truth comes randomly

(my brain as depicted by post-its)

I like getting in a hot car or shower when I'm incredibly chilled. I like how my skin prickles and thaws. I appreciate it almost as much as the dull hum of sunburn on my skin as I enter a cool pool.

I like quotes. Profound quotes. Silly quotes. Poignant quotes. I like words, generally. I suppose it is the pith of a great aphorism that I dig. That big ideas can be held together by a few well strung words, like bright and perfect beads placed in just the right order.

I like when silly things distract my classes and the typically lethargic perk up. This morning a giant (we're talking quarter-sized) bee flew in through the window. Our mutual fear put us on common ground. There was squealing and funny faces and a little bit of immaturity. But the uncontrollable parts of life remind me not to take myself so seriously. It's just Romeo & Juliet.

I like tracking packages coming my way almost as much as I like when I return home from work and see the box waiting on my doorstep. Thank you, FedEx guys, for creating this delightful online feature. I like knowing my Old Navy goods left Phoenix yesterday.

I like those stupid LOLZ kittehs. And not even in an ironic way. I frequently do, in fact, laugh out loud. I don't care if this tidbit about myself reveals my utter, lame, and absolute unhip-ness. I embrace these things in myself. And kittehs are cute.

I believe in large quantities of Diet Coke. I like that first sip. I like the fizzle sound. Diet Coke is a visceral experience, friends. I'm addicted and don't really care what you say.

I like writing on the white board. That deep, pressing desire you had as a kid to write a message on your teacher's board: just as satisfying as you imagined. I get to do it ALL the time. (Teacher perks must be recognized anywhere). However, I will hit you with a ruler if you write on mine. (Figuratively, of course. The most "damaging" thing I've done to my students is launch a dry erase marker at their unsuspecting--usually sleeping--self. No beating with rulers here. Ever.)

I like electronic compressed gas dusters and am equal parts disgusted and thrilled at what these brilliant inventions remove from my keyboard. It kind of works the same way as removing bathtub drain hairballs. The thrill comes mostly at admiring how clean it made things, or how well the drain now does its intended job.

I like teenagers so much more than most adults. Teenagers keep it real. This occurred to me yet again as I listened to upper management blow smoke during an "Employee Forum" at job #2. At least teenagers openly demonstrate to you that your existence doesn't really matter to them. Besides, it feels really good to know that, during said open demonstration of disdain, I am making money for being here while the little darlings are not.

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

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.

30 things I learned by 30.

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

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

On. And on. And on.

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.

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

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.

To My Life:

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)

Conversations with My Mother

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.

and blue

A post is a post is a post. This should count for something.

1. I blog better when I'm procrastinating something I ought to do. That would typically be grading.

2. I have the best friend anybody could ask for. She's been in Chicago all weekend loving on ner new nephew. I liked my own quiet time but missed her severely!

3. I have felt rich in knowing so many good people from so many times and places in my life. People from high school, from childhood, from college, from church, from friends of friends of friends. The world can never feel lonely.

4. I finished The Mistress of Spices by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni this weekend. It was so lovely. I'm still deciding if the ending left me fully satisfied.


5. It has been about four years since I kissed anybody. This weekend I realized my last boyfriend (and I use the term loosely) and I had our falling out (read: came to the general concensus that we only liked making out with each other on his couch and had very little else in common) this month four years ago.

6. I feel quite relieved--still--about the mutual realization. The four years, however, equate to one heck of a dry spell.

7. I'm going to San Francisco a week from Friday with a few gal pals. Wicked and bridges and Alcatraz and ocean and fog. I cannot wait.

8. The sunrise this morning was golden and lovely. It took my breath away. I've never seen such a buttery-rich color. I felt blessed to be awake, driving to work in its perfection. Even if it is Monday.

9. I'm glad I'm the kind of girl who notices sunrises and sunsets and stars and the moon and the view from my 4th floor classroom.

10. I love scratching items off my to do list. I love making to do lists. I love writing in the little boxes on the calendar. I especially love ripping off a month on my desk calendar at work (forever erasing the spilled Diet Coke stain, the doodles, the things I've already accomplished). I love revealing the fresh month ahead.

11. It was the first day of Spring on Saturday. I'm in such a good mood, especially for a Monday. Coincidence? I think not.

12. Prep period is a blessed event. I don't know how elementary teachers live without them.

13. Of all my classes this year, my A-day first period 9th graders are my very favorite. They're quirky and sweet and oh-so-easy to manage. Shhh, don't tell them I like them so much.

14. I finally bought the purse that I kept coming back to again and again, admiring it. Visiting it. Telling myself each time, It is too expensive. I don't regret the expense one bit.

