when illness leads to elation

It wasn’t the "happiest" day of my life. Oh, I could, I suppose, lie and say that it was the most magical moment of my life, and that I will never forget it. But I don’t want to. I am a realist. And although I often crave a sappy romantic comedy on occasion, I am not much of one for corny so-called romance.

On this day, the most holy of holies when it comes to “love,” I am filled with the desire to reflect on the day that, although it wasn’t the best day of my life, changed my life forever.

Most girls I know couldn’t sleep a wink the night before their wedding. I slept like a bear in hibernation. It was all I could do to open my eyes and slam the alarm off once I awoke to its happy tune. “Ugh,” I thought. “Who wants to wake up this early on a day off work?” I rolled out of bed and headed home. On the long drive along the Wasatch Front, I was overcome with doubt. What if I am making the biggest mistake of my life? Once this happens there’s no turning back. Am I absolutely sure this is what I want?

You see, dear reader, I have been independent since I was three, just ask my mother, and a single adult woman for the last eight years. This was a change of life-altering proportions and I was leery that I wasn’t prepared to make it. I arrived at my apartment too late to go to breakfast with my roommates as I originally planned. It didn’t matter really, because I was too sick to my stomach to eat even one bite of the cinnamon rolls left over from the reception. As I prepared for this eventful occasion, my roommates taunted me with jeers about how the rest of my day would go. I wanted to run away like Julia Roberts. That horseback ride was looking terribly inviting. But I knew what I was supposed to do and I arrived at the temple just in time to rush through the doors and be swept away in a whirlwind of change.

My anxiety grew, however, when my mom was not there to greet me. I was sick. It was as though I had just consumed an oozing, disgusting 20 lb. undercooked hamburger (Thank you Matt for that analogy). I thought, “Who can get married without her mother there?” Thankfully, my dear friend Meghan Maxine stepped in and filled Momma’s shoes. While I love and appreciate Meghan for her sacrifice, someone at the temple actually called her my mother when she is, in fact, younger than me, this substitution did not help the churning in my stomach. Eventually, Mom arrived and Meghan was relieved of her duties. Together my mother and I continued the process as I continued to feel ill.

…

“Yes.” The utterance of those three minuscule letters changed everything. I felt as if an overweight wrestling champion had been lifted off my chest. I had just made the best decision of my life. As we were walking back to the locker room after the ceremony, a white-haired, grinning old lady stopped me and said, “Oh, good. You look so much better. I thought you were going to throw up before.” I have always been told I wear my emotions on my face and this moment, apparently, was no exception.

I walked out of the temple that day holding the hand of my best friend. The days that have since transpired have been the best of my life. I get to wake up every morning to the smelly dragon breath of my very own prince charming. Like a kid on the playground, I get to play with my best friend whenever I want. As I have always said, like Bailey from one of the greatest TV shows ever created, “I [wasn’t] excited about the wedding. I am excited about the marriage.” While I know it is probably tough for my husband to read how awful that wedding morning was for me, I hope he knows that now he is the center of my universe. I am blessed that he stuck by me on that rocky terrain towards marriage because if he had not, I would be the same cynical, unhappy twenty-something mess I was a year ago. He makes my days better. I love him more now than ever before. I am aware there will be ups and downs, that my days will not always continue to be my happiest, but I don’t want to look back on that one short event as the only happiest day of my life. I want to see it instead as a moment that was a gateway to an eternity of bliss, morning breath, dirty gym clothes all over the floor, breadcrumbs on the counter, nerdy face twitches, and all. The ups and downs and the person I get to share them with are worth more to me than that day. Here’s to many more "happiest" days.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone. My how life changes.  

An Attitude of Gratitude

One day is not enough.
How can one possibly quantify the gratitude in a mere 24 hours?
I am aware that many argue that it is a scheme, but it's one that I am grateful for. You see, without it, I wouldn't be writing this post, bright and early on a Sunday morning.
I have sung her praises before, but I am going to do it again. As well as the praises of many women whom I love; who have filled the role many times.

She is the most loving soul I have ever known. She is also the most patient (bless you as you watch your roof come down all around you). Without her sure foundation and testimony in the gospel, especially the atonement, I would be a wayward daughter. She has taught me, temporally and spiritually, much of what I know through word and deed. She makes me laugh all kinds, especially when she tells the same story over and over again. And I could sit and watch her interact with her sisters for hours. They jiggle when they giggle and discuss the manner of slipping organs--it's beyond my comprehension, but I love it. She has more compassion than I think I will ever be able to develop. She has a love for all God's creatures (especially her grandchild). This clip from the Simpsons pretty much sums it up.

As I have said before, I am eternally grateful for my mom. No amount of greeting cards, flowers, literature from Deseret Book, or cheesy poems can express that gratitude.

But thank you, Mom. For everything. For the good times and the bad. For the undying and loving support. I love you! Happy Mother's Day.

And to the many other women who, though they did not birth me, have shown me motherly love...

• I am also thankful for the mother who made sure I had a birthday party when I turned 16.
• I am thankful for the mother who took me in--Oh, that small town charm-- when I wanted to go to college all by myself (even though I really needed a little help).
• I am thankful for the mother with a household of boys who has accepted me as the daughter she never had on her own.
• I am thankful for the many mothers who have taken me in during the summer months, so I can live rent free and teach youth the gospel.
• I am thankful for the mother who immediately loved me and took me in as her own, just because her son had a soft place in his heart for me.
• I am thankful for the grandmother who created four of these wonderful women.You done good, Bonnie Jean. 
• I am thankful for the grandmother whose fiery wit I have been blessed/cursed to inherit (not to mention my towering height).
• I am thankful for the mother who created my sage adviser, without whom I would be quite lost
• I am thankful for the young mother, with her house overrun with testosterone, who has always encouraged me to go after my dreams, and then listens to me when I fail (and when I succeed sometimes...)
• I am thankful to the mother who has raised my brother to the bar of fatherhood and created the most gorgeous and intelligent little girl I have ever known. 

