

The dance was a bust.

 
The next day, I felt so guilty about my breaking and entering into that stake dance that I "confessed" to my parents.  In tears, I explained to my mom and dad where I had been and what I had been up to the night before.  I think they were smart enough at that point to realize that I had already punished myself enough and further discipline would just be overkill.

Instead, my dad just said, "New Year's Eve has always been my least favorite holiday."

And that was the end of their lecture.  At that moment I quietly vowed that I would forever follow father's example and become a faithful New Year's hater myself.

Here's the thing, though.  I'm not completely unforgiving.  I would have let New Year's have a second chance.  But he kept blowing it, year after year.  Disappointment after disappointment.  The New Year's Eves that followed involved lame parties, never having a boy to kiss at midnight, and working at Sizzler until 11:45 while waiting for that one last table to leave.  Each year my conviction that New Year's is the worst holiday just became more permanently ingrained in my skull.  I have a bad feeling I totally butchered that saying, but you get my point!
 
And that, my friends, is why I didn't much feel like writing a blog post about New Year's. 

But since you MUST know, I will tell you the short details of this year's New Year celebration.   Hubs had a show that evening, (and performed brilliantly, OF COURSE) and then we went to Hubs' brother's and played  Bang! until 2 am.  Hey, there's no point in chasing outlaws and killing deputies unless you are going to do it until 2 am, right?

Overall it was a great night.

Still, though.

I'd pick Halloween over New Year's any day. 

The KKK- Kobe, Kris, and the Kardashians

It is a sick, sick world that we live in.

It's Christmastime, and this year hand in hand with Christmas came the return of the NBA.

Now many of you will chide me for even writing this post, saying, but Bon, you said you broke up with the Jazz.  You said you are not a fan of the NBA anymore, remember?

Let me just tell you that I am humbly eating my words right now.  Like any weak girlfriend, unable to stand on her own, I am back with my abusive basketball boyfriend.  Yes, he treats me like s$%*, yes, I put way more into the relationship than he does, and yes, I am miserable with him, but, hey, he came crawling back and I just couldn't say no. 

You happy now?

I've watched my fair share of NBA games over this Christmas break.  I certainly watched the Dallas opener on Christmas day, and saw bits of pieces of the Bulls-Lakers opener.  Of course I watched the opening Jazz games, and had my heart broken as they experienced multiple embarrassing blowouts.

But I stayed strong, let it all roll off my back, and didn't think much about it. 

Until yesterday.  I was enjoying a meal at Joe Vera's with Hubs and Hubs' parents.  I was just hunkering down on my Pete's steak and thinking that all is right in the world when my father-in-law, affectionately known as Garedog, remarked casually, "They sure booed that old Kris Humpries in his opening game...  Why do they hate him anyway?  Because he married that Kardashian?"  All parties looked at me, expecting me to be able to spit off all Kardashian-knowledge at a moment's notice.

I tried to come up with a reason.  "Well, he doesn't look too good on TV... he's kind of a jerk..."  That didn't seem to please them much.  I tried again.  "He's arrogant.  Immature."  They still weren't satisfied.  I thought long and hard of what I could say to answer this question.  Yes, I am the Kardashian expert, and believe you me, I racked my brain thoroughly of all my Kardashian memories,  but there just wasn't a suitable answer for why the crowds would hate Humprhies so much to be booing him.

PUBLIC ENEMY NUMERO UNO

The subject was changed, the bill was paid, and hours later the chips and salsa were digested.

But my mind kept jumping back to what Garedog had told me.  The crowd had booed Humphries for really no reason at all.  And so, like any girl continuously plagued by a juicy piece of gossip, I took to the internet to find out the facts for myself.

Turns out the old man was right.  Not only was Humpries booed every time he touched the ball, but he was booed before, after, and during the entire game.  According to the Huffington Post, "They greeted Humphries with loud jeers during the introductions of the starting lineups, then got on his case whenever he touched the ball. The booing reached a crescendo when Humphries was about to attempt a free throw in the first quarter, then turned to cheers when his shot clanged off the front of the rim. Fans also applauded and shouted approval when Humphries was whistled for fouls."

AND... according to a separate article by Tyler Huey (like we have any idea who he is, but hey, I don't want to get sued here, people) Humprhies is the most disliked player in the NBA.  MOST DISLIKED.