15. I had a birthday. I'm officially 29. It feels different now, however. When I was 8, I'd write the number over and over again, doodle its infinite design in the margins of my school notebooks. 8 felt amazing as did every age surrounding it. Each number felt so grand, so accomplished. Now, I forget when people ask my age--I have to think for a minute. My age now means so very little. I think there is a bittersweetness resting in that fact.

16. I think there's something beautiful about blowing out candles and making wishes. I wish I remembered every birthday wish I ever made.

17. I was a funny little kid with whimsical notions in my brain at all times. Sometimes, in my still rather whimsical thoughts, I'd like to observe my shy little self. To go back and see with my adult eyes who I was as a child.

18. I love breaking the grammar rules I feign knowing so well. Sentence fragments are our friends. Run-ons, however, will never sit well with me.

19. I taught the lesson in the adult Sunday School class yesterday. It was about Joseph, his brothers, his father, Potiphar, his wife. The musical score of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat has been in my head for days because of it.



20. When I was about 8, my mom bought a big knock-off Persian rug that filled the living room and an old record player with a few records of 70's pop artists like The Carpenters and Barry Manilow at a yard sale. I used to dance around the flowers on that rug listening to the Joseph Original Cast Recording record over and over.

21. Are you still reading this? Bless you. I've wasted a good 30 minutes of prep period and grading time writing it. I don't regret that at all. I hope you don't regret the time you spent reading it.

22. "It was red and yellow and green and brown and scarlet and black and ochre and peach and ruby and olive and violet and fawn and lilac and gold and chocolate and mauve and cream and crimson and silver and rose and azure and lemon and russet and grey and purple and white and pink and orange and blue."

Imagine That

"Nothing happens unless first we dream."
~ Carl Sandburg

***

Oprah and I have a love/hate relationship, one-sided though it may be. But Friday, because it was my day off, I stopped channel surfing and watched her.

There she was, Oprah Winfrey, airing out her closet for the world to see--Oprah "my-dog-gets-acupuncture" Winfrey admitting that she went through a phase in which she bought fanciful, delicate little pocketbooks with the dream of being one of the ladies who lunch, pocketbook in her overly expressive hand. Except in her internationally televised closet clean out, she confessed that she doesn't have time to lunch. The dream was just that. A romantic notion. In the context of reality, it grew rather ridiculous.

There I sat on my couch, shocked. Thinking to myself: Oprah does this too? I mean, she's Oprah! Surely, if you were Oprah Winfrey, there would be no need for fantasy. Because you're Oprah. You're living the fantasy.

But Oprah, adult that she may be, dreams of lunching with ornate, miniature handbags.

***

My niece, "Mugs", used to lie down on her back on her bed or the couch or the living room floor, and say, "Don't bother me, I'm having imaginings." Her face would beam, eyes closed, as her mind drifted into the fantasies of her heart. She has never looked so beautiful or spirited or content as in her quiet, imagined moments.

***

If I could be one person in all of cinema, I'd be Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, from You've Got Mail. She owns a bookstore in New York. She has gumption or moxie or whatever you want to call it, yet she's quirky and kind. And she dresses with a classic finesse. I often channel her while shopping for clothing. I think she is responsible for all my cardigans.

If I could be one person in all of literature, I'd be Elizabeth Bennett from Pride & Prejudice. Not because she gets Mr. Darcy (frankly, he's a bit of an ass), but because she has just the right thing to say at just the right moment. She's a wit whereas I wake up at 2 in the morning with the perfect, saucy retort I wish would've come to me 12 hours ago when my cheeks flushed and my brain went quiet.

***



When I was little, my day was spent imagining. More sentences began with "Pretend that..." than I know how to count. I lived for make-believe. Dress up and tea parties and princesses and baby dolls. These are the magical times of my childhood, living that intangible pink something that isn't.

And then I grew up. And life got busy. And make-believe was for children. Magic was for children. Lying under the tree in the backyard, dreaming of my life stretched wide before me, it was all a thing of the past.

But is it really? Does it have to be?

I think Oprah and her pocketbooks, Mugs and her imaginings, me and my fictitious characters prove that our need for imagining never really goes away. We try to deny it or make the fantasies our reality as adults. As children perhaps the dream of it all is so intense that it is enough to get us by for a time.

But in the end, there's something beautiful about imagination. There is power in all that the human mind can create for us. There's a quote often attributed to Einstein about imagination being more valuable than knowledge--that imagination has the quality of being limitless, while knowledge has an ending point. I think imagination is the ultimate expression of intelligence. Anything of worth started first in the mind. I also believe that even if nothing comes of it, even if the wild fancies of the mind end where they began, there is value in allowing ourselves to imagine.

* image found here.

Letters that need writing...

Dear Fishnet Stockings,
You have changed my world for the better.


Dear Red Lipstick,
The fishnets make me wonder if you and I might actually have a future together.
If only I could find your perfect shade.