To these women, and many more, I am more grateful than words express. I hope that if I am ever given the opportunity to be a mother, I can develop even half the Christlike attributes they all possess. Happy Mother's Day, Ladies! 

When Human Anatomy Meets Greek Mythology

What I am about to share with you are just a few of the many important reasons to keep sex education a part of the health curriculum in Utah.

This past week my students got the opportunity to take a test on a recently studied piece of literature. I asked the students if they had any last questions before they took the test. A hand shot up and asked, "What's the name of the Wind God?" I was prepared to tell everyone a hint without completely spoon feeding them the answer.
Before I got a word in edgewise (always gotta have a cliche) this student's friend blurted out, "That's easy, it's anus."
To which I replied, "Close, you got the 'a'."
I didn't know what else say. The entire class erupted in laughter, and that one I simple could not squelch.

But this was just the first class.

Later on in the day, the same question came up. I was busy taking roll as the students' anxiety built as they awaited their assessment. I overhead the following:
"What's the name of the Wind God again?"
"I think it's something like areolas."
I chose to take the high road and stay out of that conversation.

It is clear to me that a few lessons in human anatomy are in order. Mom, Dad, it's time to get to work, since you don't want the hooligan public school teachers leading your children astray.

Afforded Awkward Opportunities

People who have been married for many decades seem to think they have the cure for my disease. The problem is that they have been cured for so long, they don't remember how strangely awkward it is like being in the diseased shoes.I know they mean well, but nothing good can come from a mass blind date. That's right. Hundreds of socially awkward inept twenty-somethings trapped in a cultural hall subject to mass produced supper.
Imagine this: you get "asked out" through text message (and I use the term "asked out" loosely because I put my name on a list and was assigned to man who did the same. Furthermore, the text did not actually contain a question, negating the notion that he actually asked me out. But I will give him some credit. He sent a text, right?). Winner. Now go to a church meeting house and throw in some incredibly loud 80s music to the mix. Oh, but it gets better. Add a dash of over-talkative, non-listening companionship and you have the answer to all my woes.
This will not be an experience repeated.
My favorite part of the entire ordeal: the bribery of free ice cream to any couple who agreed to go on a second date. The priesthood leadership literally walked around afterwards and asked couples if they needed the coupons for the free ice cream (indicating that they would, in fact, be going on a second date). Afforded awkward situations. I love being a twenty-something spinster.

Hyped up on Hypocrisy

The following is a soapbox post about my sometimes considered extremely liberal ideals.

Seriously, don't keep reading if you think it might upset you.

You were warned.

Today was the national "spread the word to end the word" campaign. As I donned my t-shirt of support, I was struck with thoughts of intolerance, ignorance, and disrespect (oh, not my own. Actions I have witnessed). I understand being an advocate for activities you support and morals you stand behind. But there is a difference between being an advocate for conservative ideals and being cruel and, quite frankly, unChristlike.

Allow me to explain a situation that occurred today, which was not unlike an average day in the life of a middle school teacher. A young man was being interviewed about his love for dancing and a video was shown demonstrating his clear aptitude for the skill. As a student was was watching the interview, I overheard a suggestion in a derogatory tone that, of course, he must have a certain sexual orientation because of the things he loves. My response? His sexual orientation does not matter. He is doing what he loves, and he is incredible.

Furthermore, on any given day I can walk through the halls between classes and hear various students call each other retarded and gay in a teasing manner like it's no big deal.

I am in shock and awe. I don't understand. Why can't we raise our children to have respect and love for people if for no other reason than they are human beings just like us. Why is this kind of behavior tolerated? I don't understand how people can call themselves the followers of Christ and do and say things that blatantly hurt their brothers and sisters. (I know, I know. Aren't I being a hypocrite because I am judging others? I will not justify my actions other than to say that if my judgement leads to at least one person thinking twice about the derogatory terms that slip past their lips, and he/she determines to make a change, then I consider my sin a success in that I making the world a better place and bringing one soul closer to Christ). I feel that if we truly understand our relationship with our Heavenly Father-who we are as his children-we would never want to do anything to cause harm to any of His other children. Whether they choose to believe it or not, He loves all of us equally.

I would never suggest that people should be out advocating for things they do not believe in. But I am bold enough to suggest that if these people are true Christians, they would not let such hurtful and slanderous words escape their lips.

That homo you made fun of is someones child, best friend, or Auntie Jane.

When you poke fun at that retard, you insult a beloved child of God.

Don't get me wrong. It's not just sexual orientation or intellectual disabilities that I am an advocate of respect towards. I think all disrespect and intolerance for human life is deplorable. But for reasons beyond my understanding, these kind of disgusting remarks are tolerated in my culture. I hate it.

It is my sincerest plea that people contemplate the things they choose to say, and put themselves in the shoes of the people they choose to be negative about and towards. Respect should be universal.

Tomorrow's post is a trip back to the inspiration for this blog...assigned mass dating.

"You're almost 20, Alice. That face isn't going to last forever"

A title of a blog I never published. It made me chuckle on this holy day. Happy Single Awareness Day.

dedicated to the folks who birthed and raised me

Tonight I want to talk about the flip side of the coin. Although, as I have mentioned, this time of year is a tough one, at the same time, this time of the year in the life of this spinster is a joyous time of reflection. You see, my dear reader, my parents celebrate their anniversary on the eve of my least favorite holiday. This year they are supposed to exchange a pearl or a timepiece, which means, if you didn't click on the link, that they are celebrating their 31st year of marital bliss.