The article said: "Humphries received 50 percent of the dislike votes, while LeBron James had 48 percent. Kobe Bryant, Tony Parker, Metta World Peace, Chris Bosh, Carmelo Anthony, Paul Pierce, Dwyane Wade and Lamar Odom rounded out the top 10."
I sat in utter bafflement after I read that.  Humprhies had 50% of the vote, while Kobe had less than 2%?

Everybody should know by now that Kobe is getting a divorce.  The wife was finally fed up with his cheating ways.  I think we all remember the rape case in 2003.  Somehow the Mrs. stuck with him through the whole ordeal, but the infidelity has happened multiple times over the years with multiple women, and the final blow came this month.  Now she and her two young kids are done done done. 

 But you want to hear the craziest part?  Half of the world says Humpries is the most disliked player, not Kobe.  And when Kobe Bryant came running out onto the floor for NBA opening day, do you want to know who was booing him?  Not a soul.  When he touched the ball, shot free throws, and had fouls called on him, who hissed and screamed?  No one.  In fact, there were cheers.  Awe.  Love.  Even reverence.  But no boos.  No no no no no no.  Instead, Kris Humphries got the boos.  For being a jerk on TV, for being immature, for not surviving a marriage to a beautiful woman.  Those were his big crimes.

Kobe's crimes- infidelity, lying, deceit, disappointing his two daughters, are much less than this, don't you know?  Certainly not boo-worthy in our world.  Because there is a key difference in Kris and Kobe.  Kobe's good at basketball.  Really good.  Kris is not. And if you're good at basketball it doesn't much matter if you're faithful to your wife.  Because basketball and fame and money is what matters around this joint.  Not fidelity.  Not trust.  Not being a good daddy.

And that's what's wrong with our world.  That we condone behavior such as this because we want to be entertained by a superstar basketball player.  That we boo Kris Humphries for no reason other than he is annoying, but that we don't boo a cheater and a liar.

If I see Kris play this season, I probably won't cheer, but I probably won't boo either.  Most likely I'll just watch him apathetically.

But when I watch Kobe play, I can promise you this much.

I'll be booing every time.

Free Car Wash

Yesterday I noticed something quite strange was going on with my car.  It was covered in all variations of mud, filth, snow, grime, and every other possible form of dirt you can imagine.  I quickly calculated when the last time was I had washed my car.  No recent memory of car washing came to me.  It was time to give my old car a good scrub down, I concluded.

Naturally I did not want to pay eight bucks to wash my car.  To be honest with you, I didn't want to pay any amount of bucks to wash my car.  There are some things I just can't stand to pay money for, and car washing is one of them.  I remembered I had a coupon for a free car wash at the Gas N Go.  So I drove on over, handed my coupon to the bored gas station attendant dude, and was on my way to free car wash.

"Now," the man had told me when handing me my car wash code, "Go in slowly and when yada yada yada drive forward yada yada stop yada yada if you don't yada yada yada."  Wow, was he still talking?  Just give me that code already, I think I've been through a car wash a couple of times in my life, buddy.

I drove up, punched in the code, and drove forward just like the lights told me.  Here's the thing about automatic car washes.  It can really tricky to get do it right.  Most car washes require you to put your front tire right inbetween two bars of steel and then the wash automatically goes on.  Well, I personally have great trouble putting my tire right in between those two bars.  I am not the most accurate driver, let's just say.  And the hood of my car blocks my visibility to see if I really am in the right place.  Every time I go through a car wash I have to open my door, stick my head out like an idiot, and watch to see if I am in the right place.

Crunch.
Crack.
Oh shoot.  I wasn't in right.  The steel was busting my hub cap.  I'm embarrassed to tell you this, but I have lost more than one hubcap in my life to the hazards of a cheap car wash.  I knew I had to get that hubcap off the steel quick or it was back to Wal-mart for me for another set of $20 hubcaps.

I backed up slowly, trying despearately to get my hubcap to stop crunching against that dang bar.  I blamed Gas N Go and their stupid coupon.  That's the thing with coupons- you might get it for free, but they're always throwing out the cheapest quality things on those coupons.  And like a sucker, I fall for it every time.

At this point I noticed a big truck behind me, patiently waiting his turn for the car wash.  Trucks always get behind me in car washes and drive throughs.  I don't know why.  I swear they do it on purpose to intimidate me, but I would not be scared by this big black meanie.  I ignored him and figured he would just have to endure my car wash trials with me.