Dear Smoggy Inversion,
I want to see the sky blue again. I'll even take a massive snowstorm during an extra-early commute over you.


Dear Alarm,
I meant to push Snooze, not Off. Thanks for making me late. A fine help you are! (Though I'm feeling every last minute of those 45 minutes I overslept this fine Monday.)


Dear 9th Graders,
You make me pee my pants laughing with your awkward antics. Many thanks from your teacher who was equally as gawky at your age.


Dear Momsy,
Thanks for letting me cry to you on the phone over nothing at all last night. And thanks for making me laugh with your silliness. As much as you have the potential to drive me over-the-edge crazy, I enjoy you immensely. Your sense of humor means everything.


Dear Roommate,
I like you. You are so enjoyable to be around, I fear marriage will suck by comparison (and not just because you like stupid, predictable, sappy chick flicks too). Oh, and as roommates go: you're perfect.


Dear Future Husband,
My life is already so full, but I'm quite willing to make room for one more. (And, if this hurries things along at all...did you hear about the fishnets?)


Dear Grading,
Stop growing. I know I assign you, but can't you shrink of your own volition?


Dear Post-Holiday Gut,
Can't you also shrink of your own volition?


Dear 2010,
I know I keep forgetting to write you in the white board at school, on the top of my checks and all. But could you be good to me nonetheless?


And, lest you all think me a shallow, deprived woman...

Dear Book of Mormon,
It is Me and You this year. I can hardly wait. Though I don't want to admit it, it has been far too many years since we last spent this much time together (or got past 2nd Nephi).

* Thanks, sabino. Because every post needs at least one image.

The Liar. The Cynic. The Mascara.

Last night my sister, mother and I had an interesting conversation about life and happiness and selfishness and living authentically and, well, stuff. The conversation stemmed from a certain movie we'd all seen at various times over the past few months. We all had very different reactions and interpretations of the film which led us into the territory in which we asked ourselves what it means to live authentically. (Now, before you go thinking "Whoa, freaky pseudo-intellectuals at Rookie's house," know that 20 minutes prior bowel movements might or might not have been our conversation's focus.)

When it comes to my attitude about life, I dwell in the camp of endurance. In my experience and opinion, life offers us moments of joy interspersed with legs of endurance. Life, as I've known it, isn't some exciting and entertaining experience in which we're happy 100% of the time (despite what TAMN at Seriously So Blessed might say). And I'm okay with that. I'm fine looking for the small and simple pleasures of life. The moment you put the key in the door at the end of the work day. The clean smell of lemons. Holding a sleeping infant after the bath, after the final feeding. The sound of rain on a tin roof. The smooth resonance of an acoustic guitar. Seeing and understanding another human being entirely and having that understanding reciprocated. These small pleasures can be lush oases in what is otherwise a desert of endurance: boring meetings, difficult trials, challenges, frustrations, mundane responsibilities.

And I told my family I thought this was living authentically: living an ethical and giving life, seeking out--stopping to recognize and appreciate--those simple pleasures. And when life is not at an enjoyable point, you wait. You endure. My sister disagreed with me, or she was playing devil's advocate, I never know. She shared a statistic about happy marriages and their correlation to a suspended sense of reality. She stretched this into a philosophy that we're all lying to ourselves about how happy we really are in order to endure. I could see her point, but hated to think I might be lying to myself about my own satisfaction in life.

We left each other in disagreement. My sister, the cynic. Me, the liar. Me, the optimist. My sister, the denier. I've been thinking about it ever since. Which one of us is being honest? And I came back to what I know about myself. The joy I feel when I open a new tube of mascara is a tangible, concrete piece of joy. You might choose to say this demonstrates just how unhappy I am, that something so simple and meaningless shouldn't impact me in such a way. But I choose to believe that I've stopped to notice the details. And that is what breaks up the endurance for me.

On Beauty and Identity

Today Dr. Oz is on Oprah.  The topic:  The Science of Beauty.  As I watch, I keep thinking about this human obsession with aesthetics.  I am no different.  My eye is drawn to beautiful things: colors I that make me feel, clean lines and simple patterns.  I also appreciate the beauty of the human face and body.  Today, in my layered blue collar shirt against a yellow sweater, I felt beautiful.  My clothing was beautiful, my muscles felt aware, stronger (and maybe a bit achey) from all that work I did at the gym yesterday and that makes me feel beautiful.  On the days I feel beautiful on the outside, I am more confident, even a bit happier.

But what if I lost those days altogether?  

It happens.  People's bodies are ravaged by terminal illness, they age, they get fat, their lives are forever altered by damaging accidents.  Tragedy, unfortunately, is a part of life.  And eventually, everyone's looks deteriorate.  

