Or Do Without

My parents, bless them, are cheap. Not about everything. (This is not entirely true. My father in all actually is cheap about everything. He has been known to bring cars back to temporary life through the use of a paper clip and gum wrapper. I ordered off the kids' menu until I was 15. "Frugal" doesn't even begin to describe the man.) But there are some modern luxuries the rest of us enjoy that my parents feel can wait. A DVD player, for instance, didn't make its way into their house until recent years. My mother was amazed by the apple cutter she used while visiting my sister's family and begged me to price one out at the store for her. Some of this behavior is a direct result of my mother's absolute repulsion to shopping. She loathes it. My dad loves a good discount grocery store; but beyond getting a steal of a deal on food stuffs he'd rather gouge out his own eyes a la Oedipus.

To an extent I admire their make-do attitude. Luxury items, after all, are not necessary. To simplify is no easy task and yet they've gone with the simple my entire life. While the rest of the country indulged in excess during the past 15 years, my parents chugged along in blissful ignorance of the iPod. Things have never been their, well, thing.

But our greatest strength can also be our greatest weakness. You see, about five years ago my parents' circa 1970's oven died entirely. I say "entirely" because my father kept it functioning (with paper clips and gum wrappers, no doubt) for several months. In the five years spent without an oven, my parents have discovered "alternatives" to what most in the mainstream culture deem a necessary major appliance. In those five years they have acquired rotisserie cookers, turkey roasters, toaster ovens, and much, much more. An industrial shelf to house these many appliances has been wedged into their already-cramped kitchen. In the past five years they have cooked entire casseroles on the outdoor grill, baked a mere 4-5 cookies at once in the toaster oven, and essentially driven those of us who understand that functioning ovens are neither luxurious nor excessive stark raving mad.

Now I ask you, dear reader, who does this? Who views this "little blip" in nearly every recipe as a slight challenge? For a woman who hates shopping, my mother has certainly grown familiar with the small appliance aisle at Sears! I've tried an intervention. I've tried sending her links of reasonable used and new ovens advertised on Craig's List. Still she insists on the oven-less path. My mother, the one most likely to see the possible value of a DVD player, is hellbent on not getting a new oven more than my painfully tight-wad-ish father (he misses cake).

So what does a girl like me do? I think I'm in over my head. I think I need to find an affordable oven and show up with it strapped to the roof of my car, unannounced. I think their entire kitchen needs a makeover. I think I better find a fierce paper clip and a heavy duty gum wrapper.

The Singles' Ward: An Amateur's Quasi-Field Study of a Most Curious Culture

The roommate and I tried sneaking into church rather late yesterday. Sneaking anywhere in two-inch wedges (2" = my limit; 3" seems downright cruel) with two large bags in tow (my purse is big--my church bag is ridiculous) always proves interesting. Sneaking through the entire congregation to the only seats available "up front" lends its own special form of embarrassment. Anyway, the point here is that I was late. And when I'm that late I find it difficult to focus on the messages shared. And when I'm lacking focus in a room with folks to observe (say the airport, or, in this scenario, church) I tend to people watch. More than I ought. And, as a woman of some education with a brain trained for analysis, I sometimes consider that which I notice.

In the airport I make up stories about where strangers are going, who they are meeting, what they are running away from. Church-People Watching, however, is vastly different from Airport-People Watching. Because, in theory, one already knows these people at church. Or, at the very least, one knows of them: their names (if you can keep them straight), where they work (because what else do you talk about with people you share few commonalities with?), their clique (oh yes, singles' wards are nothing if not clique-ish). And one has to be careful about being caught because, well, one knows these subjects. And staring might make them think one has some message to relay. Or, even worse, if caught staring too frequently at someone of the opposite sex, it can very easily translate into one becoming the (insert any physical characteristic here--hot, fat, skinny, sweet-spirited, tall, short, handsome, old, young, blonde, ugly, pretty) girl/guy with a crush.

You see, women in the singles' ward far outnumber the men. And this disproportionate ratio thoroughly destroys all acknowledgement of male fault or folly while simultaneously accentuating every female flaw and blemish. Likewise, this numbers game (along with attitudes to be discussed later ) has ellicited a heightened competition amongst many of the females (go here if you don't believe me).

