Confessions of a Rookie

let this be a lesson to you

2011-10-27T21:19:00.005-06:00

This is why you should always choose the nerd:

He eventually grows up.

Now, can the same really be said for the one you oogled over at 14?

I didn't think so.

The Paper Porcupine

2011-09-26T19:29:00.005-06:00

Alice has ventured into the big bad world of etsy with her

mad paper-embossin'-card-creatin' skillz.

You should visit her little shop,

The Paper Porcupine.

And, if you like what she's created, maybe purchase a little hello note for someone you think deserves a cheery howdy-do.

(Oh, and keep coming back.

She has plenty of brilliant creations she hasn't posted just yet.)

favorite things

2011-09-11T22:21:00.007-06:00

Sometimes it isn't fair to be 30 and single. It isn't fair to have crushes like you're still 13, armpits sweating in said crush's presence. It isn't fair to still be in a singles' ward with people who: A. graduated this year and, B. will probably marry before you will--maybe even this year (2011 has to be big for somebody).

Sometimes it feels impossible to remember how blessed you really are. Or that, were you to have married the same year you graduated, your life wouldn't be as beautiful as it currently is. Still, sometimes it doesn't feel fair.

Sometimes, however, the thing that can make your pity-party kind of day much better is a little Sound of Music action.

I double dare you to watch it and not feel even just a little bit better.

Mwahahahaha!

2011-09-07T21:26:00.002-06:00

English Teacher Humor

2011-08-30T19:57:00.002-06:00

It is official: I hate dating.

2011-08-14T08:50:00.006-06:00

I had another one last night. A date, that is. It wasn't necessarily a bad date. He was a gentleman. He had a quasi-plan for activities. He was really quite sweet.

But, in the wide spectrum of male to female sizing ratios, the dear man made me feel much more like this:

than this:
(Neither are preferable, of course. But these are the two ends of the aforementioned spectrum.)

I am not a tall girl. In fact, I'd say I'm just shy of average. But Mr. Former Soccer Player had me feeling like a fire-breathing, genetically mutated, mythological dragon towering over the helpless streets of Tokyo. And I only had on a slim 1 1/2" wedge: small potatoes in the stilettoed world of women's footwear. I spent the evening feeling astronomically gargantuan and it just wasn't good for this chubby girl's ego. He certainly didn't mind; and, if my radar is adjusted correctly, I think he was jonesing for another date towards the end there. But, though I view myself as an independent thinker willing to step outside traditional gender norms and expectations, somewhere along the way I've been socialized with a need to feel smaller (at the very least shorter) than whomever I end up with.

My mother, I'm sure, will tell me I'm too picky when she reads this. And maybe I am. But he was daintier than I. I had flashbacks of shopping with friends in junior high school at 5 7 9, knowing I was more of an 11 or a 13.

And, more importantly, he lacked that intellectual spark I find so appealing (that intellectual spark makes up for a myriad of sizing disparities). And so I categorize this date as yet another learning experience about myself in relation to the single men of this world. I am officially putting this out into the universe, my dear Nerd in Shining Armor: ANY.TIME.NOW. I'm ready for dating retirement. Aren't you?

Godzilla over and out.

if i were a rich (wo)man. LaDiDaDiDaDiDaDiDa...

2011-08-03T16:09:00.005-06:00

I'd shop at Whole Foods for just about everything in my cupboards and fridge. I'd probably own more shoes and a nicer camera with a slew (yes, a slew) of nice lenses. I'd globe trot. A lot. I'd probably retire Rosy (my car) for something newer, fancier, shinier, and black-er (don't tell Rosy, please). I'd buy my dream home and decorate it and re-decorate it some more. I'd start a scholarship foundation for underprivileged kids.

But that's about all that would change. Because I'd still teach. I'd still have this girl for a best friend (she'd just travel more too--with me, naturally). I'd still believe in this with all I have in me. I'd still have my amazing family. I'd still remain smitten with the written word. I'd still use coupons (because paying full price is for the birds). And this is how I know my life is good. Because even if I had more money, it wouldn't make anything better than it already is.

to make beautiful music together

2011-07-29T13:34:00.002-06:00

What I'm enjoying lately.

The Civil Wars (covering Elliot Smith)

William Fitzsimmons

Meaghan Smith

I'm Hosting an Intervention

2011-07-19T12:19:00.003-06:00

Alice, the cute girl pictured above and

the best bestie/roomie that a girl could ask for,

hasn't blogged in over 2 months.

It is time for an intervention.

Who's with me?

Earning it.

2011-07-12T10:49:00.005-06:00

I want my face to flash my life's narrative in an instant. I want each emotion and thought and whim carved there. I want a permanent set of parentheses around my mouth--a side memo to the world that I am a woman who has smiled so many times that my joy is forever etched there. I want a brow furrowed in thought or concern for my children, my students, the people I love. This brow will show I cared. Deeply. I want crow's feet scratched across my eyes' corners from squinting and straining to see my world in clarity, from laughing and making funny faces. I want my face to be a written word, a calligraphy of experience, of pain and peace and worry. I want my skin to memorize my life's work. To not only whisper but project the message that I lived a life worth living.

I want to earn my face. The story--my story--that is written on it. I want my face to tell my tale before I utter a single word.

In Which I Dream About India and then Lose Everything

2011-07-09T13:11:00.000-06:00

I composed a post today. It was all written up. It was lovely and beautiful and expressed my dreams of journeying to India one day, my smitten state about the subcontinent. There were photos. The spacing was cooperating (you know how blogger can be). I was merely highlighting everything to change the font.

And then I deleted it. All of it. Accidentally.
(Multi-tasking at work can be hazardous.)

Forgive me. I'm grieving the loss of a post I really liked but feel unable to recreate. One I'd been marinating for a while.

Here's a taste of what you missed (and I lost):

I refuse to see this as a sign that I'll never make it there. I will. And the going and experiencing will fill me so much deeper than any silly old blog post (even if I really liked it).

Amen and Amen: Found on Pinterest

2011-06-29T23:52:00.000-06:00

30 things I learned by 30.

2011-06-23T16:25:00.001-06:00

1. The book is always better.

2. Chips and salsa might feel like a food group, but in all actuality are not. Same goes for Diet Coke.

3. Freckles, curves and naturally curly hair make for a unique kind of beauty. I prefer unique beauty.

4. Loving your job is only possible when you make sure to love your life as well.

5. No one is all good. No one is all bad.

6. Good friends are precious and rare and happen when you know how to be one in return.

7. My parents are wiser than I ever gave them credit for.

8. True charity isn't merely dropping something off at good will or the occasional service project. True charity is loving unconditionally even when it is hard to do so.

9. A good teacher ends up being more of a student.

10. Laziness is usually just a mix up in one's priorities.

11. Life hurts. A lot. And then something miraculous happens to remind you how very good it all is.

12. Every baby is pure and perfect. A miracle. Everyone was once a baby.

13. Harboring feelings of offense or anger or vengeance hurts me more than anybody else.

14. I'm terrified of losing and grieving someone, anyone who is close to me--someone who fills my life with joy. I know I'm blessed that I haven't had to yet.

15. Time is very easily wasted if one isn't mindful.

16. Some so-called "time-wasters" are also those moments you grow closest to people, including yourself.

17. Some of life's most spiritual moments happen in quiet, outdoor places.

18. The first time holding hands carries so much more weight than anything that falls after.

19. Education happens everywhere if you pay attention.

20. It is important to know how to decipher between that which is arbitrary and that which is a true measure of value.

21. Some of life's best experiences happen outside of one's comfort zone.

22. Failure isn't really failure if you gave all of yourself over to the attempting.

23. Prayer is real. Someone is listening if you are sincere about it.

24. Mediocrity in one's efforts leaves one unsatisfied and empty.

25. God, Life, The Universe, call it what you may--s/he/it knows what we need more than we do.

26. Painted toenails and mascara will always make me feel feminine and pretty--even when I'm 90.

27. I am loved because I see myself as someone worth loving.

28. Curiosity and imagination are the true ingredients for intelligence.

29. I'd rather be considered a smart woman than a hot woman.

30. There are times for acting like a grown up and times for acting childlike. It is important that I coordinate my behavior with the appropriate occasion.

Letters that Need Writing

2011-06-22T13:14:00.004-06:00

Dear Summer Cold,

You stink. At least I think you do. I can't really smell at the moment. But if I could, I'm quite certain you would stink.

Signed,
Miserable

Dear Garden (specifically the tomatoes),

Please grow. I'm begging you here. What's it going to take? Need I open a vein a la Little Shop of Horrors?

Respectfully,
A First Timer

Dear Cardigan Sweaters,

Without your loveliness I'm quite certain I'd go naked--or at least have more morning "I've nothing to wear!" tantrums.

Love,
Your Biggest Fan

Dear Pinterest,

You're sucking more of my time away than necessary. I can't say I mind all that much.

Love,
The one who can't help but smile and celebrate

Dear Best Friend,

Happy 29th Birthday this week! I'm happy you were born. I might be a hot mess without you in my world.

Love,
"Little Pinch"

P.S. I dare say it is time for a new blog post in your neck of the woods. Just a (kind of pushy) thought.

Dear Snow in the Mountains,

You're cramping my hiking style. And I hear you're going to wreak some serious flooding havoc down in the valleys.

Signed,
Not a skier, not a fan

Dear New Second Job,

You're really not all that shabby as long as I don't think about missing out on my lovely summer. Nonetheless, thank you for helping me pay off debt. Thank you for making my travel dreams seem like a possibility. Thank you for not being in retail. I'll hope my appreciation lasts even as school starts up again (eeks!).

Love,
The New Girl at Work

Dear AP Kiddos of 2010-2011,

I kind of miss you. But in order for me to bid a gleeful farewell to my obnoxious 9th graders, you and I had to part ways as well. Bummer. Please don't forget me.

Signed,
Your favorite English teacher of the moment

Dear Body,

Take this plateau and shove it. No, really. It is rather frustrating.

Love,
Me

Dear Target,

It is a love/hate thing with you and me, isn't it? Why must everything about you be so tempting?

Love,

Weak to your wily ways

Dear Writing,

It has been far too long. I miss you. Let's change that, shall we?

Love,
Me

Dear Chris O'Dowd,

You're giving Javier a run for his money. Good boy.

Love,
A Bit Smitten

Sol y Soul

2011-06-15T23:50:00.005-06:00

“I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness

the astonishing LIGHT of your own being.”

- Hafiz

To You, Cheryl

2011-06-08T16:07:00.001-06:00

Last Friday, a dear friend lost her battle with cancer. I posted about it once upon a time here.

It came as a shock. I was reading Oh, the Places You'll Go! to my AP students on their final day of class when my co-chair came to the door to tell me. We looked at one another and there weren't any words. What can one say in a moment such as this?

You see, Cheryl was a feisty, charismatic, ethical, and entirely beautiful human being. Every teacher who has ever worked with her can only say all that is good about her. She was only 62. She'd taught in our district for nearly 25 years and she was really, really talented at it. Those who CAN teach. She was to retire at the end of this year. And then the ovarian cancer we thought she'd beaten last year returned. Everywhere. And suddenly time seemed to be of such import to all of us who were touched by her.

Today, after her husband had a chance to take what he wanted of his wife's career, several of us went to help clean out some of her things from her classroom. And still, the space smacked of Cheryl: the posters, the unique and quirky teaching aids, the videos and beautiful volumes of poetry. The treasured mythology projects of bygone students. I teared up to see her handwriting still scrawled on the calendar--the little reminders we teachers give ourselves.

It felt healing, spending some time in a space that was so uniquely Cheryl just as I knew her. To be in a room that she designed, in a space that had soaked in her energy day after day. Sometimes I feel as though a teacher's classroom is a statement about their personality and teaching style. With Cheryl, this was true. As I worked, it struck me what a beautiful life she's lived. Until the end, she loved teaching. Her students adored her, trusted her, felt safe in this room because she was there. She was wise and gracious and funny. She taught them the double entendres in Shakespeare's plays and made them act out balcony and fight scenes. She took them out on the back lawn under the trees and made each one lay stomach-down and stare at the blades of grass when they read Walden.

Her death is a tragedy. But her life, her life is just as I think she would have wanted it. She raised three kids. Had a happy second marriage. She loved a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with friends. She read--oh, how she read. She was the best at suggesting good, entertaining books. She spent each day of her life imparting only the most important gifts to the future. Her life was a good one.

Henry David Thoreau, whom Cheryl adored, once wrote, "...I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

Cheryl LIVED. Fully. I, like so many others, will miss her. I only hope that I can live my life in a way she did.

On Cooking, Booking, and Other Good Things

2011-06-03T15:30:00.002-06:00

Recently I read this:

Not only did Bard's sweet and simple gem convince me that I don't REALLY have what it takes to live abroad--other than in my imagination (let's face it: American convenience can be nice), but it made me want to cook. It made me want to cook and be really good at it. It made me desire to share recipes I've mastered. I've long enjoyed watching Food Network--especially that Hampton Yuppy, Ina Garten. But this gem of a memoir made me long to walk to the farmer's market hosted at my local park and let its wares create my week's menu. It was entirely entertaining and I can't wait to try some of its recipes.

I warn you: if you do read it, please do so on a full stomach (or at the very least with a full refrigerator)!

Next on the docket:

Major Ernest Pettigrew is that old fashioned sort of British curmudgeon that brings me nothing but delight. Simonson's novel is witty, sharp, perceptive, and includes a bit of romance. (C'mon--who doesn't like a little romance?) Pettigrew's inner-monologue won me over. He's human through and through. Read it. The end.