So what if I never had another day to feel beautiful on the outside?  Would I sink into misery and self-loathing?  Would my inner beauty pivot into the grotesque?  Would I lose my sense of self?  I ask this because I wonder how much our sense of our own beauty is intricately woven with our sense of who we are. 

Many of my female students have not made the separation between their innate value and their appearance.  In their minds, their worth is directly connected to how they look.  I've known many grown women caught in this thinking fallacy.  And while I admit that appearance matters, anyone can tell you that it doesn't matter forever and it doesn't matter in every situation.  

I think that, like most things, it comes down to balance.  Recognize and appreciate beauty, but don't worship it.  Don't allow it to infiltrate every opinion you have of yourself or the world around you.  Don't allow the pursuit of aesthetic perfection to block your appreciation of the beauties in imperfection.  Acknowledge that our notions of what is beautiful can be fickle.  Look at cultures the world over. Look at fashion.  Look at my hair circa 1992 (and then remember that I was 11 and have mercy on me).
 

Because beauty is important.  But it shouldn't be everything.

Nostalgia and Melancholy

I don't know what my mother could have been thinking, but I saw a lot of PG-13/R-rated movies at a younger age than I should have. Whenever I talk to most children of the 80s, this is their experience also. Freddy Krueger and Revenge of the Nerds aren't appropriate entertainment for 8 year olds, but VCRs and cable and a naive mother made these household items. So I grew up on the slightly inappropriate.

You know, now that I think about it, she might have gotten this laissez faire media attitude from her mother, my grandma, who, whenever we visited overnight, put us in front of her home recording of the sleazy Patrick Swayze miniseries North and South for hours and hours. And Anne of Green Gables, but usually we chose North and South, especially after Patrick's Dirty Dancing days.

But I digress. And that won't be the last digression. You see, this is a meandering post of half-baked thoughts and somehow you'll manage to follow along. I hope.

Anyway, Steel Magnolias and Beaches were two of my family's favorites. We were an estrogen rich family, what can I say? These two films would devastate me every time I watched them. I would feel like my small body couldn't contain so much sadness. Every time I watched, I would hope that maybe this would be the time Shelby wouldn't die. This would be the time they'd find the cure for Hillary. And when the credits started to roll and the ending never changed, I would sulk around the house for a few hours feeling miserable about my little world.  I was a weird kid headed for adolescent depression, but what did I know about the nature of sadness or the downsides of emotionally torturing oneself? I was 9.

These days, I am hit by that same overwhelming sadness that lasts a few hours or maybe a couple of days every now and again. This strange emotion seems to hit me out of nowhere. It hides around corners and finds me when I least expect it. It isn't full on depression because it usually doesn't last for long. I can still function. My eating habits do not change.  I sleep just fine and it fades pretty quickly most of the time.  

Its just that for a small spurt I feel glum. Blue. Ho-hum about life. And this week that strange nostalgia/melancholy/exhausted with the human condition feeling hit me. I miss the summertime. The leaves are all gone now. I miss childhood. I miss college and my mom's house and nightgowns and my sister and sleep. I feel bad about my students and what some of them go home to. Winter lasts a long time and I always have to scrape my windows in the morning. I need to do laundry and don't really want to. Marriage seems like a pipe dream and sometimes I'm not sure I could really put up with a real-life man toting his many imperfections. I haven't been shopping in ages (for me) and I'm proud of that fact but I sort of want to go shopping. My calf and thigh muscles ache from this new commitment to the gym I've made and that giant walking field trip (i.e. HIKE) I went on with my 9th graders this week. I always feel sort of tired lately because I can't seem to get to bed early lately. And I just feel sort of down.

So is it daylight saving time? Is it a lack of seratonin? Is my period on the way? Did something happen that I am feeling blueish about and I forgot about it? Am I bored? Sleep deprived? Is the stress (which is actually in a temporary hiatus) taking its toll?  Is my body still recovering from cold after cold after cold?  Why do these ho-hums hit us every now and again? I'm just wondering why melancholy and a sense of nostalgia come to visit sometimes. Because the irony is that I'm trying to take good care of myself. I've been hitting the gym like a regular. I've been eating better (even sugary goodness has taken a back seat in my diet). I've been trying to read and think and clear my mind. So what gives?  Is there something I'm missing?  What body message have I missed lately?

 

And tell me I'm not alone here.    

The Jane Austen Guide to the LDS Singles Ward

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, also known as the Mormons. Like most devout to their faith, mine means a great deal to me. But I'm not talking so much about the doctrines and beliefs I hold. Today I'm talking about culture. Like any religion, we have our own quirks which we'll simply call our subculture. Green Jell-o with carrots aside, the most intriguing phenomenon of this subculture consists of three magic words: The Singles Ward. As in, a congregation of young single adults. I am uncertain why it is, exactly, that we have these little side-groups. I think the philosophy has something to do with getting we singletons OUT of the singles ward. Preferably through marriage.