Tonight I got the opportunity to go home for Sunday dinner. As we all crowded around the "distressed" dinner table in the "cozy" dining room, I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed. I have grown accustom to my very quiet and peaceful lifestyle in my spinsterhood. Without huge crowds and small children, my Sundays are usually quite calm. This meal was quite the opposite. There were times that there were at least three different conversations all intertwined. Children were laughing, crying, and mumbling on all four sides. At one point I couldn't help but study my father amid all the chaos. Since his is the quite type in social situations, it is often difficult to know what he is thinking and feeling as he is perched in the corner. Tonight, I saw signs of serene contentment. I could tell that through all the noise, tipped over glasses, and mounds of dirty dishes, he was delighted to be in the company of the legacy that he and my mother started together three decades ago.

My parents' relationship gives me hope and faith that the wonderful young man who will love me for who I am is really out there somewhere. They have loved each other through thick and thin (literally and metaphorically :D). They have been committed be they rich or poor. Through every trial they have triumphed together.

I do not doubt that there have been some bumps in the road, be they major or minor. But the childlike part of me idolizes their relationship. Allow me to explain why.

• In my one week shy of 26 years of existence, I cannot recall a time when my parents fought in front of me. I am so thankful for the example they have shown in this respect. In addition, I am fairly confident that my father rarely, if ever, raises his voice at my mother. This act has given me the courage to demand that quality in my future spouse. I want a man like my father who will not yell at me.

• As much as it grosses me out, and I say that with love, my parents still show each other affection. They still hold hands and cuddle when they watch movies (even as I am typing this I am gagging a little). I have seen them hug and kiss more times than I care to count.

• They have silly nick names for each other.

• My mother has shown me that patience is key in a healthy relationship (seriously people, she is the absolute most patient human being I have ever known). My father has shown me that restraint and a willingness to compromise is also essential.

• They have shown me that differences can be strengths. And if both are committed to the relationship, all hurdles can be jumped over together.
• Family vacations have always gone awry. And yet, they always find a way to laugh about them. A fabulous sense of humor improves all situations.
• They lack jealousy. They saw very awkward things at the dinner table like, "I can look on the menu as long as I eat at home." In reference to being able to find others attractive. (No joke, this line came up tonight. And unfortunately, it wasn't the first time I have heard it.)
  

I am so thankful that they have kept their vows to each other. They have shown me that despite the odds, two people can fall in love, love each other through the most difficult of circumstances, and create an incredible family and legacy.

Thanks Mom and Dad for all that you have done to show me how to love.
Happy anniversary! Here's to another fantastic, be they rocky or carefree, 31 years.

The Vow

Warning: This post will not uplift as the last two did. Think of it as a journey down memory lane to the inception of this blog.

This time of the year is often a difficult time in the journey of a spinster. She is often left to reflect on how she got to where she is without someone by her side. Some may feel inclined to offer sage advice for the things that she does wrong. Certainly, the flaws that she must fix in order to snag the perfect mate. While others resign to admit defeat and encourage her to embrace the life given.

Regardless of the reaction of others, a movie, inspired by what most would call true love, divine love, unrequited love, has sparked today's thoughts.

I have often been told that fear and faith may not reside in the same body. Inevitably, one will over power the other. But which one? I try to convince myself that I am a creature of faith. But lately, I have been overcome with evident feelings of fear and doubt. And not just about love and my likelihood of ever finding it, but also my mind has been filled with a smattering of unrelenting questioning.

While I know some of you wonder what those questions are, since the season is one focused on love, those are the thoughts I wish to delve into and publish publicly for any and all to read.

My fear: I will never have someone who loves me for who I am (See the movie. Inspiring). Maybe that's because I haven't felt true to myself. I want to write. Desperately. I want to have the ability to share with others the written word that provokes thought. I hope to inspire. I want to see a witty title and below it read that it was written by me. I want to explore and travel. The idea of jumping out of a plane is desirable. I want to live in a city that makes me feel insignificant and struggle to survive. I want to struggle to discover who I am and what I truly believe. And I want to eat a lot of take out.

The truth: I am a coward. For reasons I haven't yet managed to pinpoint, I can't show people who I truly am. As I contemplate why, I wonder if I am afraid to take that risk. Why? Student loans have something to do with it. But also, rejection. What if's. But mostly? Fear. Fear of being alone. An island because no man in his right mind would want to embark on that journey with me and struggle with me. What self-respecting, faithful son of God would commit himself to a woman who is wracked with insecurity, fear and undeniable questions? So I live the life others seem to want me to live. Alone. Some day I hope to find the courage to do those things I want to do. But until then...

Dear reader, learn from my mistakes. Live the dream. Love the person who has committed to spend eternity with you. Appreciate him or her for who he or she really is. Think outside the box and live. Don't let fear trap you into a life you're not confident you want to live.

Life is a Highway

Bill Cosby has a phenomenal bit where he talks about "his boy." He raised his boy to play football, and on the sidelines he is a proud dad. When his boy scores the winning touchdown and is interviewed by the news anchor, Dad is beaming with pride. The first words uttered from the football star's mouth... "Hi, Mom!"

While I sing my mother's praises often, well deserved mind you, I don't sing my father's praises enough. So, to sacrifice myself on the alter of dignity on this last day of November, I want to share with the proverbial you how grateful I am for my dad.

Like my mom, my dad has always encouraged me to be me. He has never pressured me to believe a certain way other than to love everyone. My father is one of the least judgmental people I have ever had the blessed opportunity to know. He, like that heroic figure, taught me that I: "can't really understand a person until [I] see things from his perspective...until [I] climb inside his skin and walk around in it." I truly feel blessed that my father taught me this by word and example.

My father has also taught me the importance and example of unconditional love. To illustrate this value, I wish to share with you an event that changed my perspective of him forever.
Although I was older when I moved away for college, the first semester was a bumpy road. I am not a terribly sociable person, as many of you know, so moving, to what to me felt like the absolute middle of nowhere, was a bit lonely.