And, finally, this fun escape:
I love rockin' book sales. The Borders near my house went out of business recently and this cover caught me--it was one of my lucky sale finds. Beginner's Greek is chick lit at its very heart, but chick lit with decent prose. Peter and Holly and their delayed love made me swoon and ache and long just a bit. The plot has moments of shock but the main characters' story remains delightfully predictable. I argue that sometimes this isn't a bad thing: these well-carved rivers of story are necessary, comfortable, and entirely entertaining. Even as an English teacher who forces the tragic on my students (Cold Mountain, anyone?), I like a happy ending as much as the next gal.

In other mediums of loveliness--

I've fallen hard for some new (to me) cosmetics & beauty products:

ULTA makes a mean eye shadow.

I love the shade "Twilight" and, on my flashier days, a shimmer of "Envy":

(as an aside, I want the job in which you name the various hues of cosmetics)

Next up:

Shellac nailpolish is pretty much amazing. I've long adored a crimson splash or shocking shade on my nails, but longer loathed the chipping and purely craptastic appearance it gets after one day of teaching or a single load of dishes. My life doesn't allow for upkeep of such things. But along came a solution: gelish, shellac, call it what you may. This stuff is a hybrid of gel and nail polish. It lasts up to 14 days (though I can't handle the length my nails get to by then). Alice and I tested it out when we went to Cancun. It made it the entire trip and then some. It has altered my world for the better.The roomie got a "little" kit with UV light and the rest of the products for her upcoming birthday from her rather awesome momsy. Life is good when one's polish plays permanent. (And when one's best buddy come with polish perks!)

As a teaser: I also "re-did" my bedroom. Photos to come soon. I hope. No, really.

School's out next Wednesday. I'm back. Promise.

sometimes you just need to get away from it all

2011-05-19T16:52:00.023-06:00

Remember how I have a blog?

No?

Me neither.

But I do. This post is proof positive. And I'm back again.

So--I went to Cancun a few weeks ago. I loved pretty much everything about it.

I loved that turquoise water.

I loved getting a deep tissue massage just because I could.

I really, really loved lounging in the hammock on my deck watching that turquoise water.

I loved waking up early and watching the sun rise over that water:

I loved that I got to enjoy that water for 7 days straight with this chica:

I loved the enormous platters of fresh fruit in the mornings.

I loved my henna tattoo:

I loved my tan:

(it's gone now--but I did have one)

I loved swimming in a cenote and snorkeling

(note to self: develop underwater camera film) and visiting ancient ruins:

I loved these breathtakingly beautiful Mayan babes with their handkerchiefs for a dollar:

I loved reading my books as the sunshine and ocean breeze kissed my skin.

I loved buying trinkets and dishes and beautifully sewn muu-muus just as a good tourist should:

I loved all things lime. Virgin lime daiquiris, lime sorbet, lime in my diet cocola.

I loved the magnificent people watching made so much easier behind sunglasses.

And, OH, how I loved my room:

So you see, it was a very lovable trip. We left happy to have been there:

But I'm also forgetting things.

Like the obnoxiously drunk adolescents whose permissive parents clearly don't understand the dangers of alcohol poisoning.

Or how bartering and bargaining got old.

Or the cocky taxi driver who tried to screw us over.

Or Miguel, one of the entertainers, who physically flirted with me to the point of awkwardness.

(When in a bathing suit, the perimeter of one's personal space grows exponentially.

Let it be officially stated for all.)

I may never forget the funky milk and yogurt.

Or other food concoctions gone awry. Sorry.

But, truth is, I really, really loved my trip.

It was practically perfect in every way.

I should go back sometime soon.

If only for this:

Or this:

(we had a full moon!)

And definitely for this:

But only if she gets to come too:

Oh Cancun, how I miss you!

"Thirty, Flirty, and Fabulous"

2011-04-06T17:51:00.024-06:00

I was celebrated for my 30th just the way one should be--with multiple celebrations!

(Beware of photo overload below.)

It started with the fam-damily a few days before my birthday at my favorite Italian joint.

As evidenced below, I come from a long line of the insanely photogenic:

Alice joined us because she likes me...

Not because of this deliciousness, I swear!

It was a good time courtesy of this handsome (and maybe halfway shaggy) couple:

Then it was my birthday on--hip, hip, hooray--a Saturday!

That evening some girlfriends and I met up for Japanese food and gnome-ish party hats:

I still contend that our hats were cuter than:

Proof positive:

Yes, I totally wore a sash (I'm a yellow, remember?):

And tried green tea ice cream:

And it was all because of this lady:

I like her. I might even like her better in a gnome-ish yellow party hat.

The next night these lovely folks threw me a little shin dig:

Dave and Michelle are two of the most down-to-earth,

enjoyable people I know. Plus they have cute kids.

We partied with some of these guests:

(The "Legendary" Benincosa Cousins--

Italian Stallions, these boys...or something like it.)

The Mennzz

And Vicky and Johnny--who we failed to snap pictures of (oopsy!)

Going with the silly hat birthday theme...

Lest you think I'm totally ridiculous, the get-up was solely to entertain this cutie:

All while his older brother did what teenagers do:

Thanks everyone for making 30 so fabulous!

You all rock!

Dear Friends,

2011-03-23T10:38:00.005-06:00

I'm working on it. This whole blogging thing. Really.

It's just, I've had teaching and grading and playing and living to do. I've started a garden. I tilled the earth. Tilled with a shovel and my own strength, I tell you. I've been cooking more. I'm counting down the days to Cancun.

Life's busy and this 30 days of birthday celebration business was, quite honestly, an unrealistic goal I'm totally going to accomplish in one form or another.

Have patience, if you will. (I'm overrating the significance of my blog's role in your life, no?)

In the meantime, some rand-awesome thoughts I've been having:

1. An official state firearm, Utah. Really?

2. My suave and savvy, hip, amazeballs, too-cool-for-me AP students have designed a screen-print t-shirt design for our class. An AP t-shirt, folks! It features Henry David Thoreau. I'll show you all how trendy I am when I print mine and wear it the day of the exam (and thereafter). I feel like a celebrity: my class was cool enough in their eyes that they want a souvenir of the experience when it is over.

3. My birthday party featured balloons, gnome-esque party hats, Japanese food, ice cream, and good friends. I'll share the experience in pictures with you soon. Shout out to Alice for making it the best 30th a girl could ask for.

4. I spent as much on trashy dirt and rabbit poop (i.e. "compost") as I did on gasoline the other day. Both purchases are wrong on so many levels.

5. Cancun is coming! Cancun is coming!

6. I took the colors personality test a few weeks ago during a hang-out session with some good new gal pals in the ward and discovered that I'm not only a blue through and through (which I already knew), but I'm also very strongly a YELLOW? Say what? I've subsequently spent the past several weeks saying things to poor Alice like, "I did that because I'm a yellow." "I need party hats for my birthday because I'm a show-off yellow." It probably annoys her, but because I'm a yellow I sort of don't care that much.

7. The Adjustment Bureau = totally lame ending! Matt Damon's presence on the screen kind of made up for it.

8. Did you know that for two months out of the year I walk around spouting quotes from Romeo and Juliet in my mind (and sometimes out loud)? Yes, yes it is true. That's what happens when you've read it/taught it/watched it multiple times a day for those two months over the course of five years. It gets worse every year. February and March equate "[t]wo households both alike in dignity in fair Verona..." Furthermore, that poor little story is a REALLY awful plot line. One of Shakespeare's worst. And yet, so often copied.

9. Springing forward isn't my strong suit.

10. To make it an even 10, I think the first counselor in my bishopric is quite possibly the coolest man around. Word on the street is that he gave a 45 minute rant-lecture to all the fellas in our ward during priesthood meeting on Sunday about how lazy they are in regard to dating and the like. He said it is "time to push the reset button." Apparently between now and June our ward is practicing dating one another. Personally, I'm looking forward to extra-good people watching in sacrament over the next few weeks. I also think that my church needs to hire this guy as an official spokesperson who visits all singles wards. He could do firesides or something.

P.S. Sorry for all the uber-LDS slang in this post.

P.P.S. I'm really do promise to do SOMETHING about my birthday posts.

Countdown to 30: Day Eight

2011-02-18T22:52:00.004-07:00

Diet Cocola: totally worth celebratin'

Countdown to 30: Day Seven

2011-02-17T16:10:00.007-07:00

I have some incredibly intelligent, talented, creative, brilliant, funny, and endlessly entertaining siblings who love me to the core. We are each unique and individual--different from one another as night from day. And yet, when together, I feel like I'm with "my people." I feel I make some strange sort of sense.

This is all of them--"Yours, Mine, and Ours."

I'm the baby.

I was loved by all. Naturally.

(So I say.)

And sometimes this being loved business included mauling.

With a side of: "Because you're the youngest, that's why. Now go get it."

Like I said: these are my people.

(Sister-o-Mine, we evidently need to pose in front of the camera at the same time.

But, as always, thank you for engaging in my goofy posing games while on vacations.)

(Watch for the signature Brooke & Wendy pose again in this post.)

If only I had this one's height.

(Told ya it was coming.)

And a more recent picture of me and the brother.

(Have I mentioned how much I love this picture of me and my boys?)

(Also, in searching for photos for this post, I've realized I need to start posing in front of the camera more often with the Dad siblings--sheesh, Rookie!)

I can't imagine loving, fighting, laughing, playing, teasing, celebrating, torturing, admiring, commiserating, living my life, complaining, or hanging with any other siblings but these. I'm lucky to have so many crazy kids to call my very own.

Half or not, I call you all ALL mine.

Thanks for putting up with 30 years of this:

Countdown to 30: Day Six

2011-02-16T22:32:00.003-07:00

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
                           ~ Mary Oliver      

Have I mentioned I'm downright smitten with Mary Oliver's poetry? And Pablo Neruda's translated poems (how I long to read their originals and understand each word). And there's Whitman and Pinsky and Swenson and St. Vincent Millay and Cummings and on and on and on. I am smitten with each of them. With poetry in general, really. Words, frankly, and all that these morphemes and syllables and sounds are capable of creating.

It was a boy that got me into it (poetry, that is--and isn't that always the story?). The boy is long gone, of course. But the poetry. Oh, how the poetry stays.

"Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly,
you'll find yourself, and that,
and only that, can be the happiest
or bitterest hour of your life"

~ Pablo Neruda

Words are musical. Words are art. Words, when it comes right down to it, are one of the best ways in which we communicate our inner selves to the outer world.

Countdown to 30: Day Five

2011-02-15T15:32:00.002-07:00

At one very low point along the old musical taste timeline, I dug these guys:
Joey McIntyre was my personal favorite. My sister, Tammy, and I would endlessly discuss John/Jordan (her favorite brothers) and Joey. And how one day they'd all come a-knockin'. Even if it was in our dreams.

Before NKOTB I remember loving Cindy Lauper and listening to pretty much whatever the older siblings enjoyed: Depeche Mode and R.E.M. (from the brother); even Milli Vanilli and Garth Brooks (from the sisters).

I've since gone through my Hip-Hop/R&B phase in 6th grade. This was around the time I'd call the local college radio station DJs, pretending I was much older than my 12 years, and dedicate songs like "In the Still of the Night" (a la Boyz II Men) to 12 year old boys who didn't know I existed.

In high school it was all things Broadway (with a little bit of Jewel, Sarah McLachlan, and other Dawson's Creek/Lilith Fair fare scattered in). Ragtime was my favorite. Then Into the Woods. The summer after I graduated I bought a Discman with my first paycheck. I recall listening to West Side Story as I walked (okay, maybe I skipped) in rhythm to the bus stop.

Until I realized just how nerd-a-licious my tastes were. And that boys listened to something a little bit tougher. Which was the impetus for my pop/punk/ska/rock phase. Blink 182. Weezer. Incubus. Sublime. Beck. Good Charlotte. Foo Fighters. (Whom I still adore--Rock Star Boyfriend, anyone?)

And then I became an upperclassmen. I'd taken Women's Studies 1010 (for 2 weeks). I was a serious-minded English Major. I bought all my clothing at thrift stores. It was an era of Ani DiFranco and Tori Amos and Chaco Sandals and bandannas in my hair.

And then I mellowed down the hippie-granola-vibe. I'm now smitten with everything from Glee to The Frames to Alicia Keys to Regina Spektor to Debussy to Ray LaMontagne to The Weepies. I've discovered that I don't really like what's on the radio--beyond NPR.

And the beautiful thing about music--it always takes me back. "The Right Stuff" still gets me dancin'. How can you not laugh and feel young and careless when the music of your lifeline comes drifting through the air? I celebrate music. Even the eras of really bad musical taste--and there were many. Each song is linked to a memory, a someone in some moment somewhere I haven't been in a very long time.

Here's to the stuff that makes my toes tap, my hips sway, my mind surge with memory. Here's to music. I delight in it.

Countdown to 30: Day Four

2011-02-14T22:26:00.002-07:00

Once upon a time
I was blonde-ish, bald-ish, and kind of doofy looking:

But guess what?

They kept me anyway.

Maybe because I matched the set?

And then I turned into someone even doofier looking:

(But Grandma and Grandpa insisted I stay.)

Unfortunately, I only got a little bit doofier:

And then it went from bad to worse:

(My mother chose my glasses. But you never would have guessed that on your own.)

Until I turned into a beautiful swan.

Then again, maybe not:

Countdown to 30: Day Three

2011-02-13T22:38:00.006-07:00

Everything I am I owe to my parents. They are good people.

Even if my mother sported a white-woman's poodle 'fro circa 1980 (evidence below).

(My parents on the left the weekend they eloped in Vegas--aunt and uncle on the right.)