So if one looks and looks again, it surely must mean something more than the innocent curiosity that typically motivates people watching. Here you were pondering the stained athletic socks they chose to pair with their suit (Out of clean laundry? Fashionably clueless?) and the next thing you know they're trying to awkwardly flirt in the hallway as if you're both in on some little lovers' secret. You can see the danger here. More commonly, the "victim" of innocent Church-People Watching has mysteriously dropped off the "perpetrator's" facebook friends list and if said "perpetrator" so much as shares a friendly hello the "victim's" eyes get a little shifty as they duck into the nearest restroom. The "kinder" variety will simply blather on about someone from work they are interested in taking to the lights at Temple Square as a means of hinting that you're-not-that-someone-you-thought-you-might-be-based-on-the-staring-you-were-clearly-involved-in-during-sacrament-wink-wink.

To simplify that: one's innocent people watching clearly indicates attraction. Because, beyond a shared religious belief, if there is a primary commonality amongst those in the singles' ward it is this: delusion.

The delusion is palpable. Apparently happily-ish married church leaders believe that placing all single adults with a pulse in the same building together for three hours a week, and then encouraging them to come to various "fun-filled" (read: painful) activities throughout the week will automatically result in more happily-ish married couples. And the semi-young lad with the stained athletic socks and bad haircut who is, bless him, proudly employed in the telemarketing industry thinks himself the matrimonial equal of a young Marie Osmond with hints of Stepford woven in. And well-educated, career-driven, relatively feminist women in two-inch wedges (I said "relatively" feminist) such as myself actually think they will find compatibility within their own sect. Delusion is the name of the game.

Which isn't to say that coupling in one form or another doesn't occur. Hands are held, flirtations are flaunted, backs are scratched, closed-eyed swan dances are danced. The singles' ward and adolescents (yes, some in the singles' ward are adolescents) have this in common: yack-worthy levels of physical affection instigated by an abnormal spike in unsatiated hormonal activity.

Beyond shared religious belief and delusion, there is a third phenomenon particularly intriguing: pressure. Though slightly less palpable than the aforementioned delusion to the outside observer, most members of a singles' ward congregation recognize within a fairly short amount of time that there is a subliminal message much like microscopic mold spores circulating in the air. Pressure. Communication between religious and familial leaders and the single congregation is laced with this pressure: marry and be made whole. Lessons are taught, meetings are made, activities are designed all with one purpose: to get the relatively feminist career woman in two-inch wedges and the telemarketer in athletic socks to notice one another's "potential" (read: ignore all warning signs that your fiancee is really a creeper in disguise) and eventually wed.

I suppose any issues of incompatibility after pressed nuptials take place are technically no longer the responsibility of the singles' ward religious leadership. And, after all, shared religious belief and delusion have many happy-ish marriages made.

Also, lest you think I'm entirely pessimistic on the singles' ward front, let it be known that free food that I didn't have to cook often shows up with the delusion, pressure, and general sense of awkwardness. And, might I add, I looked damn good in those two-inch wedges.

For You, Dear Reader

My cup runneth over. Life is good--there's nothing like Thanksgiving to remind me of that.

Ebb and Flow

Some days I am quite certain I'm on the proverbial emotional roller coaster with my adolescent students. Earlier in the week I left you in my gloom. Today I have random joy to spread. (Yes, I know. Lately my blogging energies have been bubbling in a worn out brew of randomness, letters, and whining thoughts. Your point?)

1. I'm listening to Christmas music on Pandora while I enter my grades. Deal. I like it even if Thanksgiving isn't for another week. I might even put up my tree this weekend.

2. I'm grateful for the warm feel of copies fresh out of the machine. And their smell. Little else can match the delicious sensory overload that is warm Xerox.

3. I must have the teenagers ruthlessly fooled. A student told me today I'm one of "the rare teachers who actually likes kids!"

4. Christmas came early and delivered a beautiful LCD television to my classroom. Thank you, school district, for replacing the unworking dinosaur in here with technology I can't even afford for my own home (to go along with the view I could never afford in my real life).

5. I got a new phone cover. It is holiday bulb red. Isn't red a sublime sort of color?

6. A student wrote this yesterday and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

MYTH OF THE WAY CHAIRS CAME TO BE (by Forrest)

There once was a king who hated to stand and lay. He traveled far and wide to find a solution to his problem, but had no luck. He yelled to the gods "Do you have the answer!?!" The gods replied "We do but you must pass 2 tests. You must stand and hold the earth up for 1 day." So he did. "Now you must lay on a bed of snakes for 1 day." So he did. For his reward the gods gave him a throne of gold with silk cushins and platinum lace. As the king saw the throne he felt rejoyced and asked the gods, "What am I suposed to do?" "Sit," said the gods. And as the king sat in the chair he realized...he didn't like sitting either.

What would I ever do without my 9th graders? Greek Mythology is such a fun unit and this was his personal myth about the creation of something, anything (pretty free topic, I know--I had a bad week). Bless him.