One weekend during that honestly unforgettable semester, I went with my father on a haul. That's right, my daddy is a truck driver, and I wanted to know what it was like (I may have been motivated by an assignment for my Creative Writing class, but...details).

We did a fair amount of driving, talking, and eating less-than-nutritious-food on that trip, but it wasn't while we were on the road that I discovered just how much my father loved me and my family.

Once we returned, I was forced to face the dread that I would have to soon venture back to my cached solitude (I am, however, extremely grateful for the family who took me in at this time). As I was preparing to leave a tear or two may or may not have (I don't cry) found their way down my cheek. I expressed my displeasure about making the return to my Pops. What he said in reply is what has stuck with me the past five years. He said, "You really want to know what it is like to be a truck driver?...It's that feeling right there."

The drive home that afternoon was a blur. Literally. But for the first time in my adult life I realized how much I meant to the Old Man. He was and is willing to sacrifice seeing my little brothers become men. He misses making my mother laugh so hard her shoulders bounce and a little pee escapes, sorry Mom. He misses sleeping in on Saturdays and making breakfast on weekdays (I have so many memories of my father singing "Oh, what a beautiful morning" with the wrong lyrics while he fried eggs and ticked me off for being so gosh, darn chipper in the morning). He has given up so much so that his family can have what we want and need.
So thank you, Old Man, for showing me that unconditional love is putting others before yourself, and leaving the ones you love to give them what they need.
I miss you, Pops. Drive safely, and I will see you on Christmas.

My Mother hasn't had a hot meal for herself in over 15 years...

Although for my mother, it has probably been longer.

I was gently reprimanded by the host of my Thanksgiving dinner for not blogging for an eternity (Happy Birthday, btw, Auntie), so I have spent the last few days puzzling until my puzzler was sore trying to come up with something somewhat interesting--at least to me--to blog about.
Then it hit me. I should write about gratitude--'tis the season--, or at the very least, what for the which I am grateful. Thanks to recent events, and a fantastic conversation with her, I am ridiculously--indebted for the eternities--grateful for my mother.

The aforementioned conversation was as follows: I was feeling some woe about a topic not wished to be shared, and I turned to the all-knowing being, Mom, to help me resolve it. (Or at least vent about it because I don't have the courage to stand strong). After laying it on the line she shared with me a deeply personal story that I hope she doesn't kill me for sharing with you now:

(Necessary backstory)There was a time in my life when my actions were less than admirable and I was accustomed to making decisions that were far from wise. At this time I told my mother I was going to move out. I was moving to the big city (downtown) and there was nothing she could do about it. (On a side note, the apartment I was going to move in to was the most disgusting old building you can imagine in a clean place like Salt Lake City. While the Sup was showing us the place, I saw an overturned dead cockroach the size of a premature baby on the floor in the kitchen, but that wasn't going to stop me from my rebellion.)

My mother and I exchanged words about this decision, which only made me want to move out more, but eventually she came around and said if I wanted to do it I could do it (Thankfully the young lady I was going to move in with was a flake and things fell through--act of God? Perhaps--but I digress).

(Conversation)For the first time in over six years, my mother finally shared with me why she had a major change of heart. She said that during that time period she was reading her scriptures, looking for an answer to her prayers on the matter, and she was struck with the thought of what it was like for our Heavenly Mother in the premortal existence. As we as spirits prepared to enter this mortal realm, she probably thought(she being my mother in the shoes of our Heavenly Mother), "Can't I keep this one with me? She's such a sweet spirit, can't I keep her all to myself?" To the which she had to conclude, "No. As much as it hurts, I have to let her go. I have to let her make her own decisions, and I have to let her go to earth to learn. That's what this plan is all about."

My mother realized that although she was quite certain that I was making a huge mistake and was likely to end up hurt, she had to let me go. As much as it pained her(she said that at times the decisions we children make actually cause her to feel as though her heart is literally breaking), she had to allow me to make my own decisions.

All this leads me to my point, I swear. On this day, as I am on most days, I am thankful for a mother who was willing to let me go. I am thankful for a mother who taught me all she knew, and then gave me the opportunity to make my own mistakes, no matter the cost of her own well-being. I am thankful for a mother who is a shining example of a disciple of Christ, who is selfless and all around incredible.

I am who I am today, albeit with countless bumps, bruises and stupid mistakes along the way, because my mother let me.

This post is dedicated to you, Mom. Love you!

Pictureless Pictures of Two Old Ladies Swimming in all their Clothes

I worry that many of you, whomever you may be, will never read this because: I haven't "blogged" in so long, and I never have pictures so that I may remain somewhat anonymous. At any rate, as I was slowly drying off on my toasty car ride home, I had the unreachable itchy feeling to put my thoughts down on digital paper, so here I am.

Today marked the end of a paltry first week of school. As many of you know, or as I am quickly finding out many of you don't know, most public schools in Utah DO NOT I repeat DO NOT have air conditioning. So all you big shots at the Legislature as you sit in your temperature-controlled offices at a staggering 72 degrees, remember that there are children all over the state who are prisoners in brick ovens attempting to learn. Stepping off the soap box. Believe it or not, an unanticipated tangent, I shall return to my original thoughts.

As I was standing in the parking lot this afternoon, chatting with a colleague, another colleague approached and asked, as if it was a question always considered, "Would you two ladies like to join me in a dip up at [the Reservoir]? We could just drive up to the dam, get out and walk in the water, clothes and all, and then turn around and drive home, dripping wet." I was flummoxed at the request. Wide-eyed, I responded, "Are you serious?" She replied, "I could not be any more serious." I, as any reasonable human being would, took her up on the offer.