Finally I got past the bar successfully and the light switched on to "Stop."  I breathed a sigh of relief.  I had made it.  I cranked up my Beatles tune, sipped my diet coke and let the car wash do the rest. 

I waited.
And waited.
The car wash wasn't doing much.  It was just spraying a little bit amount of water straight out, missing my car by a mile.

"Stupid cheap &*%$ car wash" I muttered under my breath.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw something very scary approaching in my rear view mirror.  The driver's side door of the truck had opened, and out had stepped an unnaturally tall, lanky man with a cowboy hat.    I watched in horror as he strided toward my car.  Was he coming to talk to me?  Was he approaching my car?  What did he want with me?  My mind raced quickly.  What do I do?  Should I just drive away?  No... I hadn't got my free car wash yet, dang it!  Should I act like I didn't see him? 

So I did the only thing a sane girl trying to get a free car wash can do.

I ducked.  Ducked low in my seat and pretended I didn't see this freakishly tall man making his way toward my car.

It was to no avail.  He knocked on my window.  You can't pretend to not see a knock, people.  I was busted.

I rolled down the window, acted cool, and greeted the man with the biggest smile I could slap on my face, "Oh, hello, sir." 

He didn't bother to say hello back.  Rather, he went straight to business.  "Your front tire is supposed to be on the metal, not your back tire.  You've driven up too far.  Didn't the gas station clerk give you instructions?"  My mind flashed back to my interaction with the clerk.  There were a lot of words said that I did not listen to.
 "No, he didn't,"  I lied. 
"Well, you need to back up!"  And with that he walked away and out of my life forever.  Or so I hoped.

I backed up, dangerously passed through those two metal bars again, and within a couple of slow, very careful minutes, I had my car where it was supposed to be.  I turned off the engine, cranked up my Beatles tunes, and returned to sipping on my diet coke.

I waited.
And waited.
The car wash did nothing.
Not even a hint of water.  No flashing lights.

In a moment of weakness, I checked my rearview mirror.  And sure enough, there was the lanky man, hopping down from his truck once again.  I thought again of just driving off, but this time I was a little more mature about the whole thing, thank you very much.  I rolled my car window down and awaited his arrival.

"Miss, you've set off the car wash so that it thinks you've already gone through.  No water is going to come out now.  You need to go get another code from the gas station attendant."

"Oh okay."  I felt dumb.  Real dumb.

Some people would have too much pride to ask the same man for a free car wash again, after having failed the first one.  But not me.  No pride whatsoever when it comes to free.  So I drove on through that car wash yet again, pulled up in front of the good old Gas N Go, and marched my way in there to yell at the gas station clerk for having a P.O.S. car wash.

"Ma'am did you listen to what I said last time?  You can't just go driving on in there as fast as you want.  Some people just haul through there and don't pay attention to the lights."  I was no dummy.  I knew exactly who he was referring to when he said "some people" and I didn't like his implication!  Well I've got news for you, Mr. Clerk, I didn't drive too fast, if anything I drove too slow because I was trying to align my tire up with those tricky narrow bars of yours!  And who can be watching for the lights that say 'Drive forward' and 'Stop' and 'Back up' when you have to be watching to make sure that your hubcap isn't violently ripped off by the dangerous bars jutting out of the ground? Sheesh. Give me a break around here, people.

Of course I didn't say any of this.  I listened carefully to his instructions this time, took that car wash code with my tail between my legs and shuffled out of the gas station.  You better believe I pulled right on up just as Mr. Lanky in the black truck was finishing up his wash.

With much care and precision, I managed to align my tire up correctly and watch for the the lights that told me when to stop driving.  But it wasn't easy.  Not at all.  Free car washes these days, I swear you've got to be a rocket scientist to get through one successfully.   

Home

A couple of disclaimers before we dive in here.

Disclaimer #1:  I am starting this post after midnight.  I promised myself all day long I would do this post and then, in typical holiday fashion, I procrastinated.  And while I may break a lot of promises to other people, I never break a promise to myself, so here I am, right before bed, hammering out this post.

Disclaimer #2:  I've been quite nostalgic for the mission.  You know... the 18 months of complete joy and torture that I endured down South.  Hence, this post will be another one about the mission.  If you think hearing about my adventures is Argy is a big yawn fest then quit reading, for crying out loud!  No one is forcing you.  I'll never even know if you stop right here.