Imagine, if you will, a congregation of law-of-chastity-keeping adults in a religion that values marriage and family above most else and you'll soon see that carnage might easily ensue at any regional dance. Take that even further--the female to male ratio is often 2:1. It is dog eat dog in some wards. I have the good fortune of being in a ward where most of the males are "tolerable, I suppose...though not handsome enough to tempt me." Because of this blessing, petty competition doesn't plague my Sundays.

And here is the thesis of my post today: I think Jane Austen understood too well the social complexities of the Singles Ward, though she wrote of life and courting rituals and annual income and social status and other such cultural observations as a Protestant minister's daughter in early 19th century Great Britain. I think this is the appeal of dear Janey to most Mormon women around my age. Because, ask just about any of them (except Alice, NOT Alice...Alice hates Jane...and Anne Shirley, for that matter--so she's no judge!) and they'll tell you Pride and Prejudice holds a special place in their heart...or at least Mr. Darcy does. While Austen is appreciated by more than just we single Mormon girls, I think we are hard-wired to connect to Austen in a manner that most cannot. Because, apparently, a good man is hard to find in early 19th century England as well. And lucky for Austen's heroines, they usually find one. Which gives we Mormon girls a false sense of hope for our current conditions.

Take, for example, the scene that played out after church yesterday. Alice, Sephalo, and I were exiting the building discussing the following: were we or were we not going to attend a boating activity this coming Saturday at a local reservoir because it all depended on who was in attendance. And then, conversation drifted into the ever-important who was dating whom, who had stopped dating whom, and who was engaged to whom after only three short weeks of knowing one another (yes, this is a recent development in my ward--and it wouldn't be the first time one of these deprived singletons jumped the gun a wee bit too early). I laughed to myself because it all smacked of Jane Austen so completely--the gossip outside the parish church, the debated attendance at local events. But my plot thickens.

As we gossiped away a certain older "gentleman" (we'll call him this, though I'm not too certain whether this is the case or not) who has, if observation serves me correctly, been staring at my every move during the past several months, also exited the building and stopped just outside our gossiping circle. Fumbling with his cell phone, acting nonchalant, trying, I suspect, to edge into our clearly all-girl conversation. And I wondered to myself, is this guy a Mr. Collins? Or is he more like Marianne's Colonel Brandon? Important side note--my singles ward, rebel that our bishop is, doesn't follow the typical turn-31-and-you're-on-to-bigger-and-brighter-things rule. So this certain "gentleman" is rather old for a girl of 27. Late 30's, possibly 40, I'm guessing. Anyway, back to the story...I've never really had a conversation with the guy beyond when he pipes in and makes a comment during my Sunday School lesson. So, frankly, I'm leaning toward the Mr. Collins camp. And I'm also suspecting that his pitiful shyness explains most of why the guy is still single.

Which brings me to his eavesdropping. In an Austen novel, the story develops through instances of eavesdropping. Think about it: "She is tolerable, I suppose...but not handsome enough to tempt me." One of the most famous lines in an Austen novel--unknowingly overheard by the eavesdropping skills of one Elizabeth Bennett. But have you ever tried to have a good gossip conversation while someone eavesdropped in an unskilled manner? It makes a girl uncomfortable. I felt bad for him, but I couldn't help but think "Run along, little buddy, run along. It is better for you that way."

After the conversation died out, I simply sauntered away with the girls, walking home with my roommate, dear Alice. My conclusion that this guy is of the Collins-variety convinced me that throwing him a bone would only make matters worse. That, and the fact that I am an awkward flirt feeling even more awkward after this guy's eavesdropping. An escape seemed to be my best option.

Which leads me back to my thesis. Jane Austen understood too well the social complexities of the Singles Ward, though she wrote of life and cultural observations as a Protestant minister's daughter in early 19th century Great Britain. Yes, it is too true. Janey has seen me through my fair share of singles ward havoc and has given me the ability to laugh at it all.

And most importantly, my red-blooded, law-of-chastity-keeping self can't get enough of Colin Firth's Mr. Darcy exiting the ponds at Pemberley. Am I alone here?

Oh, and Sephalo, if you are reading this, you know who I am speaking of, I believe, so please do keep this a bit hush-hush so as to not embarrass the parties involved.

Lessons in the Arbitrary

My sister, who shall remain nameless as I have many sisters, recently took her adolescent daughter and her daughter's friend to the theater to enjoy a chick flick. The advertisements for this particular film did not indicate the sexually explicit innuendo that was a near constant in the dialogue nor did it mention the questionable "props" that were featured in the film. And so, two hours later, she exited the theater with these two 13-year-olds asking questions she was not prepared to answer, most of which she shouldn't have to answer.