I get my expressive nature from my mother. I talk with my hands, emphasize every sentence. I feel her energy and presence run through me. Tonight I found myself sitting in a position exactly like one of hers. It was eerie and comforting at the same time.

I get my mellow side from my father. I can, if need be, go with the flow. I like to be alone, in my own little world of quiet and thought. I also got his terrible vision. Does this mean I can send my eye doctor bills his way?

I learned to laugh because of them. Even at my dad's stale jokes: years upon years of hearing, "You're going to eat your mother?" after asking "When are we eating, Mom?" (He still thinks this is knee-slappin' hilarious, by the way.)

(THIS, my friends, is the 80's in all its Mormon WASP-ish glory.
In fact, I'm pretty sure this was taken at a ward party.)

I am lucky. My family laughs. Sometimes at each other, sometimes simply because we're being silly, sometimes because it hurts so much what else can one do. My parents taught us this. To keep going. That life keeps moving. That tomorrow is tomorrow and is sometimes much better.

I learned to accept others charitably, without judgment--to love unconditionally, to give of myself, to serve, to stay loyal to family--all from them. I learned that everybody's family is a little crazy and that's okay. I learned to feel things, to be self-reflective from them.

Between the two of them, they've raised 10 children. They have 19 grandchildren. They mixed two families together and made it out alive. They've lost businesses, houses, parents. They've been married over 30 years. They are good friends. They drive one another crazy.

They're down to earth. Their idiosyncrasies are boundless. They are each quirky and witty and fun and intelligent. They are intriguing, unique people. I am grateful I have them. How can I celebrate these 30 years without acknowledging who got me here?

I love you, Momdu & Popsy. You're good people.

Love,
da baby

Countdown to 30: Day Two

2011-02-12T23:16:00.003-07:00

I've since learned better.

I now prefer an icy Diet-Cocola.

With fresh squeezed lime.

Or an icy cool water.

Water rocks my world.

I'm also far too curvy (and fashionable)

for overalls.

But, in all honesty here, wasn't I cute?

(And rockin' the piggies?)

Countdown to 30: Day One

2011-02-11T16:55:00.001-07:00

The backyard of my childhood home had a mature elm tree at its center. The branches of the tree arched over nearly the entirety of the back lawn. You could see its tallest branches peeking out when standing in the front yard. It was a beautiful tree.

I loved this tree. I climbed it. I danced beneath it. In autumn I'd frustrate my father as he worked in the yard, leaping into his neatly raked piles of the tree's leaves. I used to lay on a blanket under its limbs and read my college textbooks when spring had arrived and I missed the sunlight. I sometimes cursed it in the summer when it interfered with my sun worship (before I admitted that sunburning and freckles were my skin's natural pattern in the sun). My dad has told me my whole life that I used to stare up at its leaves when I was a baby, calm and content.

My father and his siblings sold the family home sometime after my grandfather's death (it was technically grandpa's home--not ours). At the time I was finishing my final semesters of college. While I looked forward to a new bedroom and the swimming pool at my parents' new condo complex, I hated leaving the squeaking floors, the smells, the neighborhood, the familiarity of that house. Losing one's notion of home and childhood and nostalgia is difficult to say the least. But, as we settled into the new place, what I longed for very most was that tree.

I guess you could say I'm still googly-eyed about deciduous trees. The seasons revolve and the trees spin with them, a kaleidoscopic show. Each season is painted with their colors and serenaded by the wind in their shifting branches. There is little else in this world quite as lovely as the sound of wind through an aspen--except, perhaps, the sequined shimmer of its leaves in that same wind.

Yes, it is true: my first post in celebration of my 30 years and I'm writing about trees. But maybe this reveals something about me, about my personality. About some constant in these 30 years here. Maybe it is because I love the story my father always tells me--my infant-self's fascination with the elm in the backyard. Maybe it is because it is February and the branches of trees all around me have been naked for far too long. Maybe I'm more granola than I'd like to admit.

Who cares? I'm turning 30. And I love trees. They've added to my life's delight. The end.

30 to 30

2011-02-10T21:43:00.001-07:00

I turn 30 next month.

Once upon a time I believed 30 to be quite old. Established. Official. Middle aged-ish.

30 meant you had a balding husband. Kids. A career. A mortgage. A Subaru or Volvo or minivan.

30 meant mom jeans.

30 meant you had things figured out.

How relieved I am to have been so very, very wrong about this age.

Because today I can almost touch 30.

And of all the things I once believed about 30, I can say only one was true: I have a career.

My "kids" belong to other people and leave me alone after the bell rings at 2:30. No husband (even sans hair). Still renting. I wish I had a Subaru (but reeeeally wish for that Volvo) and, if I'm completely honest, I think minivans offer some sweet amenities. I'm grateful I don't wear mom jeans--but I'm equally wise enough to realize not every body can pull off the skinny jean/jegging.

And I still don't have most things figured out. I'm glad of that. It means I'm consistently learning.

So, in honor of the past 30 years--or the next 30 (plus) years--I'm reveling in completely, utterly, overly indulgent narcissism over the next 30 days.

Each day until my birthday I will share my life from the past 30 years. These posts may include photos, there will certainly be memories, perhaps it will all just be an overly conceited celebration of me. Who knows? Who cares? It is certain to be fun. For me, if no one else.

And away we go...

Being 15 Really Does Suck. I Kind of Hated It Myself.

2011-02-08T20:21:00.005-07:00

I end my final class each day a few minutes early in order to put the chairs up on the tables, to clean and straighten up the classroom. Sometimes this means we wait for the seconds to pass until the bell rings. I'm not one for releasing my students early. Nobody wants to be that teacher.

Today while we waited, I chatted with a handful of students.

A girl asked me, "Teacher, do you like your job?"

"I do. I love it, in fact. I feel lucky to have found my purpose in life."

To which the always stoic and silent "Braydon" interjected, "I would hate your job if I were you."

The girl continued with her chatter, ignoring Braydon's comment. "You're not married, right? And you probably don't have kids. I think I could teach little kids. Do you think you'd prefer to teach elementary, high school, or college? Did you choose high school?"

"I prefer high school. And that's what I'm trained to teach. I don't think I could do elementary. Little kids are cute, but not 25 or so of them at a time."

Braydon, still eavesdropping, "I hate little kids."

Braydon rarely says much, so I figured I'd best include him in the conversation.

"So what do you like?"

"Nothing."

"Do you like video games?"

"I hate gaming. It sucks."

"Music?"

It was almost painful for Braydon to answer in the affirmative, "Some of it is ok, I guess."

"Which genre? What bands?"

"Metal. Like Slipknot. Or Korn. Bands that talk about how much everything sucks."

And then the bell rang.

Oh Braydon, may life cease to suck so much sometime soon.

This isn't Braydon. Obviously.
Braydon wouldn't smile for the camera.
No, this is what came up when I searched "15 years old" in Google images.

Wanted: Recommendations

2011-01-28T16:08:00.004-07:00

I am in need of a list of must-read books,
must-watch movies.
The weather in my neck of the woods stinks
(literally, air quality around here is abominable).
I have some spare time,
Netflix, and an Amazon gift card
linked directly to my Kindle.
Ideas?

Rejection

2011-01-20T11:13:00.003-07:00

“Beauty, to me, is about being comfortable in your own skin. That, or a kick-ass red lipstick.” ~ Gwyneth Paltrow

What now?

You know what I'm going to do now? I'm going to put on my favorite flaming blue flats.

I'm going to smear my lips with my fieriest red lipstick. I'm going to pretend I'm Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind and say these eight words with all of me:

"Frankly,

my dear,

I don't give a damn."

Dear Powers That Be:

2011-01-19T11:14:00.007-07:00

1. Pray tell. Is there any possibility that the world's worst tasting substance (cough syrup) could be made more pallatable? I know I'm stuffed up as I swallow such wretchedness. I know this is supposed to soften the blow. But, you see, nothing gives me the dry heaves and the shivers quite like the stuff. And, for the record, the dry heaves in combination with a cough happens to be an ugly, ugly situation.

2. "Guy timing." Really? Can't we just call it what it is? (That being cowardice and distraction via electronics, naturally.)

3. Tagging. Graffiti. Label it as you choose (no pun intended). Let's discuss this little phenomenon. As an educator I really, really, really, really loathe/despise/hate this particular "art" form. Could some kind of vicious karma quickly mark the perpetrators? I'm not necessarily asking for maiming. Just some kind of semi-permanent, obnoxious or possibly humiliating marking on their persons made worse each time they mark something that isn't theirs. A minor stigmata of sorts. Acne doesn't count.

4. May I request Diet Coke in heaven? Or will I have to break that habit sooner than later?

5. Thank you for good girlfriends, old and new. I spent last night laughing with a couple of new ones over minestrone soup. I think good people make the world go round. I really do. I like talking to women. We're kind of awesome. Keep it coming.

6. I tried making chocolate chip cookies again on Monday. I even used Martha Stewart's fail-safe recipe. And again, my cookies bled into one another, spread out like pancake batter so thinly I could barely scrape them off the cookie sheet. I now have a tupperware dish filled with cookie bits that are soft and delicious, but look nothing like actual cookies. What can be done about this? Why must I always fail at cookies?

7. #2, the apartment next door, is being renovated at the moment. Because I have to listen to hours of pounding and banging and wall-rattling in my time off, may I somehow be reimbursed for the nuisance? Perhaps my future husband can move in next door. Yes, I think that would eliminate the bitter memory of the renovation annoyance quite sweetly.

8. Could the parents of my 10th grade honor boys form an alliance against their sons? You may have noticed, powers that be, that these young fellas are all growing braided Padowan-style side tails behind their ears. Perhaps this parent alliance could set a date and cut off aforementioned braided tails while their little lads sleep.

9. Nail polish chipping: I'm rather weary of this. Let's arrange something, shall we? I need at least a good week out of one paint job. Do you have any idea how long it takes for that stuff to dry and harden? It isn't right that somewhere between 24 and 48 hours later the things start looking like they've faced a jack hammer.

10. Please inform the individuals in the cars in front of me that when the sign that says "End School Zone" appears, that means it is time for you to resume the regular speed limit.

11. Quiet classrooms are beautiful things to behold. But then, so are noisy classrooms in which the noise all relates to social learning. Might you magnificent powers that be arrange to have the appropriate noise levels correlate with the appropriate moments in the arc of a lesson? I don't think I'm asking much here.

12. When I grow up, can I be as cool as some of my students? Seriously, I have never met such amazing 17 year olds as some of my AP kids. I was certainly not that brilliant or self-composed. I didn't have the keen taste in music and style sense that these individuals possess. I was awkward and insecure. I made up for it by behaving like a bit of a drama queen. All I ask is that, one day, I match them in their grace, goodness and nonchalant hip-ness.

13. Way to keep the inversion at bay. That sucker is depressing. I like to see the sky outside my window. I like the way the clouds shift and churn like a kaleidoscope. I like that the horizon is something tangible once again.

14. You know how I've been randomly waking up at two or three a.m.? You know how I look at my clock in panic only to realize I've a few more hours in bed? Let's just say I prefer these moments with the quick slide back into sleep. I prefer these half-awake peeks at the clock far more than those days I wake up seven minutes before the alarm goes off. Like today.

15. Can I have Javier Bardem for my 30th birthday? Pretty, pretty, pretty please. With a cherry on top.

In which I announce I'm tweeting and share some links

2011-01-17T15:28:00.005-07:00

First of all, Stephanie introduced me to this gem of a blog. Well Hello There Lover happens to be one of my newest obsessions. It is up there with Missed Connections. I simply cannot get enough of these short epistles of love and infatuation.

Secondly, I'm now tweeting. Yes, my friends, I've joined the legions of Twitter. My tweets are protected, but please, please request to follow me and I will do likewise. I'm new to the medium but cannot wait to figure out this particular/peculiar new (to me) social network. You can find me here.
And, though I mentioned this on twitter, the following habit is going to be a tough one to break. Slate Magazine (via Kristy) has informed me that there is only to be one space after a period. My world is quite shattered with this information. To spend these 29 plus years thinking I was so absolutely correct only to discover I am wrong. What else shall I learn about surety?

On. And on. And on.

2011-01-13T21:53:00.007-07:00

I rather loathe this time of year--what seems to be an everlasting winter. The inversion hanging heavy in the sky. The light at the end of this bitter tunnel so very distant.

And yet, here it is: January. Which will eventually bleed into February which will eventually end. Eventually.

But until then I'm left trudging through the days. And that is precisely what I'm doing: trudging. Slowly making my way from here to there.

So much of life is like this: moving from one place to the next, journeying so slowly. Looking to the next milepost until I reach it. Then looking to the next and the next and carrying onward.

Except, lately I've been thinking that this mile is so much longer than the others. I feel myself lodged in January. I am stagnant in a way I never expected. I am ready to move on to the distant post but I never seem to reach it.

* * *

Tonight I went to my yoga class. I moved my body so gently. I breathed. At the end of the session I lay on the floor listening to the soft, simple notes breathing with me. The instructor told us to, "imagine [our] thoughts settling as sand to the ocean floor." So many thoughts. So many worries. Sand upon sand upon sand sifting and settling. My body sinking and drifting and floating down with each idea. I felt myself falling somewhere safe, as snow into the backyard of my childhood.

* * *

A good friend (and yes, I have so very many good friends--I am rich with an abundance of good people in my life) told me after dinner the other night that I simply need to get out of my own way. How right she was. How perceptive of my doubts and concerns for things I cannot control, for things that may never happen. She recommended I read this by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland.