But I hope you don't.  Stop reading that is.  Because December 27 holds a special little place in my heart.  I'm a date person.  I remember all significant dates in my life.  Baptismal date, date I started my period, first date with Greg, engagement date, date I went on a trip to California four years ago, date I bombed a calculus test, they are all stored away in my pretty little head.  And TODAY'S DATE is very important.  You see, it was exactly three years ago on this date that I was returning home from my old mishky in Argky.

Join me on a trip down memory lane.  The plane ride home was intense.  Surreal. I don't think I have ever thought about anything as much as I thought about what the day would be like that I came home from my mission.  I was kind of homesick... alot... on my mission.  I was sitting next to Elder Ward and Elder Daily and we talked about how totally crazy it was that the mission had actually ended.  Elder Ward told me his sob story of the girlfriend who had dumped him on his mission and then married his best friend.  I nodded sympathetically, happy that I still had my ever-loyal-and-faithful at home.  Lucky for me, that didn't work out.

I pictured the scene of my family waiting for me a million times.  They'd be crying certainly.  They'd tell me how long my hair had grown, how tan my skin was, how skinny my waist (not a good thing- those Argentine parasites got the best of me!).  One of these days I will figure out that I should stop imagining the perfect scenarios because it never works out the way I think it will.

The first thing that threw me for a loop was that my sister, Mindy, met me at the gate.  She had landed in Salt Lake less than an hour earlier, so she had just come to my gate to find me.  The second thing that threw me for a loop was that she was holding a baby.  Her baby.  I knew she had had a baby while I was gone, but it's just one of those things you don't fully register until you see it with your own eyes.

Mindy walked with me to baggage claim.  Her phone rang.  "Hello?  Hi mom.  Yah, I'm with her.  The plane just landed.  Seriously?  Okay...  I'll tell her.  See you in a few."  She hung up the phone.  "The fam is not here yet, mom had to make a few Christmas returns and your plane landed a few minutes early." 

Talk about anticlimactic.

So we went down the escalators, and I went to the bathroom while we waited for the rest of the family to show up.

Don't feel bad for me.  I understand.  I'm the seventh child in my family.  My family had already done the whole "Wait for your missionary at the bottom of the escalators" thing seven times.  By the time it was my turn the whole process had really lost its charm.

The whole fam damily arrived a few minutes later, carrying a darling sign my nephews had made and screaming "Welcome home, Bonnie!  We missed you!"  They told me I looked tan, they told me my hair was long, they told me my waist was small.  My mom took one look at the mission clothes I was wearing and concluded "We must go shopping for you, dear!"    They were forgiven.

I wasn't hungry, but the fam insisted we stop to get a bite to eat.  Something weird happened to my appetite in Argentina.  And by weird I mean that it completely disappeared.  We stopped at Cafe Rio and I could barely get five bites down.  We drove home to Price, and dad made pizza and I didn't even eat a whole slice.  Mostly I just remember walking around the house in a daze, not believing that I was actually home, everything seeming so foreign and so familiar at the same time.  Everyone was watching a Jazz game and talking and laughing.  I felt weird.  So I went to bed.  It was 7:30.

I was in a new land.  I felt as weird as I had felt when I first arrived in Argentina a year and a half ago.  And oh, the snow.  That year it dumped snow days before I came home.  I went from sleeping on the roof and sweating through my shirts in minutes to a foot of powder and bundling up in four sweaters to keep warm.

I felt so misplaced.  Nobody told me that it was hard to come home from the mission.  I didn't fit in anymore.  Everything was too clean.  Too nice.  Too rich.  While I was on the mission, the big 2008 recession had hit, but I didn't see no recession.  I saw cars and tile and microwaves and carpet and girls with new clothes and this ain't no recession, people.  This is prosperity.

My big break down came a day later at the Burger King.  Something about the ease of Burger King was too much for me to take in.  Everything in that fast food restaurant screamed of wealth and luxury and ease.  It was so simple to get a burger.  So effortless.  Two bucks and I had meat in my mouth, none of this slaving away over every scrap of food and living on dirt floors and washing clothes by hand.  I couldn't handle leaving a third world country.  Going from so little to so much completely did me in.  So out of nowhere, I started dripping big fat tears into my half eaten Whopper.

"What's wrong, Bonnie?  What's going on?"  My mom rushed to my aid,  "We know it's hard, you'll have to adjust, you've been in a third world country for 18 months, but you'll be okay."  My siblings added their two cents, "I remember it was hard for me too!  I missed the mission, I felt like I didn't belong at home..."  They hugged, they comforted, they wiped my tears and told me how much they loved me.