Was this trailer false advertising? Possibly so--but aren't they all. Could she have walked out? Yes. But how many of us have actually walked out on of a theater that we felt a little bit uncomfortable in? I can count two times that I've done this in my life and half of these early-exits were with this particular sister. And both times I didn't have the guts to ask for a refund because I figured it was up to me as the consumer to research the films/plays I watch and make a decision based on that research. Knowing that I paid good money for a movie, my cheap side insists I stay while my angelic side (yes, I have one)says "sunk cost, sister, get the heck outta here!" My cheap side, as you can tell by my two early-exits record, typically wins out. But I digress.

My question is, as a consumer, shouldn't I have some sort of quick-guide which tells me the appropriateness of a film? Oh wait, there is one: enter the MPAA Film Ratings System. This ratings system, as many of you know, places a film in four categories: G (General Audience), PG (Parental Guidance), PG-13 (Parental Guidance for children 13 and older), and R (Restricted Audience). Now, there is an NC--17 rating, but this particular rating doesn't register on my radar and I'm assuming the same of my readership, so I'm not going include it in my discussion here. We'll just say that I rely on these four little categories to determine which films I will see and which films I will most likely skip. But, I think there is a fault or two in this system. No offense to the board who is, in all actuality, trying to provide a needed service. But the truth is that your little system ain't working so well.

Did you know that the ratings of films are selected by vote. Yes, the board of Los Angeles-based parents votes on the rating after viewing and holding a discussion. So if the majority says PG-13, and a few say R, PG-13 wins out. Bada-bing: you take your 13 year old to the movie they've been harrassing you about for the past month "because it's only PG-13, Ma!" and regret caving in within the first half hour. All the while knowing, that if you, as a parent, would have cast your vote that baby would have been a solid R. No discussion needed.

Now, if you research a little more you will discover why a film received the rating that it did with little warnings like: Rated PG-13 for "drug usage" or "partial nudity" or "strong language" or "adult content." Now, I know what drug usage is, but how much drug usage is going to take place in this particular film? And does it convey that drug usage in a positive or negative light because that makes a difference for me. And that strong language, are we talking I stubbed my toe in the dark and maybe slipped a curse out or are we talking about the kind of language I hear in the halls at the public high school I teach at? And adult content, what the heck is adult content? And we all know the nudity in Schindler's List isn't the same as the nudity in some films. You see, for me, their additional guidelines don't guide me all that much, rather, these guidelines serve to confuse me even more.

So, here I am, little old consumer, left dumbfounded, uncertain, and pretty sure I don't even want to go to the movie for fear of what my eyes or ears might be accosted with when I thought I was going to watch a kid's film with "mild violence". But I am not here to merely complain. I also want to offer a solution.

Film-makers, here's the thing: You have got to start making more appropriate movies for general audiences. While I'm not one to say "censor, censor, censor," especially when it comes to one's art, I'm one who thinks "selling sex" isn't an art form. And please do tell me how most major blockbusters should be considered "art" because last I checked it was more about plots, special effects, and big name-actors than being artistic. (As an unnecessary side note: strangely, many of the "artsy" indy-films I've been to aren't as prone to accost my senses.)

I repeat myself: You have GOT to start making more appropriate movies for general audiences. Movies that aren't pushing envelopes. Movies that entertain. Movies that don't just drop the f-bomb because they can do it and still receive a PG-13 rating. You, Hollywood, are forgetting your audience is a human audience with a variety of values and standards. We go to these blockbuster kinds of movies for two glorious hours of suspended reality and sheer entertainment. We don't go for the sexually graphic material. Some of us actually cringe when it comes to violence. And I can stop my students from dropping the f-bomb, sure, but you just shout it out willy-nilly and there ain't much I can do about it but shake my head in disappointment.

Film makers, did you know that I get a little worry knot in my stomach when I say, "Let's catch a movie"? Some weekends I have my choice of either the one sole G-rated film with talking pandas (every 27-year-old single female's dream) or 12-16 R-rated violence-filled, sexually-laden, language-defiling films at my local mega-plex. Surely you can do better than that. Because, at this rate, I, the movie-lover among movie-lovers, am just not going to show up anymore.

10 Years Older...and a Self Portrait

Today I spent some time reading this post and this post by the Pioneer Woman (I know these were posted a while back but it seems I'm always lagging behind on her blog). For those of you who won't link up to see what was said I'll give you the low-down: basically she talked about where we end up in life compared to where we thought we'd be 10 or 20 years ago. Her story was interesting, but honestly, the comments in the second post captured my attention most--how uniquely similar we all are. Anyway, I thought it was an interesting topic of discussion and it got me thinking about a topic I brush over every now and again.