Among the many truths I found in Elder Holland's address, this one idea keeps brushing against the edges of my mind:

It is the plain and very sobering truth that
before great moments,
certainly before great spiritual moments,
there can come adversity, opposition, and darkness.
Life has some of those moments for us,
and occasionally they come
just as we are approaching an important decision
or a significant step in our life.

* * *

Sometimes I imagine the people my arms might hold one day: my husband, my children, even my grandchildren. I imagine what it would be like to hold these beings close to me. To have them fill up my days, my thoughts, my time and energy in a way that will leave me questioning who I ever was before. These thoughts fill me with longing and dread; the act feels both foreign and familiar.

* * *

So often I've written here about waiting. About enduring. About how life is beautiful and rich and full. And yet, here is a piece of truth I must also admit: sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it feels empty and difficult and not what I expect or want. Sometimes life is so lovely it hurts. At other times it hurts so much it is ugly.

* * *

Each day on January's calendar will eventually show signs of wear: a list checked off, an X through each square day. I'll tear the thin sheet of paper from my desk and move on to the next clean month. Eventually--and I know this--eventually it will happen.

my day job is, in a word, awesome

2011-01-11T14:51:00.005-07:00

Overheard today:

"I can read girls better than I can read this book, teacher."

Is it wrong that I kind of want lessons?

Because I'm pretty sure my students are smoother

with the opposite sex than I am.

things I sometimes wonder

2011-01-10T12:05:00.001-07:00

Is it "hooray" or "hurray"?

To You

2011-01-05T22:46:00.007-07:00

One day you'll keep me up past my bedtime on a school night for no reason beyond talking about nothing important (except everything that is so very important to us). I promise to not get upset with you the next morning as the alarm goes off.

-Me

To be fair, Meg (one of my favorite famous-ish bloggers)
got me thinking this kind of activity was worth my time.
Silly, yes. Whimsical and head-in-the-clouds? Naturally.
But I think there's something about saying it that makes an idea valuable.

Hello '11. And then 12.

2010-12-29T12:32:00.005-07:00

I've always had this thing with the number 11. At 11:11 I touch the digital clock and make a wish. Eleven is a good number. Ten, meh. 2010 was a hard one for me, I won't pretend otherwise. It started quite terribly. In a funk. It took months to dig myself out of it. I spent the first half of it fearful of turning 30. Much of the year felt like I was slogging through. Surviving. I had some rough classes, some irrational personal fears and worries, I had a bad attitude. It wasn't until summer that I started to perk up a bit. But maybe it was just seasonal affective disorder.

But 2011? Eleven has to be good, right? I feel hopeful about the new year. Alice, the best roommate-friend known to mankind, has been reading this book all about a woman's journey toward greater happiness. Alice loves books like these. From what she's told me, each month of the year this woman set a goal, small and slight, and then proceeded with it for the entire month, and into the next month and the next goal. Each slight improvement became habit. Each made her life feel more pleasant. And I think it is a good idea.

So here you have my 12 goals for the year:

1. January:
Go to bed earlier. Sleep is our friend. This is also my scariest goal.

2. February:
Read your scriptures and write a (minimum of) one sentence statement describing the personal significance of what you read. Every. Single. Day.

3. March:
You're turning 30. Spend each day of this month finding something to celebrate about yourself, your life, your body, your career, your relationships. Sing the song of yourself all month long. Write it down each day.

4. April:
Eat 5-7 servings of fruits and veggies every single day this month.

5. May:
Clean or organize something (a closet or cupboard, a load of laundry, anything) for 10 minutes every day.

6. June:
Move your body (at the gym, dancing in the living room, taking the stairs, hiking, doing some PM yoga) every day this month.

7. July:
Make your bed every day this month.

8. August:
Take a single picture that captures each day of the month.

9. September:
Read something you want to (not for school but for YOU) for a minimum of 10 minutes each day this month.

10. October:
Limit your computer time at home. 30 minutes per day tops. That's it. The exception: if you write a blog post.

11. November:
This is a month of gratitude. Make a statement of something you are grateful for each day of the month, on your blog, on facebook, to the students in your classes, your family, your friends. Appreciate life.

12. December:
This is a month of giving and sacrifice. Find a way each day to sacrifice and serve someone every day this month. It can be as simple as holding the elevator or letting a car merge in. It can be as grand as a service project. Spend each day this month intentionally, mindfully giving of yourself.

So what are your plans for the new year? I'm turning 30 and teaching and going to Cancun. That's all I know for sure. And isn't that the best part of a new year: the potential, the mystery, the hope of something splendid?

Happy 2011, friends!

Light and Dark

2010-12-22T13:23:00.004-07:00

I don't share what I believe, what I know to be true, often enough. But I must share this fact: I know that my savior, Jesus Christ, lives. I know He loves me unconditionally. I feel nothing but warmth and encouragement, support and strength from Him. He is, simply put, love in its greatest, most selfless form.

I am imperfect. We are each so imperfect. Yet He is perfect. He came to this world for each of us, to cover for our imperfections. His only motivation: love for us, a love so deep that He only wishes for us to reach our greatest potential. During this season of presents and things and family and friends and light, I must take a moment to acknowledge the greatest light in my life: my knowledge of who I am and what my purpose is in this life. I am here to get better at being me. And this me is an eternal being created by a loving Father and Mother. And the individual who makes it possible for me to improve, to dust off my knees after each stupid mistake is my brother, my savior, Jesus Christ. During this season, I celebrate Him. For where would I be without Him? In this world so often choking with darkness, He is my light.

If you're curious about anything I've written, or anything you viewed, please go here.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas

2010-12-20T11:42:00.011-07:00

In lieu of blogging, I've been up to some of the following (and please forgive the limitations of my point and shoot--yep, blaming the camera, not the photographer):

I made a gingerbread house. My first ever. From scratch. It was fun and frustrating and messy and the roof may contain a multi-grain club cracker. You'll never know. OK, the roof does have a club cracker--but the solution worked!

Next year, I'm going with the kit...or graham crackers.

I went to these kiddos' Christmas performance.

It was fabulous because THEY are fabulous!

He is kind of a rock star.

She was skipping along with the animated snowman at our favorite little (tacky) pizza place in the hometown.

And then there is this...

We went and saw the lights at Temple Square with the ward.

(Blurry, I know. But lovely nonetheless.)

I love the lights at Temple Square. But they have certainly toned it down in recent years. I remember it being a wonderland of billions of lights when I was a little girl. Every single tree was aglow. Not quite the same, anymore--but still,

one of my favorite holiday traditions.

Our new bishop was recently released as a Conference Center usher. He got us up on the Conference Center roof with his hook ups (OK, he still had his magnetized tag that worked on the elevator).

It was the best possible view. I love this photo! Thanks, Bish!

I'd like to call this one "I WAS ROBBED!"

Because I was. We had a door decorating contest at school with cash prizes and everything. The theme: Winter decor that matches your content area. What could be better than some Robert Frost action

for the English teacher's door?

Store bought decorations do not trump creativity.

That's all I'm saying.

My little 9th graders worked like gangbusters and had to deal with my neurotic, controlling self. My favorite conversation of the great door decorating day (upon discovering a clueless 9th grade boy taping masking tape in giant strips on TOP of the paper--not the little double-sided circle strips BEHIND the decor):

Me: Chayse, WHY are you taping it like that?!?

Chayse: Ummmm...

Me: You need to re-do that. It looks terrible, you can't have the tape showing! Do it like this.

(I demonstrate appropriate taping strategy.)

Chayse: Oh, huh. That makes sense. Oops!

Me: Sheesh! Who raised you?

Chayse: My dad.

Me: It shows! No sense of the aesthetic, whatsoever!

HA! Poor things! Yes, I am a control freak.

Finally, on Thursday we headed back to Temple Square. My dear Momsy scored tickets to the MoTab Christmas concert. David Archuleta was adorable as their guest. Perfect for the holidays!

I kind of love this woman!

Can't tell we're related at all, can you?

Waiting for the show to start.

(My favorite part of this photo: Allyson holding both of our Kindles--our waiting entertainment.)

The traditional "Besties" shot.

Thanks for taking our picture, usher-man.

The set was sweet!

It has been a busy few weeks. But I'm off school for two weeks,

Christmas is coming, snow is flying and I don't have to commute in it at an inhumane hour.

I LOVE this time of year!

Just Another Manic Monday

2010-11-29T17:15:00.003-07:00

Dear Clean and Unfolded Laundry,
You have taken up residence on my sofa. The goal is to fix that this evening. I only said it was the goal. I made no promises.

Dear Grocery Store Peeps,
It was really uncool that you put Chicken with Rice cans in the Cream of Chicken soup dispenser. My creamy turkey enchiladas are going to be...fascinating tonight (no thanks to you).

Dear Adolescent Males the World Over,
Nobody (I repeat NOT A SINGLE SOUL) thinks you're as funny as you think you are. I would say I hate breaking that news to you, but the truth is I get a sick kind of pleasure from it.

Dear Boy Who Called Me at 11:30 on a School Night,
Who does that? Did it really take you that long to muster up the courage? Bless your heart.

Dear Purple,
I think I've fallen in love with you. You're a rather dreamy color, you know.

Dear Two Pounds Gained over Thanksgiving,
Do I just accept you until January or try and do something about it? It just feels like such a worthless cause with Christmas around the corner.

Dear Cancun,
I miss you and I've never even met you. April 16th, my love. April 16th.

Dear Snow,
You're like one of those mean girls: you look pretty but deep down inside you're cold, heartless, and bitter.

For Your Monday Viewing Pleasure:

The Thankful List

2010-11-24T10:31:00.004-07:00

1. I am filled with gratitude for the people in my life. The friends, the family, the students, the co-workers, even the near-strangers I have "met" through blogging. I am rich with good people. How does one get so lucky, so very blessed?

2. I am grateful for my faith, my beliefs, my knowledge about who I am. I am a daughter of a loving Heavenly Father. I know this to be true. This knowledge fuels and drives me to be better, to have faith in myself and my own potential. It gives me peace and comfort. It is good.

3. I feel so filled with joy knowing I have a career that isn't so bad. In fact, there are moments of magic. Seeing young people grow, feel inspired to do something with themselves is so rewarding. And I get paid to feel like sometimes I make a difference for the better.

4. I am thankful for the beauty of the earth, that on Monday mornings that make the body ache, the sun is rising over the eastern peaks with such breathtaking loveliness I forget I've the work week to face. That snow falls soft and pure and melts and the earth is reborn and flushes green then grows weary and turns vibrant and colorful and the cycle continues. The seasons, the earth, the sky. It is all so exquisite.

5. I am grateful for music and art and lyrical words. Beauty and the aesthetic can be found so readily if one only looks for it.

6. I give thanks for even the frivolous things of life: fashion, sparkly things, tasty food, movies, the internet, commercials that make me giggle.

My life is rich and lovely and full. It would be wrong of me to not step back from every day worry and recognize the blessings so evident. It would be sinful not to do so at Thanksgiving time.

*and thanks for the image found here

Have a lovely holiday, readers.

Celebrity Gone Wrong: In Which I Reveal Myself to Be a Pretentious Snob

2010-11-22T22:52:00.006-07:00

Let's get something straight. Most celebrities these days aren't all that talented. But their lack of any true performance ability exists in mediums which I tend to avoid: reality television, bad movies, auto-tuned crap music. So I tolerate their presence and focus my attention on what I deem as real performers and artists.

But these individuals who have "the look" if nothing else cross the line when they wet their talentless toes in the sacred waters of the novel.

I'm referring, in case you wondered, to this abomination (discovered while perusing Borders Friday evening):

(Pretty cover, I'm going to go ahead and guess not much substance based on the "author.")

And don't even get me started on this girl:

(Really? I mean--really?)

I just don't think "Duff played the precocious Lizzie Maguire" or "Conrad lived in 'reality' television prior to..." looks so good on the author bio when others in the profession actually graduated with an MFA, understand the nuance within the written word, and can form a sentence without the frequent interjection like (as in "He is like totally like not like listening to like me"). I just wonder who in the publishing world is keeping the gate. Because their A$$ needs to be canned.

*Brussels Sprouts, Beauty, Blooming, Attraction, and Other Musings Which I Can't Quite Make Sense Of

2010-11-18T17:52:00.000-07:00

Last week, I caught the end of Marie Osmond's appearance on Oprah. She'd been talking about her son's suicide, but then proceeded to talk about her second marriage. She said something really insightful: "You marry at the level your self confidence is at."

***

Today I received an email from a friend with a link to a youtube version of "It's Raining Men." She was half-teasing/half-celebrating with me about my recent uptick in the dating/interested male department. But, oh. How I preferred the nonexistent dating life, the invisibility factor. If only because I was comfortable there. If only because my girlfriends are these incredible, accomplished, brilliant individuals. My dates and the boys who show interest are lost and wandering. Too frequently undereducated, "in between things," goal-less, directionless, without a place. Their potential, be it because of the economy or society or expectations or the subculture or the new iffy definition of "man," has been thwarted, misdirected, not achieved.

***

I have discovered recently that I'm not half bad looking. At 29 I've figured out this new layer of myself that feels simultaneously empowering and weakening. This was supposed to happen 15 years ago. But it is happening now. It is a gift, in a sense. At 29 I have a greater ability to process this phenomenon than my 15 year old self would have. It is also, at times, embarrassing. It is clumsy. Most women my age have this sense of self mastered. Most women my age figured this out long ago and have moved on to mastering motherhood. I'm blooming late.

***

My date--that date I told you about--he (teasingly, but that doesn't excuse it) called me a snob. And he was cheap. So cheap it was uncomfortable for me, for the waitress. He didn't perceive things the way I did--he didn't see that it was simply a not-so-good date. He called me back later that weekend. And texted. And it was so very awful and uncomfortable. And I couldn't help but wonder how one gets to 33 and still behaves as he does. I couldn't wonder how I've gotten to 29 and am still unsure how to let a guy down gently.