It was sometime during that Burger King hug session that I realized that no matter how much I missed Argentina and no matter how hard it would be for me to adjust back to living a normal life, I did know one thing for certain. 

It was good to be home.

The Call

Yesterday was a special day.
I know what you're thinking.  "Of course it was a special day.  It was Christmas.  Tell me something I don't know."  First off, you need to ease off on the sass, and secondly there is more to yesterday than just Christmas, so listen up, will you?

Yesterday was special for me because Christmas day means that I got to talk to my little sister, Mary, who is down South preaching the good word to the peeps of Argy. 

This year was our Christmas with Hubs' family who lives in Kaysville.  Mary would be calling my mom, who lives in Orem.  When I realized that I would be missing Mary's phone call I was devastated.  I couldn't ask Hubs to do Christmas with my family because we did that last year and it would be selfish and unfair.  But at the same time, it broke my heart to think about missing the call.

So Hubs, ever the problem solver, suggested, "Why don't you just drive down Christmas day to talk to Mary and then drive back up?"

By golly, I married some kind of genius!

So that's how I ended up cruising down I-15 at 3:00 on a beautiful Christmas Sunday.

The conversation was great.  Wait, did I say great?  I meant to say very very very short.  Mar Mar is one of those down-the-line, exactly obedient missionaries.  She believes we should always follow rules, which is the polar opposite of the rest of my family, who firmly believes we are always the exception to the rules.  The two beliefs naturally clash.  Mary insisted we only talk for 30 minutes, as that was the length that it says in the missionary rule book.  My family has about seventeen members so that allowed roughly 1.8 minutes per person.  We were all yelling to her, "Who cares Mary!  Certainly there should be an exception for us!  We have so many family members!  We need to talk to you longer!"

I was right there with them.  "Mary!  Talk longer to us!  Come on, we're an exception, don't you know?!"

But Mary refused to budge.  We could talk only 30 minutes.

We put her on speaker phone and gathered around the front room to hear her spunky little voice proudly announce that she has gained 15 pounds. 

When it was my turn I could barely even say hi.  "Hey Mary.  I mis...yo-...."  And then I choked- couldn't get another word out.  I'm just a big cry baby, but dang, I really do miss her.

The conversation ended much too quickly, and before we knew it the phone had cut us off.  We all sat there for a moment with Mary's voice still lingering in the room. Mom broke the silence, "Why did that conversation leave me a little sad?"  We sat there for a moment and then my mom continued.  "I just feel like it's so hard for her..." 

"It is."  A sibling spoke up.

"Yep, it is.  It's really hard."  The rest of us chimed in, doing nothing to comfort my mom.  We all served missions, and if there's one thing we know about missions, it's that they're hard.

I thought back to my first Christmas on the mission.  I called home on the phone in the little closet in the nearby chapel.  I rememebr so distinctly the whiteness of the tiles, the heat of the day, the incredible homesickness I felt as I heard my family's voices travelling across oceans and continents to reach me.  Everyone was gathered together enjoying the holiday without me.  The first six months of my mission absolutely rocked me, and I was ready to call it quits and just come on home.  I remember trying so hard not to cry during that conversation, to show my family how strong I was, that this tough, sassy girl was having no problems conquering Argy.  I kept it together until my dad got on the phone and said sweetly, "Hi, Bop!"  That's when I lost it- couldn't utter a word in reply and just let those tears stream on down my sunburnt face.

I don't really understand missions.  It's one of the hardest things I've ever endured, but at the same time I hold such a special place for it in my heart.  I wouldn't give up my mission experiences for anything in the world.  Something about the testing and the trials and the growth and the tears and the heartache attaches itself and all of a sudden it is a sacred part of you.  Every day I see the influence of my mission.  It influences the way I work, the way I communicate, the way I treat people, the way I live my life.  I guess that is the way with anything that is "hard".  It is difficult and we hate it and we wish it never happened to us, but when it comes down to it we wouldn't trade those experiences for anything because of how much we've grown and learned because of it.

And that's what I'm going to remember next time I'm going through something "hard"- which always seems to come sooner than I think it will.

In other news.  Here's some pictures of Christmas morning.  My camera is out of batteries so we've been using the phone camera, which isn't nearly as good.  Please accept my sincerest apologies.