It was the best thing I did all week. I am a fortunate soul in the public education sphere in that I do, in fact, have air conditioning in my classroom. Regardless, that free-spirited dip at the reservoir was delightfully refreshing all the same. The drive home was where the true reflection happened, however, and where I craved to put my thoughts into a physical form for someone, if just me, to appreciate. They went something like this:

That was amazing. I am so glad that [let's call her Jane] invited me on such an adventure. We only get to live this life once, and I am stoked that was an experience I get to take with me. I wish I would have had a camera to document that moment. That's what a journal and words are for. Words are lost on this generation. I should blog about that. No one will read it because there aren't any pictures. But don't I always tell my students that they can create pictures through words? I can do that. But it would have been better with pictures. People would at least look at the pictures. Well, now you have just gone full circle.

I know. I'm deep. For all those who are still willing to attempt a stab at imagination, this post is for you. The rest of you have already scrolled beyond this point and realized that there is nothing to see, so you have given up and moved on.

I always have considered myself to be a winter baby. I have always told myself that I much prefer the cold to the heat. My reasoning is that if you're cold you can always put on another layer, but once you're hot and naked, there's not much else you can do. My experience today has caused me to toy with the idea of being a summer baby.

There is no feeling that compares, nor words sufficient to describe, the refreshing, stinging feeling when one jumps into piercingly cold water after spending eight hours trapped in a prison/oven, a pr-oven-thank you Don Quixote- if you will. The satisfactory relief your skin experiences is like that feeling you got when you were lost as a child. You think that you will never be found and then your mother comes running around the corner. Sweet relief. It was so delightful to squish the muck between my toes as I waded into the water in my professional attire. The water was invitingly blue, but turned green as we went deeper and deeper. We floated for a while, enjoying the cool water. The satisfaction of letting go of the heat and the stress of the first days of school in one dive under the waves. It comes highly recommended. I just might make it a ritual.

Behavior Modification

I have a student who is convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that I hate him/her. I know that it is the age and maturity, but I find it quite interesting that this group cannot separate that I dislike the behavior they are exhibiting, not them. I have said it before and I will say it again, if I hated the little adolescents, I would have quit this business a long time ago--like before I ever started. Because he/she is convinced of my nonexistent hatred, he/she has made my life a living hell for the past month. I have tried a variety of classroom management approaches including calls home, the principal, and behavior contracts. Finally, I presented said student with a choice: he/she could either show me that he/she wants to be in my class and behave appropriately, or he/she would spend the rest of the term in the office doing bookwork and worksheets.
At any rate, this student and I had a heart to heart today. I explained to the student that he/she has a gift. He/she has the gift of the desire to learn. And he/she does! He/she is very eager to learn, and I really do love that. I told him/her that I appreciate that so much, but at the same time,I need him/her to behave appropriately when he/she has questions or is feeling overwhelmed. I was able to work one on one with this student for a bit today and it was marvelous! He/she was so receptive to this one on one time and compliments. I need to remember this when I want to discipline in a punitive manner. This is what I have been taught my whole life. It's what my parents did and it is what all my teachers did. But I want to change. I want my students to know that I love and care about them. I want them to be eager and willing to learn. I don't want the negative atmosphere that comes with negative, punitive classroom management. I am taking a class on this. It's starts tomorrow. Wish me luck!
If any of you anonymous readers out there have suggestions on how to overcome the negative monster that has ruled my life, please, leave a comment.

Snippet of Sunshine

This is going to be a short one. Tonight was parent teacher conferences. For those of you who have been with me through this journey known as my first year of teaching, you know that the first parent teacher conferences I cried like baseball player who got decked in the groin into my decadent Cold Stone concoction of oatmeal cookie batter and brownies. This go around I went in with my head held high, with a goal of not crying (seriously, I even told a few teachers before hand that my goal was to not shed any tears). Well, not only did I escape without a sharp new hint of tears, I found out that I am two students' favorite teacher (one can only hope that it is more than that, but only two parents let me know). So there. I have made a difference for those ones as well.

Come what may and love it! (Finding Joy in the Journey)

This post is acting in a therapeutic way for me today. I feel, and correct me if I am wrong, it is fair to say that being a public school teacher is hard, thankless work-mostly. Being a first year public school teacher is even more difficult, and less gratuitous than teaching in general. It truly is like being Daniel in the lion's den. You go into it with faith that your expertise and training will help you escape the beasts alive. The difference between Daniel and I, however, is that I will not escape with the help of the Big Guy unscathed. I will not come out of this first year without many cuts, bruises, and quite frankly, life altering scars. This is good though. I have learned much, and I know that next year, fingers crossed that there will be a next year, things will be better. I will be better.

But that's not why I need this therapy. You see, my dear anonymous reader, whomever you may be, it is the midterm of my second trimester and I am burned out. Christmas break was bliss. I fled the town in which I teach and relaxed. It was lovely. Since then, however, and it has been three weeks now, I have had the most difficult time getting back into the groove of being an adult. I cannot bring myself to be responsible. I am tired of lesson plans, blank stares, and pointless excuses. I am tired of telling students to grow up, to stop whistling, and to wash their hands when they go to the restroom (that is another story for another time). I am tired of leaving my apartment before the sun has created the breathtakingly stunning dance of pinks and purples on the Wellsville's behind my classroom (it's gorgeous, you're missing out if you don't know what I am talking about), and returning to my abode after the sun has tucked itself behind the same mountains. I am exhausted by the phrases from my students that claim, "Ms. ---- hates me." Trust me kids, if I hated you, even one of you, I would have been out of this business before you walked in the door. And to my prego cousin with the terrible twos, welcome to every-freakin'-day of my life (I read your post last night, and honey, I feel your pain! Except, the children aren't mine)!