***

Sunday, a family came to hear one of the speakers in sacrament with their sweet new baby. The squishy, soft, fresh kind of baby. The kind of baby that makes you question why they're bringing him into public at this time of year when he is so new. They sat right in front of me. I ached.

***

My mother thinks I'm picky. She doesn't say it out loud, but when men come up in conversation she says things that let me know she thinks I'm too hard on them. I think she wants more babies in her life. All my siblings' children are grown past toddlerhood. No more babies. I'm her last hope. She once said she and my father don't worry as much because I have a career. But she does worry.

***

Last night at a Relief Society function, a member of our bishopric, an incredibly funny and clever dentist, talked about the parable of the talents. About how amazing we women are. About how men need women like us because they wander aimlessly, cluelessly without us. We are what they need to become men, not boys. It was a joke, but funny in its honesty.

***

I'm feeling my way through this new path that is also so old. It is strange and saddening. Exciting. Discouraging. It is wrought with sub-cultural quirks and expectations. I am convinced that it is, in so many ways, a gift that I've made it to this place in my life without marrying. I am more aware of who I am as a person. My priorities are more focused. I know what I want, which traits are deal breakers, which characteristics and baggage I am willing to let slide. I feel so blessed in a life rich with friends and family and lovely, lovely students (sans 9th grade boys). That fact alone means I am not panicked or rushed or willing to settle.

***

I am patient in so many ways, but far more impatient. The roommate spoke in sacrament recently all about having faith and that faith bringing us joy each day of our journey. She is my best friend for a reason--so much more wise and humble than I am. I am trying, always, to have faith that the Father in Heaven I so completely believe in is far more aware of what my life needs than I am. I am quite certain of that because I see this person I've become and she is beautiful, intelligent, kind, loving, open-hearted. She is nowhere near where I thought she'd be at this point in time. But she possesses so many of the qualities my young self wished her to have. She is surrounded by people she cares about. She is blessed. My little life thus far is nothing I would have designed once upon a time, and yet it is so correct, so right for me.

*For the definition of this reference, go here.

Dear Blogging Friends,

2010-11-12T09:44:00.005-07:00

I am writing to let you know that I really, really, really wish I could throttle certain 9th graders. Particularly those of the male variety. I am weary of their inconsiderate choices, their troublesome behavior, their immaturity, and the messes they seem to trail behind them. You know how the news loves to portray these awful stories of teachers having indecent relationships with their 9th grade students? I am here to say these teachers are certifiably insane. There is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING that could behoove me to spend more time than is absolutely necessary in their presence. 14-15 year old boys are awful, awful people.

I also have a blog post marinating in my brain about men who used to be 14-15 year old boys. But I don't want to sound bitter and nasty. I'm debating how to broach this particular little subject. And my date last week. And what it means to be my age, female, LDS, living in Utah, and single.

In happier news, it is my 30th birthday in March. I only turn 30 once so the roommate and I have decided that a dream vacation to Cancun is in order. It will have to wait until my Spring Break in April, but we're definitely going. We've talked to the travel agent, we've looked (and looked and looked and dreamed and looked some more) at the pictures of our resort, I even dreamt about it last night. We are going for a week-long vacation of beautiful beaches, room serviced breakfasts of fresh fruit on our deck with a hammock, snorkeling, resting, reading, kayaking, ruins, bartering with the locals, and relaxation. And watching thousands of drunk co-eds drown all memory of their spring break. I can hold out until April 16th, right? Perhaps this demands a paper chain?

So there you have it. A snapshot of my brain's musings at this particular moment in time. Tell me, dear reader, what is haunting, frustrating, or eagerly awaiting you?

Love,
Brooke

Don't Fall Off Your Chair, But...

2010-11-04T18:24:00.001-06:00

It is days like today that I understand why I'm single.

I have a date tomorrow night.

And, as you may have noticed, I very rarely date.

It is, at the technical level, a blind date. We've talked on the phone, he seems, well--normal.

At least so far.

But here is the thing about first dates--they are, as you probably well know, outright awful. One of my favorite things to do when going out on weekend nights with my favorite girls is to observe the first date awkwardness that others at the restaurant are enduring. I thank the powers that be that it ain't me. Because, while those poor kids are nervous and trying to impress or not send the wrong signals or not say something stupid or to ask plenty of questions and not hog the conversation, I am having a perfectly delightful, relaxed time.

Behold, Awkwardness Exhibit A:

Awkwardness Exhibit B:

But tomorrow night, it will be me in the awkward seat. Me sitting beside a stranger, watching a high school football game. Me thinking, "Did I really just say that?" Me trying to pretend like I know anything about football.

It is moments like this that I remember the exact reason I'm single.

The truth is, I really hate to date.

This must be why I'm holding out for Javier.

Happy Halloween

2010-10-31T21:59:00.000-06:00

Here's to hoping you had a DEVILISHLY good time,

as did I:

It is always FUN when you can spend it with MISCHIEVOUS

TRICK-OR-TREATERS

like these ghouls:

While enjoying such FESTIVE DELICACIES as these:

And, perhaps, making a bit of a fool of yourself:

(I never knew the monstrous capacity of my mouth until the moment I saw this image.)

Good times were had by all...

Even if it was

FRIGHT NIGHT:

Today I'm digging...

2010-10-15T11:50:00.000-06:00

A four day weekend (thank you local education association for conferencing together...and making attendance optional).

Red Mango has Pumpkin Spice frozen yogurt, kids. That is a good thing.

My house is all clean.

The fridge is totally stocked (thanks to Costco and Winco).

My laundry is (almost) done.

It is hot chocolate season.

Everything feels exactly as fall should.

They got all 33 Chilean miners out.

Missed Connections. I simply love this little spot.

That autumn is quickly becoming my favorite season. How cool is this?

Decency, Bullying, Human Kindness and Other Musings

2010-10-09T15:02:00.007-06:00

Last school year a couple of my 9th grade boys were making fun of an oblivious female student. Unaware of most things, the girl didn't notice (luckily). But it was borderline bullying. Naturally, I flipped. I took them both out in the hall and, body shaking, eyes bugged, voice low and guttural, I only recall saying something about, "I am disgusted at your behavior. Don't even try and act innocent. Who do you think you are? She is a human being deserving of all the respect your heartlessness can give." I was incensed, my mind flipping back through the calendar years to my own tumultuous adolescence of teasing and crippling insecurity.

I can't help thinking about how bullying has evolved since social networking, email, texting, photo messages, and all other mediums of communication have emerged. I thought the Nick C. debacles of my youth were bad, but pagers were as high tech as my junior high could get. Nobody ever took video footage of my most humiliating experiences and posted them to youtube. Early 90's cruelty never went viral.

I recently read this article. Which just saddens me. While I wonder about the environment of that school, I worry more about what is happening in these adolescents' homes.

Kids learn how to treat their fellow man from the adults in their lives. They learn how to behave, how to love, how to hate all from the adults around them. And while a great deal of human socialization happens outside of the home, especially once adolescence kicks in, someone is teaching these children to behave with cruelty.

Which leads me to wonder about how we as adults treat one another. While we've mastered subtlety in human interaction, are we also not guilty of occasionally bullying, teasing, ganging up on one another? Do we not leave one another out, backbite, gossip? I think we are not as kind as we could be. We tell our kids to be nice but sometimes show them another example entirely. I think we can be equally cruel, if not openly cruel. I think we are just as guilty of forgetting the value of a single individual, a value that is immeasurable.

I Usually Bite My Tongue: A Flood of Words

2010-10-01T18:03:00.003-06:00

Typically I don't think my blog is the place for venting such as this. Who wants to read the rantings of an overly-verbose, overly-consumed-by-her-job teacher? Yes, usually I bite my tongue about these situations. Because I try to be understanding, to give the benefit of the doubt to those with whom I come in contact.

I usually bite my tongue when I see the cover of Newsweek declare that firing teachers will solve this country's educational issues. I bite my tongue when I hear that unions are to blame for the state of American education. I keep quiet when everyone from Oprah to Mark Zuckerberg to Bill Gates chimes in on what they believe will solve education (to be fair, I agree with some of their thoughts). I bite my tongue when people say we teachers have it so easy: our summers off, leaving work at 3 or 4, reading the paper while the kids do whatever it is that they want to do. I keep my mouth clenched tight when I read in Time magazine that the Education field is filled with some of the worst academic performers in college. I usually don't go into any of it because I feel so intensely frustrated I'm afraid I'll foolishly cry or lose my cool. I fear if I say what I think about education, people will mistake my frustration for your average work-related whining. When, in truth, I genuinely love what I do. I bite my tongue because I fear if I open my mouth I will splatter my opposition in such a chaotic rush of thought that my words will need to be scraped off the walls when I finish.

But I have to say what I think. It has been a hell of a week. I'm in my fifth year of teaching and every single day of it has been challenging. And I need to write all of this. I need to say what I feel and think because I'm a dam with too much pressure behind it.

Let me share a few facts (and some opinions) with you:

1. I end my school year long after and begin the school year long before the students do. In between I spend several days (17 this past summer, to be exact) involved in professional development, trainings, conferences,summer writing camps, etc. I also spend my summer refining and designing curriculum, reading books that I can recommend to my reluctant readers, and, frankly, catching up on sleep and my life and those few things I like to do for me.

2. I work 10 hour days on a regular basis. Teaching means I'm preparing 3 different 90 minute presentations (with visuals and handouts and group activities and assessments and more) to several rowdy crowds every single day. I'm contacting parents and troubleshooting and copying and correcting and cleaning and teaching and supporting and encouraging and standing and working all 10 of those hours. I only hit up the faculty lounge to check my box. Technically, I get a 25 minute lunch, but those few minutes are spent helping students and preparing for the next class in between bites of food and sometimes, every once in a while, actually visiting the restroom just once. (Do you have to tell your bladder to wait for an hour because you can't leave your work unattended?) I then bring work home. I'm an English teacher and frequently spend my evenings and weekends grading and giving pertinent feedback on student writing assignments. (Just multiply your one essay by 35 or 40 for your class, and then multiply that by 6 for all the classes I teach. This will give you a more thorough understanding of my exciting dating/social life.)

3. I graduated with honors from what I felt was a great higher education institution. In English (my major), I had a 4.0. I haven't checked my transcripts, but I'm pretty sure I earned all A's in my education classes as well. Because, you see, I was a student who loved learning and her content area and worked her tail end off. Because I've always valued education--which is a trend I've noticed amongst my fellow teachers.

4. My feet and back hurt every single day. This condition magically disappears in the summer months.

5. I work through all kinds of illnesses during the year--typically because hiring a sub means I still have to not only prepare for and grade all the work of the classes, but it is usually mediocre work my students produce if I'm gone. And my classroom is a chaotic disaster upon my return.

6. I want you to think about that big birthday party you let your kid have that one time with all of his/her friends, or that time you had all the boy scouts come to your place for pancakes, or whatever. I want you to think about how insane it was to have 12 children in your home at once. I have between 33 and 40 students in all of my classes (except the two remedial classes of 20--in which behavior issues and 3rd grade reading levels abound.) My students and I joke and say things like, "Stack 'em deep, teach 'em cheap" because what else can we do but make the best of it?

7. I don't think I could conduct a gallbladder surgery simply because I had one a few years back. I don't think you should think you know how to teach because you were a student once.

8. I get paid beans to work the hours I work and to do what I do. But I still do it because I love it. It is my life's work, my mission; call it what you may. My work is essential to society and I don't believe my students can afford for me to do it poorly.

9. I am pretty sure that in several of the nations that are surpassing American students in Math and Science, the country's educational system is designed in such a way that if students are not performing up to par at certain check points along the way, they're gone, blotted out, eliminated from the educational system altogether (or, in some countries, moved exclusively into the arena in which they do show promise). Which sort of means all the failing students aren't being included in these country's testing statistics, right? These scores are only reflective of the best of the best, technically. No?

10. Last I checked, don't we in the U.S. educate everyone, no matter their ability, nationality, race, or culture for 13 (sometimes more) years unless they opt to leave early? Even if students try and leave early then change their minds or incessantly play hooky or get pregnant or go to juvenile detention or fail and fail and fail some more, don't we provide every possible second, third, fourth, fifth chance available? And, for argument's sake, don't we do all of this essentially at no charge to them or their families?

11. Oversimplification indicates an inability to think in complex ways. Education in this country is not broken simply because of bad teachers. Are there bad teachers? Absolutely. And, frankly, I think this issue needs to be resolved. But not at the expense of the good teachers or the unions that serve as a voice for these teachers. Not at the expense of breaking something else in the system.

12. Last I checked, everyone is diverse. Our schools, especially, are uber-diverse: in culture, language, etc. At my school, for instance, 51% of our student population falls in that "minority" category. 42 different languages are spoken in the homes of our students. Because we're all diverse, everyone learns in different ways and is good at some things and not so good at others. A standardized test which is culturally and linguistically biased seems a silly measurement of what a diverse student population does or does not know, is or is not capable of, or how far a student may have come over the course of a school year. If the standard is set at this spot and this spot only, it doesn't account for the student that started way down there and made it clear up to here but is still below that spot.

13. Learning happens both in and out of schools (at least, ideally it should). Children are nurtured and taught in the home AND in the classroom.

Which brings me to what is/are sort of, kind of, in a round-about way my major point(s). I think? (Like I said: scraping my words off the walls, floods, and other metaphor mixing.) Just as a person can't perform all that well if they have no physical fuel in their system (sleep, food), I don't think anybody can perform all that well if they don't have the emotional and mental fuel they need.