Hubs' gift to me.
Yes, it looks like my head is growing out of the package.
We did it on purpose...

This is Hubs showing off his wrapping job. 
Check out the big green gift for his parents.
Hey, you can't be good at everything, people.

A christmas surprise

I am of the general opinion that high school English teachers do not receive half the thanks that they deserve in this life. 

My best friend, Crazy A, teaches Kindergarten. I try not to turn different shades of envious green as she describes to me each Christmas the many gifts that her adoring students lavish upon her.

Gift certificates to Cafe Rio, Chiles, Pizza Hut, you name the rest. 
Handwritten drawings and thank yous describing in detail how wonderful she is.
Straight up envelopes of cash.

You name it and she gets it from her adoring students and their ever-so-grateful parents.

Now I'm not discrediting Kindergarten teachers at all.  Heavens knows it's a rough job knocking some sense into those four year olds and I'd rather be dead than spend a life time trying to get children to understand the difference in the C sound and the G sound.  But what about those students' teachers ten years down the road?  Is there no Christmas gifts for analyzing their thesis statements and toiling over their serious grammar issues?

Alas.  There is not.  By the time kids have been in school for ten years, the teachers are no longer Gods, the homework no longer fun, and the students no longer eager to give Christmas gifts to their teachers.

I have accepted my fate of giftless Christmases from my favorite seventeen year olds.  And while still jealous of the endless gifts my Kindergarten teacher cohorts receive, I pray that come Heaven there will be mountains of gifts to repay me for the ungrateful spirits I now teach.

Today during second period I received a surprise.

It was a gift.  From a student.

The gift was a liter of diet coke, attached with a note.

I approached the gift with caution.  Not only was the gift itself highly unusual, but the bearer of this gift was one of my most rambuctious and... dare I say... disrespectful?... students in all of my classes.  I have kicked him out of class at leash half a dozen times and there isn't a class period that goes by that I don't tell him to sit down and shut his yapper before I ring his little neck.

I opened the letter suspiciously.  It read:

Dear:  Teacher.  I would like to personally thank you for putting up with me and being such a great teacher.  I would like to thank you for the time you put in to teach a lesson every class period.  I know sometimes that I goof off and am disrespectful but I would like to apologize.  I would like to wish you and your family a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  Sincerely:  Ben.

I wonder if kids realize how much little things like this can mean to an exhausted and stressed out teacher handing out quizzes and grading papers all the way until the 23rd of the December.  This year I will forever be grateful to Ben for whatever strange thing inside him that triggered him to get me a Christmas gift.

It ain't no gift certificate to Cafe Rio.  And it certainly ain't no wad of cash.

But by golly, I'll take it.

A noble cause

Every December my school busts out their annual Sub for Santa competition.  All of the classes and clubs fight against each other to be the ones to earn the most money.

And boy, does all hell break loose.

Clubs sell food in the hallways, teachers let kids skip class to fundraise, and teenagers come giving away every last penny they’ve ever earned.

If the students reach their goal of raising twenty thousand dollars, the teachers hold a crazy assembly where they do a bunch of ridiculous things to reward the students for their efforts.

I knew last week when two student government officers came crawling into my room with that look of pleading in their eyes that I was going to be in trouble.

You see, I have a hard time saying no, and whatever they wanted from me, I was certainly going to cave in.

“Teacher… we were wondering if… for the Sub for Santa assembly… if we reach our goal… if you would get slimed.”

“Slimed?”

“Slimed.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“We pour slime on you.”

“….Like real slime?”

“Well… kind of… yah…”

“Like whole buckets of slime?”

“…Yah…”

Pause.

“Alright.”

I had some weird visions in my head.

 And that’s how I ended up scared to tears at 1:45 this afternoon.

I thought about hiding in the bleachers. Pretending I was home sick with the flu. I might talk a big game, but the truth is, folks, I ain’t no good at walking the line.

I showed up to the assembly in my usual fashion. Six minutes late. Unfortunately, they had not skipped over my part. I watched nervously as the wrestling team waxed their legs, the history teachers sumo wrestled, and the counseling department got covered in chocolate sauce and feathers.

“And now, for the slime…. We have, Ms. Martin, Mr. Summer, and Mr. Shell!”

I might have been scared stupid, but you know the first rule about teaching seventeen year olds, don’t you?

Never let them smell your fear.