So here's the deal, I need a change. I need to heed the counsel offered by one of my favorite apostles of time and find joy in the journey. I need to embrace what has come and love it! I had a conversation today with one of my sage colleagues and he said, "Come on, Spinster, you got to find something to get you through this." So that is what I am going to try to do. At the end of each day, I am going to blog (my very own secret-public journal) about why I am doing this. I am going to tell all you anxious readers out there why I am in this fantastically miserable profession.

On that note, here is my excerpt for today:

Every other day at the beginning of class, my students have to fix a sentence on the board and I walk around the room and mock or praise them for what they have done (for any English teachers out there, its a system called Caught'ya: Grammar with a Giggle by Jane Bell Kiester, and it is amazing!). Well, today's sentence was one of the most complicated ones we have done so far this year. As such, I offered big extra credit opportunities to any student who could get it correct (it involved the pesky who/whom conundrum, and it sure did get their goat). Well, only one student came even close (it was also a run-on sentence that they had to turn into three different sentences). So I gave him half of what was originally offered, because he was the only one to catch the "whom" in the sentence.

Afterward, we discussed as a class what was wrong with the sentence. Since this student got the extra credit, he was able to confidently raise his hand and tell his peers what they all missed. As much as it pains me to write something dripping with processed cheese, he was glowing with excitement. Further to his delight, his peers gave him much praise for noticing something they did not. As I contemplated what to write about today, I thought about that old story about the starfish and I couldn't help but think, "I made a difference for that one."

I am fully aware that there are many students who walk out of my classroom thinking unkind things towards me and my content. Being "with-it," I also know students converse about the different degrees of hate they each feel for me. I even know that there are students who are convinced that I am plotting their demise (and I quote, "You have a look. Like you are looking into my soul and thinking, how am I going to kill her?" Yep, a student actually said that). Regardless of all that, I can go home tonight, in the dark, knowing that I made a difference in one student's day today. And who knows? Maybe one day he will be able to say, "Ms. ---- is my favorite teacher. she made class fun, and she showed me that she cares." One can only hope, right?

Kids say...

Well, for anyone who actually gives this space in the cyber world their perusal, I will give you something to feast upon.

My students say some pretty funny things sometimes. I know that I am not supposed to laugh. I know that I am supposed to be the adult in the room and maintain order, but seriously? Have you ever been out numbered at least thirty to one by hormonal mutants? Its hard to do what is right. So, here are a few of the funny things that have been uttered within my four walls since I last posted:

After Christmas break, one of my students asked if I got anything for Christmas. To which another student replied, "No, duh, she lives alone." To which I replied, "You're right. I am completely and utterly alone. I have no friends, no family; in fact, I don't even have an apartment, I live here." It feels so good to know that my students see me as a lonely recluse.

One day we were taking notes on subjects and predicates and I neglected to perform a proper and thorough proofread. As I was in the throws of a spectacular lecture, one of my students raised his hand and asked, "So it's predict? I always thought it was predicate, but you're the teacher." Before entering the educational world, I was told that I would have to dial down my sarcasm because they wouldn't get it. I think they do, and at times, they are definitely better at it than me.

More to come...

Time for a change

I haven't ranted in over a month! This is a problem for me because I started this whole blog thing as an outlet for my deepest, darkest thoughts and feelings. Here's the reason why, I'm boring. I haven't been on a date since school started (got blown off for two, if that isn't any indication of my loser status I don't know what is), so I don't have much to talk about when it comes to being a twenty-something spinster. As such, I am feeling like I need a change of pace.

Recently I thought about my career choice and whether or not I am cut out for it. I have yet to come to a solid conclusion, but I thought that if I turned my blog into a forum for discussing the idiosyncrasies of and odd happenings with my pubescent (and in some cases prepubescent) children, I just might survive my first year of teaching. So, while I will, from time to time, discuss my disgust of my generation (oh, and happy moments when they roll), I have decided that it will be more beneficial to my mental health to vent about being a middle school English teacher.

A few things you should know right off the bat, I love teenagers. Truly. They are quirky and awkward and I LOVE that! They are often dealing with things way beyond MY maturity level because times have changed and they have a lot on their plates. As such, while they drive me nuts, I understand that they are trying their best to understand and be a part of this thing called life. All that aside, I am going to tell you the funny stories of my encounters with the most awkward of the adolescent years. On that note, here are a few of my favorite stories of the year thus far:

I have a student, bless his little heart, who LITERALLY (and for those of you who know me, I don't use that word lightly) picks his nose throughout the majority of class. We are talking fifty minutes of gold mining, here! It is so distracting! What do I do to make it stop? Do I put my box of tissues on his desk each day and say, "Here, try these. They are much more sanitary." Or do I call him out on it and subject him to enough embarrassment to scare him for life with the hopes of halting his hideous habit? I mean, I am not the only one who notices. Other teachers? For sure and I often wonder about this. If I am not the only teacher noticing his need to dig a little deeper, then how is there anything left for which to dig? It's not a bottomless pit of mucus! Other students have also caught on to his deed. They don't want to work with him or touch his papers because at least one of his fingers is stuck like a magnet up his left nostril. I, for that matter, hate grading his papers because the whole time I am thinking, "Dear golly, I am going to get a boogie on my finger!" I love my middle school students!

The Monday after Halloween, one of my students came to school with a different shade of locks. As he walked into the classroom I said, "Oh, John [name changed to protect identity] got a make-over over the weekend." To which another student, over hearing, replied, "Yeah, he was at a party and fell asleep and his buddies dyed his hair." I looked at her quizzically and inquired, "Fell asleep? Really? Do I have 'idiot' tattooed on my forehead?" She looked at me sheepishly and suggested no, but "I can't say what really happened, right?" "Right," I replied. Boy would I like to fall into a deep enough slumber that someone could dye my hair and I wouldn't wake up. Oh wait, I have covenanted not to do such things. I love my middle school students! (I know, isn't it sad that at such a young age they are already mixed up in this garbage.)