Kids need adults to provide a lot of things for them: a stable home environment, mental stimulation and challenges from the earliest of ages on, love, acceptance, safety, and all those basics of physical survival. Kids need home. Kids need school. Kids need an intricate system of visible (and some invisible, behind-the-scenes) adults and peers that support them into adulthood.

As a teacher, I can't fix an unstable home life. I can't ensure that someone living in poverty has the time, money, and/or resources to take their kid to a museum or has the ability to tell them what kind of tree they're looking at or that Shakespeare was the guy who first coined that phrase. As much as I'd like to, I can't tell the media they are sending the wrong messages to our society's children about what is most valuable in this life. I can't put books on the shelves of homes where there are not books. There is a lot I cannot do in the years before a student enters my classroom. There is a lot I cannot do once a student walks out my classroom door. But I can control those 90 minutes that kid is in my classroom. And I do my very best to take a student where they are at (3rd grade reading levels and all), and teach them that good, thorough reading takes more effort than they've been giving (this happens at every level). I can help them find their voice in writing. I can teach them skills they didn't possess before. I can work my tail end off for those 90 minutes (and all the prep time before and grading time after). But, for some, those 90 minutes won't make enough of a difference. Because there is more to their success or failure than little old me.

Love this. Needed it.

2010-09-29T21:41:00.001-06:00

I'm convinced that pretty much everything Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf says is meant entirely for me.

27.

2010-09-28T09:12:00.002-06:00

That is how many mosquito bites I received on Sunday night at a family get together held in the great outdoors of Alice's aunt's backyard.

27 in 2 hours.

Why do the damned things love me so much?

Why?

Did I Mention My Love for Autumn?

2010-09-26T00:22:00.012-06:00

A little over a month ago I went here:

What a difference a month makes:

I simply love this little spot up the canyon.

I'll let you see why...

I think this might just be my favorite photo I've ever taken.

Maybe:

We even ran into these guys unexpectedly!

It was a perfect day.

Mostly because I spent it avoiding grading.

Happy Sweater Season

2010-09-24T10:13:00.009-06:00

Autumn is officially here, friends.
I have acquired four new cardigans in the past month to prove it.

Oh, how I love this season!
I keep thinking of the Keats poem
"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness..."

On Tuesday evening I drove up the canyon with a friend and walked around a lake rimmed with golden aspen groves. The air was fresh and crisp and perfect. Each of us kept stopping mid-sentence to simply gasp at the brilliance of it all.
I kicked myself for not bringing my camera.
I also realize that sometimes this is a blessing.
We also caught sight of a moose family
(momma, papa, and their kiddo).

Enjoy watching the world turn vibrant. I most definitely am.

Things I'd tell you if I could

2010-09-19T10:38:00.010-06:00

A friend from high school recently tagged me in several photographs found in the typical Facebook old-school photo album. Most of the photos were from my senior year of high school. My hair was long. Really long. I was skinny but, naturally, thought I was fat. I was beautiful and thought myself ugly. So, after reading this. And this (she does a series of these, by the way), I've decided I need to write my own advice to my adolescent self.

1. You are beautiful. Stop looking at Seventeen and you'll start to realize that fact.
2. Cut your hair. It will save you time, money on hair products. And you'll love it so much more.
3. Embrace your freckles. One day someone will stare at the one on your top lip and it will drive him crazy in a good way.
4. Go to bed earlier.
5. College will be better than this.
6. You are talented, intelligent, and worthwhile. You needn't change a thing about yourself.
7. Except, please, for the love of all that is good and holy, just smile for the damn camera. Enough with the thumb and forefinger at the chin GQ pose!
8. Mascara is sometimes all you need on that face.
9. Stay out of the tanning bed. You're fair skinned and freckled and it could easily lead to cancer.
10. Wear shorter skirts while you can.
11. Accent that little waist. Don't hide behind clothing that is too big.
12. Flirt more with the boys. They like you. They really do.
13. Be bold. You are allowed to express your own will. If someone hurts you, tell them.
14. Don't say "sorry" or "just kidding" so much. Own what you have to say. It is of value.
15. Wear tampons earlier in life. It will change your life and save you from embarrassment.
16. Be foolish and silly. This is the time for such things.
17. Always be a loyal friend to people who do the same in return.
18. Love that body. Treat it with kindness. Don't eat a bag of chips from the vending machine for lunch just because your friends do. Keep dancing, even if it is in your living room.
19. Your greatest asset will be a good bra. I promise.
20. Don't think you need to listen to the same pop music your friends do. Trust in your instincts and good taste.
21. Sometimes those boys are teasing you because they think you are attractive.
22. Take chances and risks and listen to what the deepest part of yourself is saying.
23. Write thank you notes to your teachers. Most of them are working hard for kids just like you.
24. You really will be just fine when some people don't like you. Chances are you don't like them much either.
25. Don't be embarrassed of your parents. They are amazing, likable people.
26. Oh, and one last thing: could you whine and cry and throw an immature fit or 48 in order to make your parents pay for braces. Push the issue. Your nearly 30-year-old self with the increasingly crooked front tooth will thank you.

**Not quite during my adolescence--but, my, was I young!

To My Life:

2010-09-13T21:09:00.006-06:00

I think I love you. Most of the time. I know I love the gifts you give me: an eccentrically beautiful family; a brilliant/supportive/loyal/funny/kind/fabulous best friend; good people whom I love spreading out in so many different directions I can hardly keep up; gainful employment that I complain about, yes, but that deep down I rather enjoy; my perfect-for-me faith that has seeped so deeply into me I can't separate my understanding of myself from the doctrines it teaches; a warm queen-sized bed all to myself. Music. Shoes. Freckles. Bright toenails. Books. Color. Naturally curly hair. Laughter. Years and years before me and (most likely) years and years to go.

I didn't think at my age I'd be where I'm at. I had a timeline at 14. I've more than doubled that number since. Some of those items on my life checklist I've stuck to. Most I haven't. Some I'm still waiting on. And I'm okay with it. I've made mistakes and learned from many of them. I am still learning from some. And others I just keep making. I'm learning to be patient with myself. Usually. For everything I haven't done in exactly the way I thought I would, I've managed to take on roles I never expected. Some beautiful, some really, really torturous. But they are my faces, my facets and that makes them all the more meaningful. I've kicked up dust where I never knew I could or would. I've left my mark in the lives of children, even if they're not my own. I've loved truly without finding that elusive, possibly cliche, true love.

I've changed wardrobes, changed lines, changed loves and passions. I've come full circle, returning to myself and left other parts of myself backstage, in the past, far behind. I've listened. I've talked. I've read. I've written. Danced. Stood still. Been silly, serious, responsible, lazy, sarcastic, complicated, simple, courageous, weak. I've shouted and whispered and sung my voice away. I've laughed until I cried and cried until I laughed. I've experienced. I've lived.

I want to tell you all I still want from you, some things I want to demand. But I won't. I'm learning that sometimes accepting what you give me turns out to be far more necessary. Though I am hesitant to admit it, sometimes what you give me is even better than what I try and tell you is best.

I have a story worth telling. I own every last word in it. I thank you.

Love,
Brooke (who, lately, is feeling less and less like a rookie in her own skin)

A List of Gratitude

2010-09-07T16:40:00.005-06:00

There are moments we must account for what is rich and good and right in our lives. This swinging motion called living can so easily pivot in a direction entirely unexpected. Today I take time to recognize the good.

1. I'm grateful for this weekend. I brought home a bag of grading and did none of it. I went swimming with my niece. I shopped the clearance racks. I went out to dinner. Twice. I did yoga before bedtime. I spoke to my eldest(ish) sister on the phone for an hour. I taught my final Sunday school lesson on Jonah and Micah (and realized I will possibly name the son I hope to have someday after one of them). I wandered in the coolness of the woods while talking with good friends. I lay on the bed for hours--reading of all great things.

2. I am grateful I have to give a talk this Sunday. Not because I love public speaking (ok, sometimes I kind of like the challenge of public speaking), but because I get to learn and grow and figure out my own perspectives on a specific gospel topic all week. I've already started studying and writing down thoughts that don't connect to one another. If it comes out decent, I might post it on here. Why not?

3. I am grateful for the silly rainbowed wrist band I found at Wal-Mart last night. It means that maybe, just maybe, I won't hide my school keys from myself anymore.

4. I am grateful for my hair. I admit it. I have a slight bit of hair vanity. It hasn't always been this way--natural curls are an acquired taste. But today at 29 and a half (almost), I can honestly say I've come to terms with all my hair is capable of: its uniqueness, its body, its rich color (thank you Redken & Ashley). I've finally embraced what I do have.

5. I am grateful for my students. They make me think and work and so often smile. They are these people who have so much to learn and yet offer such experienced perspectives. I love seeing them light up with these new ideas I introduce to them. I love how they challenge me. I love teasing them. I love making them laugh. I love helping them learn.

What are you grateful for today?

*image found here

Totally Geek to Totally Chic: Celebrating Brainiacs

2010-09-01T21:08:00.003-06:00

I think we've all established that I have a thing for Javier Bardem.

And who wouldn't, really?

Have you seen Eat, Pray, Love?

This is how I like to think it ends, just in case you haven't gone to the theatre yet:

You can thank me later for summing it all up so nicely for you--

thus saving you the $8.50 you would have spent at the multiplex.

Dear Javier, you can be my champion any time.

But enough about Javier and me.

Did I ever tell you about my affinity for geekish-ness?

About how I think the sexiest part on a man is his brain?

How intelligence gets me a bit hot and bothered?

Because it does.

Very much so.

Take, for instance, this guy:

Host of NPR's (and now Showtime's) This American Life.

Radio personality, master story teller.

Dear Mr. Glass, I have a crush on you and always will.

I'm hoping to run into you (or your brain-alike) at the bookstore.

And I can't deny it...

Dr. Drew Pinsky is a stone cold silver fox.

No one can change my opinion on this.

See:

AND he offers psychological savvy and know-how to boot.

And what about the witty banter of the one and only Mo Rocca?

I just think he'd be a most excellent dinner date.

(And he wears dark rimmed glasses.

Some folks are odd about the fellas in spectacles--

not me.)

As long as I get to keep my beverages

from exploding through my nostrils

whilst laughing uncontrollably--

which sometimes happens when Mo's on TV.

If Mo's busy, I could always settle for him:

That pensive/furrowed brow thing lets me know dear Jon is thinking. A lot.

And if we haven't already established this

Intelligence = Attraction

Lest you think Jewish men are the only ones who stand a chance--

and because we really shouldn't forget the brilliance of some of my favorite writers.

I have to give a few nods to some of my favorite minds.

You see, sometimes I exit the world of a novel or a poem I'm reading

and the whole thing is just dripping from me.

I can't help it,

I've fallen in love with whomever it is that wrote the thing.

Left smitten with their words, their ideas,

the images they've introduced to my mind,

the fluid music of their prose.

Seamus Heaney: I bow in obeisance to you.

You brilliant, brilliant man.

(By the way, if you still looked like this photo

and used that strong Irish accent of yours

it would all be over for me.)

And while I don't usually go for the wild-haired,

"Barbaric Yawp"

Walt Whitman look,

Cold Mountain and The English Patient

have me considering these two authors:

Charles Frazier

and Michael Ondaatje

Because the boys have talent and soul and

let their perfect words fall on the page like a lovely summer rain.

And because good haircuts are easy to come by.

Intelligence, on the other hand, is rare.

And oh-so-much more satisfying.

You Can't Teach Shakespeare to 14-Year-Olds Without a Slightly Twisted Sense of Humor

2010-08-31T22:07:00.004-06:00

Things are funny. Kids are funny (sometimes even when they don't intend to be). Teaching some of the heavy classics in the dead white guy canon to the texting generation presents itself as a challenge, to be sure. Which is why, sometimes, I wish I could show them stuff like this:

without the fear of some prude's parents getting me fired.

My personal favorite lines: "You took a ruffie from a priest." and "Save it Patty Hearst! I'm not buying any Stockholm Syndrome today!"

Stephanie, thank you for introducing me to my current youtube favorite.

Today I count.

2010-08-25T20:44:00.007-06:00

In the past 15 hours I have made it through...

1 shower.

2 shaved legs but only

1 nicked knee.

1 really nice encouragement card from

1 of the world's best pals.

2 trips to the copy room.

14 student schedule changes.

8 tardy students.

1 day of the students' return.

13 "when does this class get out?" queries.

3 class periods.

1 insanely busy prep period.

10 hours at work.

95 of my 180 students (with a 3% name retention rate).

1 blister from supposedly "comfortable" shoes.

23 minutes for lunch/bathroom break/set-up the next class/give a student their make-up summer homework/chat with two teachers who "just-popped-in"/a visit from old AP students (and still--I managed it all!).

1 really stressful and uncomfortable department chair duty email composition (why must some co-workers be so difficult?).

25 extra minutes of teaching tacked onto my day (did I mention how they extended the school day?)

2 Traffic Jams but only

7 late minutes due to said jams.

2 thoroughly enjoyable Visiting Teaching appointments.

13 hours from when I left my carport to when I pulled into it again.

1 cold cut turkey sandwich for dinner.

2 really tired legs.

1 blog post (the first in a really long time).

May I find some kind of normalcy in all of this sooner rather than later!

The Rookie: Attractive on SO many levels it's almost scary.