So I charged out on to the gym floor, pumped my fist, and let out a mighty roar. “ME WANT SLIIIIIIIIIIIIIME!” I know, the line was lame, but how clever can you expect a girl to be when her insides are melting in fear?

The student government ordered us into a kiddy pool. I hid myself in a black garbage bag, covered my newly dyed hair with a Wal-mart plastic sack, and helplessly awaited my fate with the others. Helplessly. Did I mention we were helpless? Completely helpless.

I looked out at the students in the bleachers. My favorite class clown was in the very front row with an obnoxious turquoise Hawaiian shirt. “TEACHER YOU ARE SCREWED!” I heard him yell from the stands. Oh, such a comfort those children are to me.

The ladder loomed over us. We watched as those student government officers climbed each step slowly. Dramatically. Finally I just closed my eyes, looked down, and waited for the mucky goop to cover my body.

It was at that moment that I realized my legs were shaking uncontrollably. Shake, shake, shake, I couldn’t get those legs to stop shaking!

SLURP.

GLOP.

SLOOP.

Which raises an interesting question- what sound does slime make exactly?

But that is beside the point, if we could all just stay focused I would appreciate it because I’m trying to tell a story here! What I was trying to say was the slime covered me, head to toe, and dripped slowly down that little shaking body of mine.

Alright, so it wasn’t that bad. I had a garbage bag and a plastic sack over my hair, afterall. I ain’t no idiot, I came prepared for this shiz! If you really want to know the truth, who we should all be feeling bad for is Mr. Summer and Mr. Shell. They did not come prepared for jack crap. The slime was in their hair, in their pants, in the creases of their face wrinkles. Such fools.

And so you see, there were two very important things that happened at two o'clock this afternoon.  The first thing was that I conquered my fear of slime.  And the second thing is that students at my school are studs and they earned a whole bunch of money.
Wanna know how much?

Over twenty four grand.

That, my friends, is something worth being slimed for.



The only pic I got of the slime.  Oh, did I mention it was blue?

How I know I'm not sexy Part II

A couple of months ago I received an-impossible-to-ignore sign that good Ole Hubs doesn't always think I'm sexy.

I tried to shrug it off. 

Laugh about it.

Keep my chin up.

But yesterday it happened again.  And I just can't ignore it.  I have to tell somebody.  And you, blogging world, are that somebody.

I was home from school, just letting loose after nine hours of teenage drama.  I may have been hyper.  I may have had entirely too much energy.  And like any good wife with energy, I decided to try to seduce my husband.  I got awfully close to Hubs, stuck my chest out real sexy like, and puckered my lips.

Surely he would not be able to resist.

"Give me a kiss!  Give me a kiss!  Give me a kiss!"  I demanded.  I wanted a kiss, and I wanted it now, dang it!

Hubs looked at me with a mix of confusion and disgust.

"No. Bonnie, no.  You look like some kind of rodent when you do that."

Yep.  Sign #2.  I'm not sexy.

Monday Blues

Don't mess with me.

I am in a bad mood.

A bad mood, I tell you!

Well, wouldn't you be if you had to come to work when every other person in the whole world and their wife and their dog and their gerbil had the day off?

I'd be okay if I only had to come to work today.  But I have to come to work tomorrow too.  And Wednesday.  And Thursday.  AND FRIDAY.  I have to work all the way until the 23rd of December.  Why did I become a teacher again?  Someone remind me quick before I jump out this second story window.

Kidding!

But seriously.

Last night I had to go to bed at ten while Hubs stayed up and played games with his friends.  And right now my sister is in town visiting for the holidays.  AND my best friend is also in town for the holidays.  Hubs is at this very moment enjoying lunch and a movie with his best friends. 

And what am I doing?

I'm grading papers!

Okay, fine, I'm posting on this blog.

But I'm supposed to be grading papers, and that's the point!  Don't forget the point, people!

Just let me rant and rave and then I'll be done and I'll come to school every day of this week without complaining again.  Well, without complaining out loud, that is.  You can't control what goes on in my head, and don't you even try, you Nazis!

I'm sorry.  This blog is supposed to funny and uplifting.  It's supposed to poke fun of life, and find the beauty in it, not complain about it.

Forgive me.

Please accept the following pictures as my most sincere apology.

I would put the video up, but I promised my mom I wouldn't.

Unfortunately for all of us, I try to keep my promises.

But hopefully these pictures will still give you a Monday boost.  This is my mom and my two aunts performing "Zumba" at our family Christmas party.