10 years ago I was ready for my senior year of high school at Kodiak High (woo. go bears.). I thought that in ten years I'd be married (after completing my degree at a college "back East" and perhaps a mission somewhere exotic and incredible) for two years to my oh-so-perfect husband and my first child (Emma) would be brand new or possibly on her way (I was a timeline planner, what can I say?). I figured I'd live somewhere other than Utah and I'd work as a stage actress and possibly appear in a commercial or two. But that, because of kids, I'd maybe step away from my great career for a while. Yes, I actually thought this would be my life in my heart of hearts. At 17, I recall now, I was oh-so-naive.

Fast forward 10 years and I'm single and childless and living in Utah with a roommate, my best friend, and the thought of performing on a stage or appearing on camera makes me sweat a bit under my arms. College happened in my hometown while I lived in my parents basement (because anyone with a brain could tell you that financially this would be the wisest decision). I'm not sure if my 17-year-old self would be crushed by this news or not. What I know is that I am very happy with where I am at.

I can't imagine what career I would prefer to teaching because, though I complain about it and it exhausts me, performing in the classroom is my life's work, my niche . I feel I get better at it every year and when it is good in that room, wow! how it feels to know you made a kid think about their world! And when it is bad in that room you always have a good story to share.

The past few years of single-hood have been a blessing. I know myself. I know what is important. And while a good marriage would be nice, I know that I am very content to keep busy until a good marriage presents itself. What doesn't appeal to me: a mediocre marriage for the sake of being married and no longer "alone."

And the thing about this supposed loneliness is, that I'm not. I'm lucky enough to live with my best friend who is like-minded and witty and good. I have a wonderfully mixed up, dysfunctional, and loving family that I get to live not far from because I'm living in Utah. And while I'm not a mom yet, have you seen the pictures of my nieces and nephews? C'mon--that is more than most could hope for!

So, 10 years later I can say that I'm nowhere near that place I thought I'd be. And it is fine by me.

Oh, and here's my squinting self-portrait challenge submission for this week:

This I Believe: The Intrinsic Value of Learning

Every year I have my 9th graders write a "This I Believe" essay. If you haven't heard about this fantastic NPR series, now you have. There is no excuse. My first year of teaching I was a little too gung-ho, I wrote my own This I Believe Essay for two reasons. First of all, this essay had been waiting in the soft corners of my mind for a while. Secondly, I thought this was something my students needed to know about their teacher. I hoped it would be an example in more than one way.

I came across it while exploring the documents on my dying computer today (I'm on Alice's computer lately), and thought I'd share. Enjoy.



I believe in the intrinsic value of learning.

I am the youngest in a big "yours, mine, and ours" family. There were many mouths to feed growing up. My parents "got by" the best they could. While both attended, neither graduated from college. Mom often tells stories about my grandfather's refusal to help her with college, "Adele, why would I waste good money to send you to college when you'll find a man to take care of you?" Women's Lib hadn't hit full force in her hometown yet.

College was encouraged in my family, however. While my parents couldn't back me financially, they put a roof over my head and helped wherever possible. After a year of saving up, I started at a commuter school just five miles from the house I grew up in.

My first semester of college, a new dimension was opened for me. Here people generated ideas, debated theories, and dissected knowledge. There was a passion for learning that erupted in me. The world I'd always lived in seemed suddenly dynamic and vivid the more understanding I gained. I recognized that there was more available and waiting for my discovery than I had time to find. I threw myself into my education, worked odd jobs that fit my schedule, took out student loans, and competed for every scholarship I could find. At the time, I knew that this experience must have been well worth the sacrifices. I grew: in self confidence, in my capacity for analytical thinking, in the very way I interacted with other human beings.

Now, more than six years after that first semester in college, I have transitioned from student to teacher. This decision came at that pivotal point in every student's education where they must ask themselves, "So, what is the actual practical application of my major?" Practicality was what first drew me to teaching. But this passion for learning I'd been fueling made me recognize I had to share this gift of learning. I wanted to help someone experience the same opportunities I had.

Today I teach English to high school kids. When it comes to teaching, I am a novice at best. Once again, I am consistently reminded of how very much I have left to learn. In my students' faces I see some who have already caught the learning bug and others who, unfortunately, struggle through each grueling class period. It is for these students I work hardest, catching them away from their peers to talk not only about future goals, but about what learning can do for the human soul. It is for these students I've spent late evenings at school hunting for materials and methods which will reach their "bored-out-of-my-skull" gazes and strike even slight interest in the power that comes hand in hand with knowledge. I work hardest for these students because they need and deserve the best I can give. It is consistently defeating work. Self-doubt runs rampant. I tell myself that if I can help just one student recognize their potential and give them tools for the road of learning and sacrifice ahead, I have made a significant impact and all the difference in the world for that one person.