I love to scare my students. Being an English teacher, I have more than the usual teacher's opportunity to do so and have taken advantage of such opportunities a few times this year. The most recent incident occurred just this past week. I was reading aloud to my students, which I am want to do to break it up every now and then, and circulating the room to make sure they are following along (as all 'with it' teachers do-thanks Barb). At any rate, in the story we are currently studying, there is a scene where one of the characters scares another. I thought to myself, I have to do it! I simply cannot resist. So I tried it out with my second hour. The kids all have their faces in their books, not even paying attention to me, so it is all too easy. I picked my prey. I stalked up to her slowly like a feral cat after a field mouse, and when the timing what right I hunched over, stomped my right foot and yelled, "Boo!" right in her face! She jumped so high, she almost touched the ceiling (okay, not really, what element of literature is that?) It was golden. Made my day. We all had a good laugh and continued. Well, in my next hour, I tried the same thing to a student who is stone faced most of the time (as such, I have made it a goal to get her to smile as often as possible. Smile count: 1. But I am not giving up). Anyway, I got nothing. No reaction. She just looked up at me, while thinking, I am sure, "My teacher is an idiot and a freak." Whatever. I said, "Dang, you're good," and kept reading. My fifth hour victim had the best reaction. If only I could have taken a snap shot of his face for all to see. It was like he was at Nightmare on 13th and the guy with the chainsaw just jumped around the corner. He was mortified and jumped out of his desk. Then he yelled, "You're so mean!" I lost it. I could not stop laughing. In fact, there were moments later on in class where the image would pop back into my head and I would start laughing again. Golden.

More stories to come, but 1. they have to happen, and 2. I have to remember them. Enjoy!

Keeping the Sabbath Day What?

I am a sinner. I need to get this off my chest and then I will repent and be a better person. Honest.

Truth is, I feel better than I did this morning, but I still need to put something into cyber space so that I can sleep easier tonight. Confessing my sins isn't what I need to get off my chest and certainly not something that I would share with a global public. The topic today is the lack of decorum held by my generation and I am sure the generations to follow. There are two things I noticed during my Sabbath day worship. A lack of respect and clothing.

As mentioned in a previous post, I attend a Young Single Adults ward and all that implies (I don't really know what that means, but I couldn't fight the urge to add a cliche). Today I distracted myself from feeling the ever-present, strong and wonderful spirit by allowing unrighteous thoughts to cloud my better judgement. I would like to say that they were about the six-foot-two, brown hair, blue eyes in the lime green tie, eye candy, blessing the sacrament, but alas, that would be a lie and yet another sin I would add to my plate. I was distracted by the Daisy Duke-inspired shortness, and legs for miles I witnessed in the chapel (there I go with those blasted cliches again). Not only that, but there was way too much "Cleavland Rockin" and sexy bare backs. What's the deal? Have we forgotten the purpose of the Sabbath day? While I recognize that the brethren were inspired to start Young Single Adult wards as a tool to help us become "anxiously engaged," I do not condone the meat-market mentality that has overtaken the hearts and minds of the young and single community. I'm sorry ladies, but what you are advertising is not celestial marriage, but rather loose morals and free milk. Bold and crude, I know, but somebody needs to say it. Its no wonder the young men of the church have a problem with pornography, they can't even avoid it in a house of the Lord.

Nobody's perfect. I know that I have my fair share of problems, and as you can deduce from the topic and ranting of this post, pride is definitely one of them. I am not flaunting that fact. I am merely trying to work through it in a ridiculously public manner. I just wish that more of my generation took more time preparing themselves spiritually than physically when it comes to "worshiping" on the Sabbath day.

Ladies, we have immense power! And with great power, comes great responsibility. We should be using our bodies and minds to be charitable. We should cover up and get to work. Men need all the help they can get in the spiritual department, and we should be there to help them not hinder. I simply cannot wait for winter!

One other Sabbath day tirade and then I will let this dog lie: Relief Society is not social hour. I have to admit for the first time ever, I walked out today. The beautiful young ladies circumambiently perched by me this day were so busy chatting, quite loudly mind you, to even have a clue what the teacher was teaching (she was discussing fidelity, virtue, and chastity, topics all young women these days could benefit from). They were blatantly ignoring the teacher and those around them who might actually care about the lesson. A young lady in the row in front of me actually tipped her chair back in order to chat with the girl next to me, and they certainly did not whisper! The girl in the short skirt on the other side was discussing the attractiveness of a young man in the ward. I couldn't take it anymore! I gathered my stuff and transplanted in the foyer and attempted to scripturally study the topics of the lesson alone. The only problem was that I was livid. I couldn't focus because I was so turned off by the lack of decorum of the daughters of God that surrounded me. I know, a problem I have to work through on my own. I was the one that got in the way of my feeling of the spirit. That being said, I still think that too many of the twenty-something spinsters of my generation use church service as an excuse to catch up on the latest gossip. If you want to chat for three hours, do it in your house instead of the Lord's. Some of us are there to feel of the spirit and gain insight into what really matters in this life. Whether or not you really want to be there doesn't matter anymore once you walk through the doors. Since you made the choice to attend church, you must accept the consequences that come with it. Sunday appropriate dress and attitude. Be respectful of those that have spent hours praying over and planning lessons. Show the love and respect you should feel for your peers by not distracting from the spirit. Take a journal and write down thoughts and impressions if you are finding yourself bored on Sundays. Don't turn to your neighbor and start gabbing on and distracting them, yourself, and your peers. Thank you. That is all. I must retreat to my closet now, and begin my penitence.