For Myself (more than anyone else)

2010-08-15T23:58:00.005-06:00

In two minutes I am officially done with summer vacation. For some reason, I feel more hesitant than usual about this fact. I am not ready to go back. I'm not ready to have the students return to my classroom. I keep having nightmares about unruly classes and a voice that cannot be heard. I think it is fear of the unknown sinking in--unknown students, unknown material. I'm teaching an entirely new to me subject this year, which is much like being a new teacher again when it comes to developing curriculum.

But somewhere in my mind I keep thinking, knowing that this will all be fine. My nightmares are merely nightmares. I have a teaching voice--the same one that inadvertently turns heads in public places. I've been down this road many times. And yet, once again, I feel a sense of dread.

And so, for me at this exact moment in time, a reminder:

"Ultimately, we know deeply that

the other side of every fear is freedom."

~ Marilyn Ferguson

And away we go!

My She-lationship

2010-08-09T23:03:00.005-06:00

Men think they invented everything. Take the Bromance, for instance. Apparently, close or best friendship needed a term coined only when men caught on to the benefits of such a relationship but didn't want their heterosexual status questioned. The film I Love You, Man demonstrates the difficulties and challenges associated with male bonding (even if it portrayed female friendships as shallow and less meaningful). For most women, close friendship comes a bit easier. There are countless possibilities as to why this is. My own personal theories on the matter relate to the ratio between word count and monosyllabic guttural noise.* And GNOs.

When I was 13 and had discovered the joys of a daily personal hygiene routine for myself but not anything more comfortable than a ratty sports bra for my newly developed breasts that just kept growing, I met this girl at church. Originally, there was a posse of we silly and over-dramatic adolescent girls. The gaggle of us dwindled as some moved away and eventually others married. By the time I was halfway through college, it was down to us.

Alice and Rookie.

And then there were two.

For eight years now we've been besties. Through lame bridesmaid dresses, lamer boyfriends, grad school, differing hobbies, those six months she crashed on an air mattress on the floor of my bedroom, a crush triangle (I wouldn't dare call it "love"), new career paths, unemployment, life catastrophes, celebrations, three apartments, failures, fights, and successes we've been there for each other. Thick and thin and all that bid-ness.

Needless to say, she's the person I know very best. If I didn't trust her so much, all the dirt she has on me would keep a girl up at night. We hang out most days of the week and still I never tire of her--even if we're roommates.

We're rare. I know this.

Some folks aren't sure which is which (I've been called Alice, she's been called Rookie). But before you start to think this is an eerie demonstration of enmeshed dysfunction, it should be noted that we actually celebrate our individuality. Allyson hates Pride & Prejudice but loves Billy Madison, for one. She is wise, filled with common sense and a knack for winnowing things down to what is most important. My head is in the clouds. She celebrates my rather geeky affinity for the written word. I revel in her deep and nuanced observations on humanity. She loves the thrill of the trauma bays in the ER and the Newborn ICU (she's a hospital social worker), I faint if someone says the word "vein". She's a Vince Vaughn/Jack Johnson kind of girl, my heart belongs to Javier Bardem/Dave Grohl.

I mention all of this because this summer marks 16 years of friendship. Sometime after seventh grade, Alice and I started this road to best friend-dom, wo-mance, whatever you want to call it. I am blessed to have a partner in crime, a sure and steady chick flick date (excepting period piece dramas), and someone to share the rent and inside jokes.

I love you, woman!
Here's to 16 years of memories!
May we have 61 more!

*(Oh, now don't be so offended, boys. I kid, I kid.)

Yes, please.

2010-08-05T11:16:00.003-06:00

"Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air."

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

*Photo found here.

Totally Tasteless TMI Tuesday: The Lady Doctor

2010-08-03T14:08:00.004-06:00

**To my few and far between male readers, you probably don't want to proceed. Consider yourselves thoroughly warned.

Nobody, and I mean nobody, loves going to the doctor. Unless you have Munchausen syndrome--in which case, it probably isn't an MD that you need. But there are certain doctors that offer a slightly more awkward experience. Yesterday was my annual check up with the Ob/Gyn. Thanks to an insurance switch, this doc is new to me. My nerves and sick stomach the morning prior to said appointment made me wonder why this annual ritual was so dreaded. I came up with the following during my experiences with the lady doctor.

In no particular order, the top 8 things I could do without at the gynecologist:

1. Waiting. It is a doctors office and waiting is part of the game, I know. But waiting makes me even more nervous.

2. Shaving like it's your wedding night.

3. Peeing in a cup.

4. Public weighings.

5. Calming yourself, "Relax, relax, relax," during the blood pressure check. I fear my nervous state will make it look like I have high blood pressure. Yes, I see this as evidence that I'm neurotic.

6. Making small talk about the weather or your job during the breast and/or pelvic exam.

7. Avoiding any and all eye contact during aforementioned exams. (Read: the fluorescent lights are our friends.)

8. Resisting the urge to ask, "So how did you decide on gynecology?" (I can't help it; this question pops into my head. Every. Single. Time.)

Like I said: Totally Tasteless TMI Tuesday. But not so tasteless as to include any type of visual.

I Don't Care if I Never Get Back

2010-07-28T08:15:00.000-06:00

On Monday night I sat watching my local minor league baseball team play in the rain with the fine folks of my singles' ward and I couldn't help but enjoy a snow cone. Or succumb to people watching. I sat in a seat above the rows of solitary, mismatched adults before me and felt more entertained by the folks in the stadium than the boys on the field. (But then I'm rubbish at sports--it took me two solid innings before realizing that it was okay when the grey team struck out because my team was in white.) (I'm also reading too much brit-lit, apparently. Rubbish?)

I love my ward. I really do. I love it because it is easy. I am comfortable if not somewhat aloof on this particular "island of misfit toys". A little too comfortable and aloof, perhaps. But there I sat next to the roommate, reminded, once again, of how very odd we singles' ward folk can be. People, in general, are quirky and peculiar. But, much like the mate-less socks, the remnants and leftovers of Mormon matchmaking are unique to the extreme.

You see, just as one of the endearing members of our elders quorum broke into his clumsy but ever-so energetic jive of celebration--wildly swinging his arms over the heads of neighboring spectators--and a couple of others bellowed unintelligibly and at odd intervals toward the diamond, and another kept trying to start "The Wave" and one of the sweet sisters started snorting elsewhere with raucous laughter heard within a 50 foot radius at something a boy had said, the stranger behind me spat beer from his shocked mouth (soon to be overcome with hysterical, though much quieter, laughter), I took to heart the full weight of the term "ward family."

I kind of wanted to tell the guy to watch it. I had visions of puffing up my chest and telling him nobody calls my sister that but me.

But I refrained. He'd been drinking. And my bishop was present. And I'm the girl who laughs when men puff out their chests at one another.

Family understands the quirks and odd behavior exhibited by other family members. That which society might consider outside its acceptable spectrum of customs and mores becomes quaint and charming, at the very least unsurprising and almost expected by family members. But family, with its many cogs and components, is one thing within the confines of one's home (or ward house). It is another thing entirely in public. The Public forces one to see with eyes anew: the same eyes that might have been slightly shocked during their earlier days in the ward family. "No," these eyes remind you, "this particular behavior really is just a tad left of normal."

While waiting for my copies in the library at church on Sunday, one of the bishopric counselors' wives asked me why more of us didn't date one another. I stammered out some unintelligible answer like, "You're preaching to the choir, sister." (Because, really, what was I supposed to say to that?) Not long after my mother glowed and chided me as I held a friend's infant son, "Look how he just fits there in your arms! You need to get you one of those." I immaturely rolled my eyes and mumbled something about needing a husband first. (As an aside, my mother never seemed to mind my singleness all that much. Until she realized I was nearly 30. Now it appears--in her eyes--that I've chosen this life.)

I wish there was a way to put into words the panoramic circus from my bird's eye view at the baseball game when these "why-are-you-still-single?" moments strike. I could simply display the scene in detail and point and say: "See for yourself. THIS is why I'm still single. THIS is why we're not dating each other. THIS is why I've yet to provide you with more grandchildren."

So Much of So Little to Say

2010-07-25T23:10:00.004-06:00

1. I like church. Usually. Especially that moment when I finish the Sunday School lesson and don't have to teach for another two weeks.

2. Star gazing up in the canyon is mercilessly hindered with an almost full moon.

3. I don't want to think about the fact that I technically have a mere two weeks of summer vacation left. It creates a colossal pit of dread in my stomach.

4. The annual "Welcome Back Teachers!" letter arrived in the mail only to turn the knife of my summer despair. And don't even get me started on my suck-schedule. The final period of the day is no time for 10 Basic Language Arts. That's all I'm saying.

5. My DVD player has officially left the building. Last night's flick suddenly split-screened and the people turned an eery shade of blue. And my newest Netflix period piece will be here tomorrow. Blast!

6. Remember how once upon a time I lived life sans air conditioning. This is no longer true, my friends. And I revel in the invention of man-made cold air.

7. Except when the bill comes. Then I might have to turn the thermostat up a degree or five.

8. S'mores from the microwave will never be the same as the real thing. But all that hassle for a fire hardly seems worth it.

9. This is why I need a man in my life: building fires, grilling, and the like. And for fixing things I don't want to figure out how to fix.

10. I am 95% of the way through a book that has annoyed me more than anything else. The problem is that I made it through 50% of the thing and thought I shouldn't give up at that point. I think this is a downside of the Kindle. I feel some sort of strange guilt about simply reading another book (though I've never struggled with this in the past). Perhaps it is that whenever I turn it on, it returns to the page at which I left off leaving me with a sense of obligation. I need help.

11. This has put a cramp in my summer reading list goals. Further evidence that I need help.

12. I attempted self-tanner on my legs recently. I'm still not certain how I feel about this. I think I need to admit to myself that I'm a pale white woman--there is no hope for incandescent-free gams.

13. I won't let this thoroughly destroy my self-image. Because

14. At least I paid off the SOBs of Lane Bryant this month. Once and for all. And if they try and send me another tempting coupon in the mail to lure me in to their den of sinfully overpriced clothing, I'm just going to remember that $50 t-shirts, even with a coupon, are a rip off. See: SOBs wasn't too harsh an invective.

15. Besides, most of the store looks like someone went a little crazy with The Bedazzler.

16. Furthermore, my alabaster stems don't matter because I'm a kick-A teacher. 90% of my AP students passed their exam. Over 50% of them had 4's and 5's. I will continue to brag about this all year. Even if they're the ones who accomplished such a feat.

Peace out,

The Rookie

(who happens to be enjoying her summer too much for it to be over already)

A Few Thoughts for Sunday

2010-07-18T09:57:00.007-06:00

"The sharp, side-by-side contrast of the sweet and the bitter is essential

until the very end of this brief, mortal experience.

Meanwhile, even routine, daily life provides sufficient sandpaper to

smooth our crustiness and polish our rough edges, if we are meek."

"Part of enduring well consists of being meek enough,

amid our suffering, to learn from our relevant experiences.

Rather than simply passing through these things,

they must pass through us and

do so in ways which sanctify these experiences for our good."

~ Neal A. Maxwell

Source found here. (Do yourself a favor, read it!)

Bloody Brilliant Cover

2010-07-14T16:40:00.000-06:00

Record Club: INXS "Never Tear Us Apart" from Beck Hansen on Vimeo.

And I will wear it as a badge of honor

2010-07-14T12:17:00.006-06:00

I write like
Jane Austen

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Go here. Copy and paste something you've written (I used my "Conversations with My Mother" post.) Wait a few seconds and see which famous writer you write like. It is all in good fun!

Monday Comes After (or "I Clean Off My Point & Shoot")

2010-07-12T12:31:00.002-06:00

This weekend, there may have been hiking:

I might have wasted my time stalking a few of these fellas with the point and shoot

(resulting in what is, perhaps, the world's worst wildlife photography):

(I might've laughed at myself later for it.)

I could've attended a bridal shower that I chose not to record with any images.

(But I might tell you all about it later.)

I probably taught Sunday School.

And maybe I flirted with someone at church.

(I'll likely never fess up.)

The bestie and I possibly made a last minute decision after church

to make the commute north for the fireworks at my/our alma mater.

There was probably some game-playing:

(We are, in truth, far over 21)

And maybe we goofed off with the camera waiting for the show to begin:

(Until I realized the camera was zoomed...)

(ahhh, that's much better!)

I probably cropped the above photo so that you can't see

the spectacle of the painfully hormonal adolescent pair behind and to the left of me.

(And let it be known that my future children are never attending the fireworks unchaperoned.) (Period.)

I certainly appreciated this spectacle while waiting for the fireworks:

And maybe I took the following picture last night, or maybe on the 4th of July...2007.

You'll never know.

Perhaps one day I'll get around to posting

about my excursions in the red rock a couple of weeks ago:

And how it was miserably hot in Grand Wash (that smile is only because I'm in the shade)

Or how I probably snap too many photos of sunsets:

Or how I made roasted tomato & eggplant pizza on a whole wheat crust from scratch.

I'll let you read that again: from scratch. And it worked!

But if I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath.

Why Every Girl Needs an Older Brother

2010-07-08T19:55:00.000-06:00

Note two things typical of my brother:

1. the peregrine falcon on his hat

2. smiling for the camera is not allowed (all that money to the orthodontist and who'd know it?)

I've been thinking about my somewhat stinky, irreverent, big brother lately. (Yes, I technically have two older half brothers, but when you grew up in the same house as Mom's kids, there's something about shouting "I'm going to kill you!" whilst chasing an individual with a blunt object in hand that tends to bond you for the long term.)

Richard, Rich, Rico, Ricardo the Retardo: call him what you may, I kind of like the guy. In spite of the "covered wagons"--or that entire summer he worked the rides at a local amusement park, then chased me, hand extended with a freshly removed sweaty, smelly sock at the end of each dry-heat-of-July-please-keep-your-arms-and-legs-inside-the-ride-at-all-times day. I will never forget the odor of 16-year-old boy feet. Sometimes it walks into my classroom and gives me the dry heaves.