7. I haven't had to scrape my windows once this year. Praise covered parking at the new place.

8. The Roommate and I are hosting a soup soiree tomorrow night with good people.

9. That means that in a few short hours my house will be entirely clean.

10. My grades are updated-ish. It is neither midterm nor end of term. I'm just on the ball.

11. Scarves and flower pins and head bands are my newest accessory obsession.

12. Not everyone gets a best friend for a roommate. I love you like a sister, Alice. Thanks for putting up with my mood-swinginess.

Now, I've an errand to run and a house to clean. Consider me on an upswing.

Determined

This morning I put on the color red and my new favorite scarf that I've worn three days straight now. The morning brought about many encounters with the snooze function on my phone, and a strange memory of a dream about a bewitched PVC pipe. Sunday nights never cease to offer entertaining sleep.

Yesterday I taught the adult sunday school class at church. The lesson was about self sufficiency and work and the feeling of worth that comes from such things. So when I (finally) awoke today, I said a prayer, determined to enjoy this Monday, this week. Determined to feel all the good things about work. You see, I've been in a funk about my job. This funkiness is not for me. I did go to all that trouble, after all, the anxiety and expense of getting an education in something I loved. I did experience the hassle of searching for a career I knew I'd care for equally so as to avoid such funks. But there is a difference between my ideals and my realities--another post altogether.

I can't put my finger on the source of the funk, either. It is a sense of melancholy diluted into me. Maybe it is the boy at church that flirts and little else. Maybe it is the teenagers and their adolescent stint of irrationality. Perhaps it is the weather or the light.

So here I sit, still in red and my new favorite scarf I wear too much in a cold humming office and a darkening classroom. I'm taking a short break from the grading stacks. In my hours here the sun has risen in a window somewhere away from my own western view; and now it has set behind hills across the basin, its last light filtering into a hazy dusk of approaching winter.

I still feel slumped in my own personal job funk. Adolescents do not cheerful companions make.

But I tell myself this: I did something good today for someone who will never tell me so.

If I didn't tell myself this truth each and every day, even in endless Mondays of slumping such as this, I don't know that I could carry on when I only see the sun through my windows and never feel it on my face. If I didn't believe that the students have a secret all their own, that I wasn't giving someone only the best parts of myself, I don't know why else I could stand to be here.

image by sabino

Sometimes I Ride My Broom to School

To the Student Who Manipulated the System and Dropped My AP Class Without the Proper Protocol:

Do you really think asking me for a letter of recommendation after sneaking into your counselor and stealthily dropping my AP class without my required permission was a wise idea? Seriously? Who does that? I'm not sure you'd want me to say things about you such as "quits when a challenge presents itself" or "finds every possible loophole" or "unethical" and don't forget my personal favorite "avoids confrontation when a problem arises" in said hypothetical letter. If I were being 100% honest with the colleges and scholarships for which you are applying, however, I could say little else.

Signed,
That Batch Who Won't Let You Drop AP English

P.S. Maybe you should ask someone else for a more glowing review. Perhaps your sorry excuse for a salaried counselor who is too busy reading the sports section of
the newspaper in his special corner of the school library to realize that it is against policy to let you out of my class without permission.

The Difference Between Pants and Scales

Dear Bathroom Scale,

You suck. I eat better, count points, ignore the existence of a love affair I'd recently begun with The Sugar Cookie of My Dreams. I sweat it out on the elliptical machine and treadmill as my shuffle's play list spins its songs out one by one. I spend my days discovering muscles I didn't know about until they fill with lactic acid after a harsh work out. I sit and stand slowly, deliberately so as not to disturb the wrong body parts as they recover; I refigure my body in strange contortions just to relieve the pain, and still, still you budge so little. I even say "ice cream" and you shift a pound ahead. What gives? You need to cooperate.

Signed,
The One Who Hid You in a Time Out Closet Until You Behave Accordingly

(If my scale actually read this, dear, sweet google image, rest assured that the explanation is clearly that some large appendage--or two--has been amputated from my body.)

Dear Jeans I Haven't Worn Since I Started Teaching,

You rock. I've eaten less, counted points, sweat it out at the gym and you, you glorious things, decide to zip up with ease. You spent the day with me yesterday and didn't cut off the circulation to my lower extremities even once. I truly appreciate the gesture. Please understand, however, that our relationship can only be temporary. There are other jeans with smaller numbers on their tags in a rubbermaid in the closet, each waiting patiently for their turn in the outside world.

Signed,
Who Needs a Bathroom Scale when She has You?