Rock on!

The stunned audience.

Yes, the pictures are poor quality, and I know it, but today might not be the best day to bring it to my attention.  So keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you.

To propose to a woman...

One year ago today Hubs got down on that not-too-shabby knee of his and popped the question.

Do you want to know what this question was?

Will you marry me?

Yes, yes, I believe that was the question.

Boy, was he nervous.

Like any good Mormon boy at Christmas time, Hubs proposed at Temple Square.

The entire day he was acting weird.  I'm no detective, but I could tell something was up.  It was a Saturday and we were spending the day up at Hubs' parents house.  There were a few irregularities that day... like Hubs sneaking into a room with his dad to discuss something... or that Hubs' dad had gone to Provo and when I asked why, I got different reasons from Hubs and from his mom. 

Still, Hubs had covered his evidence nicely.

We had already picked out the ring together and Hubs had apologized to me the day before, saying the ring was taking longer than he thought and he wouldn't have it until after Christmas.
Like a fool, I believed him.
Hubs said he wanted to go on a date to see the lights at temple square since we hadn't gone yet.  I said okay.  An hour before we were going to head out, Hubs was pouring himself a cherry coke.  Me and Hubs' mom had ourselves a good laugh when he absent-mindedly kept pouring, even after the glass was filled.  The cherry coke spilled all over the counter top.

"I think he's distracted, don't you?"  said Hubs' mom with a twinkle in her eye.

We set out that night for our date to Temple Square.  To my dismay, I discovered I was having a lady emergency of sorts.  I made Hubs stop at Smith's to get some lady items.  For the rest of my life, I'll remember that an hour before Hubs proposed I made him run in and get feminine products for me.

We got to Temple Square and walked around.  And walked.  And walked.  I had suspected that Hubs would propose, but here we were just walking around, twiddling our thumbs, and he certainly didn't seem about to pop any important question.  I even looked closely at his pants pockets.  No lump there. With a sigh of disappointment, I finally decided that tonight would not be the night.

Then Hubs took me over to a little removed spot- away from all the hustle and bustle.   There was a beautiful big tree behind us, and no one around anywhere.  Hubs turned me around and put his arms around my waist and we both stood there, staring at the Salt Lake Temple.  My ears were perked, listening oh so carefully to any unusual sounds.  Was this to be the moment? 

I heard a rustle.
Hubs moved his hand up to his jacket.
Something was going on.
Then. 
A click.
Hubs cursed under his breath.
That stubborn ring box had gotten caught on Hubs' jacket!

I knew what it was immediately, of course.  But suddenly I was nervous.  Oh so very nervous.  Sweaty-hands-and-I'm-going-to-wet-my-pants nervous.  I couldn't turn around for fear.  I heard Hubs behind me, "Bon...." 
"Hm?"  I played dumb.  I was panicking.  What do I do?  What do I say?  Do I cry?  Do I smile?  Nobody ever tells the girl what to do in this situation.

Hubs tried to get me to turn around.  "Bonnie?"  I stayed looking forward.  He turned my waist.  I wouldn't budge.  Finally, he pushed hard enough to succeed in getting my body turned around.

And then he dropped.

Dropped down on that not-so-shabby knee of his in record time.

"Will you marry me?" 

Suddenly I wasn't worried about what to do anymore.  I didn't care if I laughed or cried or screamed or whispered.  It all felt so natural...like I had been practicing for this all my life.

"YES!"  I exclaimed.  He put the ring on my finger and picked me up and kissed me and hugged me and we laughed and laughed and laughed.  No crying on the proposal day, just a lot of laughing. 

Hubs had his phone, so we managed to take a few poor quality pictures with it, committed ourselves to never forgetting this day, and then sprinted to the car to get out of the cold.

Not even an incredibly romantic proposal can stop the cold, afterall.

We laughed all the way to the car.  We ran, laughed, looked at each other, laughed, kissed, ran, laughed, "Can you believe it?  We're engaged!!!" And laughed some more.

There is a lot of stuff that I am thankful for to Hubs.  He does so many things for me every day, and I am constantly trying to remember to thank him for it all. 

Thank you for taking out the trash.
Thank you for going to two huge family Christmas parties in one day.
Thank you for making dinner.
Thank you for the back massage.

But the biggest thank you I have is this:

Thank you for asking me to marry you.

The night after our engagement.  We are all smiles.