I believe the gift of learning is a lifelong process that requires sacrifice and has no final destination. Education is the currency required for true success. True success, by my measure, is an ability to think and feel the force of constant challenge. Education is the ticket to a higher quality of life, a better understanding of self, and a deeper appreciation for everything and everyone around you. If there is one message I have for my students, it is this: Learning has value in and of itself. And this, I believe.

If it weren't for...

Ramen noodles I think I might have starved as a child. As the youngest of 10 growing children, I'll just say that food had its scarce times. Now, my dad typically shopped for the groceries at our house and my father, bless his heart, happens to be one of the most frugal (i.e. cheap, tight wad, penny pinching) individuals on the planet. Needless to say, I remember eating a few weird items as a kid for months on end--because "it was on sale so I stocked up." Stocked up, Dad? Stocked up? Until when? The Apocolypse? How much cheese substitute can one person possibly possess?

My parents have two extremes of cooking which match their two extremes in personality. Dad cooks things very slowly. If he puts a burger on at 7, you'd might eat by 9 if you're lucky. Mom, on the other hand, believes there are two states in which food exists: raw and burned. Carcinogens delight her. Because there is, after all, only one setting on all cooking devices: high.

The idea for this post comes from two hilarious posts I read recently, this one by Azucar and this one by Sue at Navel Gazing at its Finest. And because of these two I am left to recall the many strange food products my parents fed me over the years. I'm recalling the "food competitions" which occurred each night at the table because if you did not grab as much as you could right this instant you would not get any.

Following is a list of odd, quirky, and mostly disgusting things they had us consume over the years (with many thanks to my sisters Loving the Chaos & Somebody Told Me So for their memory input):

Corned Beef and Cabbage (gag)

Zucchini, tomatoes, and onion fried into a wilted, mushy mess (I didn't realize I liked zucchini until adulthood--who knew it came in the un-mush variety?)

Two words: FRIED SPAM

Not so de-boned chicken soup

I seem to recall stacks upon stacks of red boxes of Banquet TV Dinners

Melted Cheese On a Plate. Yup. Just cheese. Melted. On a plate.

Canned Deseret Ketchup from the early 80's (have you ever eaten this stuff? DISGUSTING! Think tomato paste with sugar and you're on the right path)

Home Bottled Trout--which looked more like lined up science projects in jars (and which I NEVER ate)

Creamed Eggs (on toast--I still love this, by the way)

Meatloaf Surprise (i.e. leftovers--which OF COURSE weren't ever covered in the fridge--molded into a loaf with a pound of ground beef)

Mystery Casseroles (this follows a similar strand of logic as that of Meatloaf Surprise, in fact sometimes Meatloaf Surprise was featured in Mystery Casserole--simply substitute ground beef with cream of mushroom soup and noodles and/or potatoes)

Label-less canned goods (they were on sale!). You would open it up and whatever was inside, there you'd have it. What is even more scary is some things you still couldn't tell what it was when the can was OPEN.

After a stint working with the Scouts, my Dad went on a foil dinner kick--only they'd come out half and half: half raw, half burned.

What about you? What penny pinching measures did your parents make in the grocery list? And does anyone else owe their survival to Top Ramen?

White Trash Wednesday: La-Move

Meet my go cart.

She is a 1992 Geo Prizm better known as La-Move

(long story, or at least a rather boring one).

She features all the bells and whistles including:

*A billowing Maharaja-inspired drape ceiling bunched elegantly at the ineffective dome light.

*One dashboard confessional:

*A jimmy-rig-me-up misaligned driver's side window..."I'll go down but you will have to get halfway in and halfway out of the car with your booty shimmying as you shift me into place at the bank's drive-up window because that's not embarrassing at all."

*A CD/Radio combo with the potential to sometimes swallow CD's, other times...not so much. My current mix CD has been in for about five months now...and a tricky short in the air ducts (the a/c and defrost sometimes don't turn on until reaching a minimum of 65 mph with the setting at outside air):

*One dented side (who knows how it was dented, I woke up one morning and there you have it).

*Ever-so-atractive peeling lightning decals:

Fact: La-Move is my first car.
Fact: I've had her since 2001.
Fact: She is older than most of my students
Fact: I paid a mere $2500 cash money for this baby.
Fact: She's been in four fender benders since I've owned her, two of which were my fault (and one might have involved a group of students in the other car...because that's not embarrassing at all).
Factual Observation: I think she runs on tithing and regular oil changes.

She has been a great car but I can't help but wonder if my "No Car Payments Here!" lucky streak is coming to an end. I think I'll just drive her into the ground...or to that point where she starts to nickel and dime me.

One More Fact: I think I'm terrified of owning a new car.