But, merciless teasing and obnoxiousness aside, I'm glad I had an older brother. Why, you may ask? Because I'm convinced he made me exponentially cooler. Take for instance music: the day my big brother walked into my Donny, Jordan, Danny, Jon, and Joey (NKOTB, anybody?) plastered bedroom and shook his head in disgust, I felt entirely ashamed. While he made out with his girlfriend in the other room while "watching" Pink Floyd's The Wall, I was removing posters from my wall. Richard introduced me to R.E.M., The Smiths, Depeche Mode, and artists far cooler than my tweenish Bop! musical preferences allowed. And while I've yet to "get" jazz or his leaning toward the heavy metal genre, I never feel so music-taste-inclined as when my brother asks for the name of "that band".

An older brother also introduces a girl such as myself to The Man Classics: Movies Every Red-Blooded American Male should Watch Before Dying. Had I not obediently viewed every episode of Star Wars, I'd probably be disowned. I also seem to recall spending hours watching James Bond marathons on TBS because he insisted it was an "important part of [my] education". Yep, I'm the girl who catches allusions to "Jaws" as a film character, not only as the classic 70's thriller. A few years ago I spent a week recovering from a back injury. Richard sat me down to watch the entirety of his extended bonus edition The Lord of the Rings Trilogy including all bonus features, interviews, makings of, and so forth. A week of Middle Earth and muscle relaxants with my brother. He repaid the favor by watching all of the 6-hour BBC Pride and Prejudice. (Don't let his love of comic book film adaptations fool you, he's a softy-romantic at heart.)

The coolness my brother instilled in me lies not only in my thorough education of man-oriented pop culture, but in so much more. He made snow forts with me in the winter. He'd sometimes agree to play Barbies with my sisters and me (always taking the roll of the one-armed, one-legged bald Barbie who'd overcome her disabilities to become an architect--designing our Encyclopaedia Britannica house). He allowed me to play "swords" (read: my mother's carved down broom handles) with him, attacking dragons (bushes) and like tomfoolery. I have scars because of him. He let me tag along on dates with him and his many high school era girlfriends. (Granted, his kindness to his baby sister probably helped him sell his softer side to the ladies.) As brothers go, he wasn't that bad.

So, Richard, if you're reading: even though you enjoy bird watching and online gaming and tell dirty jokes in mixed company and unwisely disagree with me politically and stink more than most and didn't do the dishes when you were supposed to growing up, I'm glad you're my brother. There is so much good in you, and I hope you remember that.

In Which I Reveal My Petty Side

2010-07-05T09:37:00.007-06:00

* Even the lovely Bette Davis had her turn as an Old Maid.

Old Maid-dom occurs when one's niece weds before she does. Yep. July 30th is the official date of the crap-tastrophic wedding (and I can say this because NONE of her family bothers reading my blog--that would require actually bothering to know me, I suppose).

The dear tried to tell me and bestie at a family get together last night that I "have no idea all that goes into planning a wedding!" Oh honey, have you never heard that little saying always a bridesmaid, never a bride?

I know. Believe me, I know. (Unlike your mother who wedded in 1989. You know: that wedding you're using as a model for your own reception.)

I'm just saying that in 29 years of single-dom I've attended or been a part of my fair share of weddings. Surely I could've been utilized for more than gift table duty.**

**Proof that outdated, unnecessary 80's Mormon wedding traditions will be leaking into this affair.

I dig...

2010-07-01T23:33:00.002-06:00

What about you?

...and I feel fine

2010-06-24T16:25:00.004-06:00

The iTunes are on random--an anthem of summer--reminding me of songs I forget about.

I'm loading photos on facebook in an album I'm calling "and the livin' is easy" in celebration of summertime bliss.

Tomorrow I am done with this 2 week conference (that I won't--will NOT, I say--participate in next year--I refuse--and am making this promise to myself now so I stick to it!).

Tomorrow is also Alice's birthday.

Saturday I head for Capitol Reef National Park for some red rock-blue sky action, hiking, swimming, reading, laughing and relaxation to celebrate her day? our friendship? Summer.

I slipped on shoes that clash to go get the mail and laughed the whole time.

I'm debating between a movie and a hike tonight. Either will make me unutterably happy.

And everything is green, lovely, worth celebrating.

* image found here.

Rookie Reviews: The Poisonwood Bible

2010-06-18T15:58:00.000-06:00

"One has only a life of one's own."

Most I talk to tackled Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible long, long ago, but for those who haven't, and for my own need to process a novel I want only to discuss, a review:

I give Poisonwood an 8.5/10. As with most well-written novels, there are excerpts that reside within me still. Sentences that have woven themselves into the tapestry of my mind. Orleanna's narration at the onset of the section "Exodus" has a profound and moving insight into grief:

As long as I kept moving, my grief streamed out behind me like a swimmer's long hair in water. I knew the weight was there but it didn't touch me. Only when I stopped did the slick, dark stuff of it come floating around my face, catching my arms and throat till I began to drown. So I just didn't stop.

The substance of grief is not imaginary. it's as real as rope or the absence of air, and like both those things it can kill. My body understood there was no safe place for me to be.

As the last child my mother carried, the baby of the family delayed behind the others by four years, I found myself so tied to Orleanna's final lines about her own youngest daughter:

A mother's body remembers her babies--the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has its own entreaties to body and soul. It's the last one, though, that overtakes you. I can't dare say I loved the others less... She continues on to express the difficulties and frustrations of the first three, the mothering of them all simultaneously and the difference in mothering that last child:

But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.

But there were a few things that didn't work as well for me. For instance, I felt the book to be unbalanced in its pacing. The first year and a half of the narrative is covered in detail, the plot thorough and developed. In the latter half of the book covers a span of 30 plus years in a third of the prose space. It told the story, but I didn't love that aspect of the organization. I found something deeply satisfying in elements of Kinsolver's structuring of the book (i.e. a separation into sections/books--Genesis, Revelation, Exodus; the various narrators and their sequencing and so forth), but again I felt the pacing detracted from the experience.

I think where Kingsolver went wrong in pacing, and in the book, is in her blatant focus on agenda as opposed to the story, the characters in the last third of the book. Kingsolver was quoted in the New York Times as saying,

"If I were to write a nonfiction book about the brief blossoming and destruction of the independence of the Congo, and what the CIA had to do with it, then probably all 85 people who are interested in the subject would read it. Instead I can write a novel that's ostensibly about family and culture and an exotic locale. And it's entertaining, I hope."

Entertaining, it is. Mostly. But the agenda sucks something from the vividness of the book. The lack of subtlety detracts from those moments that really do change minds and educate in the novel. It fails to allow readers to come to their own conclusions. While the prose in the latter half has some of the most elegant of moments--lyrical, poetic loveliness--the agenda/education Kingsolver wants to provide acts to pale what is aesthetic and artistic. Imagine a great boulder in the middle of a canyon: Kingsolver had times when she allowed the flow of her prose to slowly erode that boulder as a stream of water and at others she plowed through it with dynamite. Her boulder is not what offended me. It was the abrupt nature of the explosions.

I still say read The Poisonwood Bible. It will change you. Upon finishing, I downloaded another book set in the Congo (for my heavenly new Kindle--which I'll also review ever so soon): Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.

Up next:

Some good pool-side reads:
The Help by Kathryn Stockett
The Postmistress by Sarah Blake
Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver

Some Russians:
Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky
Anna Karenina by Tolstoy

Some more of Africa:
Heart of Darkness by Conrad

And something for next school year:
Jane Eyre (again!) by Charlotte Bronte

Summer gives the gift of good books!

Conversations with My Mother

2010-06-10T12:55:00.003-06:00

My mother and I went to a movie together last night. A lightning storm was starting and we both expressed a preference to stay outside and watch and listen to this shared pleasure. It felt good, this moment before entering the theater. Inside it was the usual chick flick fare. Predictable and silly, perfect for popcorn.

The movie featured two sets of lovers, one young, one old. As expected, the old lovers reunite. In that moment I looked to my right to see my mother crying--I knew instantly she was thinking of her first love. It is strange, this story she told me while I was a sophomore in college about that first, intense love she ever had. He left on a mission for our church and she, for all the reasons under the sun, married someone else while he was gone. I always felt saddened for her, for her regret of this first love who entered her dreams during her first marriage (my father is her second husband). When she told me about it, I remember thinking our relationship had changed, that I needed to start seeing my mother as a complete human being with a full story and not merely as my mother.

This is her reality, or what I perceive to be her reality: romance is real and a perfect ideal which we all should seek after. True, deep, sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of love exists for her. And when a love like this envelopes you, you never forget it.

When the young lovers confessed their love for one another at the end of the film, I felt nothing. To me, the woman of 29 who has never actually been in love, it all seemed forced and unrealistic. All flossy and insubstantial. It was, after all, a movie. My reality: I think it is just shy of miraculous that anyone finds themselves compatible enough to fall in love. I believe in finding your best friend with the added benefit of chemistry (whatever that may be) and making the best of things. I think being swept off your feet sounds like major head trauma waiting to happen. While my head is in the clouds about so many other things, when it comes to love, I've had a history of disappointment and reality checks. Romantic love is flimsy at best--brain chemistry gone awry which eventually corrects itself. (And, to be fair and honest, there is a small voice called hope or wishful thinking or what-have-you that is holding vigil for the chance I'll have to eat some of these words one day.)

We exited the theater to see the storm had moved on to the north. And we started talking about our notions on love. I asked her why she cried, only to have my suspicions confirmed. I then shared this hunch I have about myself: I'm too old or too smart or too hardened or self-protective to fall in love in the manner she did. She got tangled in it, still an adolescent. I didn't necessarily mean this to sound like a good thing. To me, it is a loss, knowing I can't throw myself into something with quite the same emotional, logic-be-damned vibrance that a teenager can. I never had that opportunity. The window for such irrational but glorious frivolity is over. I'm Elinor, not Marianne.

She, on the other hand, told me she's fallen in love numerous times. None so great as that first time. And then we each quieted into our own thoughts, looking west to the last flame of sunset. And I wondered which of us was worse off. I felt a pitied sadness for my mom, for this deep regret she still holds after 45 years. This kindling inside her for someone who, frankly, is now another being entirely as is she. And then there is me, knowing love only in theory.

The light disappeared slowly from the sky. My mother gave me a hug and said farewell. I came inside to an empty apartment, dark but for the deep grey of dusk seeping in through the windows. In the distance, I could hear the rippling of thunder.

* image found here.

Thank you, President Hinckley. I always knew I liked you.

2010-06-08T09:22:00.004-06:00

"To you women of today, who are old or young,

may I suggest that you write,

that you keep journals,

that you express your thoughts on paper.

Writing is a great discipline. It is a tremendous education effort. It will assist you in various ways,

and you will bless the lives of many--

now and in the years to come,

as you put on paper some of your experiences

and some of your musings."
- Gordon B. Hinckley

Love/Hate

2010-06-03T20:17:00.001-06:00

There are exactly 3 days left of the school year--2 of which are filled with activities and yearbook signing. I love this time of year--the anticipation of a summer so close, the swimming pools opening their vibrant blue eyes, the book pile stacked beside my bed just waiting for me to dive in, emerging only for food and air. The instant knowledge that enters my mind as the alarm goes off: I only have X more times to consciously do this hour for a long while.

I also hate this time of year. It is all the bidding farewell business I loathe, the end of things. It is reading Oh, the Places You'll Go! with each class--telling them what a great year we've had together--even the nuisance-y kids will be missed. A little.

Even the books we finish in the final week feel so...final. Young Elie Wiesel losing his father in the last section of Night with my 10th graders. Finishing Cold Mountain, again. I "read" it each year with my AP students after their big exam. This year I read it again thoroughly. I've always felt slightly saddened after it is over. But long after I read the last chapters last night, it kept me awake, haunted me. I simply couldn't sleep. I don't know if it is Frazier's exquisite prose. That final scene (prior to the epilogue):

He drifted in and out and dreamed a bright dream of a home. It had a coldwater spring rising out of rock, black dirt fields, old trees. In his dream the year seemed to be happening all at one time, all the seasons blending together. Apple trees hanging heavy with fruit but yet unaccountably blossoming, ice rimming the spring, okra plants blooming yellow and maroon, maple leaves red as october, corn tops tasseling, a stuffed chair pulled up to the glowing parlor hearth, pumpkins shining in the fields, laurels blooming on the hillsides, ditch banks full of orange jewelweed, white blossoms on dogwood, purple on redbud. Everything coming around at once. And there were white oaks, and a great number of crows, or at least the spirits of crows, dancing and singing in the upper limbs. There was something he wanted to say.

An observer situated up on the brow of the ridge would have looked down on a still, distant tableau in the winter woods. A creek, remnant of snow. A wooded glade, secluded from the generality of mankind. A pair of lovers. The man reclined with his head in the woman's lap. She, looking down into his eyes, smoothing back the hair from his brow. He, reaching an arm awkwardly around to hold her at the soft part of her hip. Both touching each other with great intimacy. A scene of such quiet and peace that the observer on the ridge could avouch to it later in such a way as might lead those of glad temperaments to imagine some conceivable history where long decades of happy union stretched before the two on the ground.

It is perfect and amazing, isn't it?

But something about the end of the year gives me mixed feelings. Joy, celebration, and a slight bit of melancholia. Maybe it is the one time of year where I completely acknowledge to myself that yes, I do in fact like these kids, my job more than what I sometimes fear in the middle of the year.