Fed up with the d word

So here's the deal. I am a twenty-something spinster who sincerely hopes to become a twenty-something housewife. Sad, but true. But with all this talk about divorce, I am beginning to wonder why I should even bother. If marriage isn't worth fighting for, especially of the eternal variety, then why should I even step in the ring? Don't get me wrong; I know that marriage is tough. And if the relationship is abusive then by all means get out! But no relationship is always a picnic. Why are so many couples in my life giving up? Don't those covenants mean anything more to these people than just a piece of paper that can easily be shredded beyond recognition? I apologize if I offend any of my readers, but this is a subject that has been plaguing my mind A LOT lately and has been causing problems in one of my relationships. I will say this, however. My good friend is in charge of ward stare in her ward and tonight she has decided to revolutionize the way it is done. I say more power to her, but that is not the point. The thought she has chosen to use tonight is one from Joseph Smith that discusses the fact that fear and faith cannot reside in one person. So although I am tempted to be burdened by the fear that marriage is a crock and not worth my time, I am going to choose instead to have faith that I will be able to find a man who will be in it for the long haul. Eternity is a long time, so why would you ever opt to spend it alone?

Return from Hiatus!

I doubt anyone will read this because it has been so long since my last post that you all just as soon forgot that I was ever giving this blogging thing a whirl. Truth is, as my last post suggested, two months can indeed be an eternity in the mormon world. For the last two months I have been busy attempting to save the youth of the latter-days and I finally have my freedom back! Don't get me wrong, I LOVE the little tikes, but it will be nice to do what I want on Wednesday night instead of being subject to consuming luke-warm mediocre pizza with hormone-crazed, teenage girls--I love ALL of them, truly I do!!! But a return to the life of a twenty-something spinster is much welcomed.

Much has changed since my hiatus, but that is not the focus of my blog. As already mentioned, I have spent the last two months in gospel seclusion, otherwise known as a program called Especially For Youth. The youth need counselors that are older and wiser telling them what to do and that's where I came in. I was not the only one, obviously, but oh, the things a bunch of marriage-hungry, hormone crazed twenty-somethings will do! I would love to share many of the stories of the "hooking up" that took place, but alas, I love those people and would hate to have them disown me into the eternities. So instead the topic of this blog--written like a true English major only two paragraphs in-- is age. For those who know me intimately, they know that this is quite the sensitive topic now-a-days. But again, that's not what is important. What is, is that too many twenty-somethings are becoming thirty-somethings and they do not seem to be concerned... Should they be? I emphatically declare, "YES!" Especially if they are gentlemen.

This idea was sparked by a few happenings that occurred to me over the last few months. First, I was set up on a blind date (remember how those who love me need to save me from my disease better known as singleness) with a fabulous young man. I will say that he was handsome and it was delightful, with full sincerity, none of that sarcastic stuff I am known for. We joked, we laughed, we witted. We have kept in contact with the occasional text message inside joke and playful bantering. I actually wouldn't mind going out with the gent again. But here's the thing: he seems to be in no rush. Hmmm, that is not coming out right. Allow me to explain. He is on the last leg of his twenty-something-ness, if you know what I mean (just in case, 29 is the number you are looking for) and it is my firm belief that he has past the point in his mormon dating career where he can saunter around when it comes to finding his eternal mate. The boy has been home from the mish for eight years! It is definitely time to buckle down and take a knee. At any rate, I have been bold with this boy: told him I think he is great and that I would fancy a second go around if he felt the same way to which he recited a list of excuses. I live by the pink Bible and therefore can be fairly certain there will not be a second date. I do not approve. Not that he won't go on a second date with me, that my friends, is NOTHING new. What I don't approve of is his inability to commit and DATE or stop pulling me, or other ladies, around.

On that same note, one of my good friends has had a similar situation. She has been dating a boy for about seven weeks. Keep in mind that she was also EFYing, so dates are limited to Friday nights and the occasional sneak out during free-time, regardless, I would argue that the two had really hit it off. Well summer is quickly coming to an end and they will be moving to different parts of the state to complete school and start their careers, etc. He doesn't want to do the long distant thing. She does. The problem I see is that he is closer to thirty than he is to twenty and I think that if he has found a great thing he should do whatever it takes to seal the deal! I just don't understand. Don't men know that women have a bit of a smaller window to multiply and replenish the earth? It seems to me that our generation has become too complacent in "hanging out" and it is taking us too long to reach the alter.

A topic for another time: How young is too young?

When to say when?

I apologize for slacking in the blogging world. I have been preoccupied with bigger, better, and quite frankly, more important things. Before I get into today's ramblings, I suggest you all read CJACRUN's comment on this post. It is good stuff. And CJACRUN, you are a phenomenal writer! Remember how you answered all my questions on my application for the yearbook staff? They thought I was so much more witty than I actually am! Fooled 'em!

Anyway, the truth is, I haven't had anything, "being single" related happen in my life lately. I have had a few conversations with a few fellow singles, but nothing exciting to report there. Oh, unless we should take a poll...Even at the ripe old age of 25 should you go on a date with a person you are not sure you would want to marry? Voice your opinion in the comments section.

I guess I can tell you about my second attempt. On Sunday, I went to ward stare again. Had a brief conversation with said prey from last post and he didn't even listen long enough to ask for my name. Nice. Needless to say my confidence is shot once again. I may be a little pudgy with a zit here and there, but does that qualify me to being black listed in the YSA world? Oh wait, that's not what it is, it's because I am old! Really I'm not, but by YSA standards I may as well be 80! Really I don't know what it is. I might have a message on my forehead that is invisible to me, but visible to men that says "spinster" or "not interested." I know that is ridiculous, but obviously there is some kind of barrier, right!? My excuse now is that I am moving so there is no point in getting to know the men in my ward, right? Although, two months can be an eternity in mormon world. Is it worth it?