Friday, March 18, 2011

Flashback: March 18, 2005

Remember how when guys say they'll call you, they usually never do? Well, after the fabulous first date the week before, the guy CALLED ME. I really couldn't believe it. And he asked me out. For March 18th. I, of course, said yes because one, it really was a fabulous first date, and two, he was pretty cute, except for the aforementioned jeans up to his armpits. But I can fix jeans.

The only problem with this date of ours was that I had to go to my cousin's wedding reception that night (happy anniversary, Cali!) I mean, I had to. I had gone to her bridal's with her, and I really like her, so I didn't want to miss it. The problem was that the wedding was in Spanish Fork, and I lived in Bluffdale, about a 40 minute drive. If I went to the wedding, said hello to the fam, and then came home, this would put our date at around 9:00. And I didn't want to miss this date. Sure, I could have said no and scheduled for the next night, but I didn't want to say no, and I knew the next night was my date's birthday, and I didn't want to be so presumptuous to assume that he would want to take me out on his birthday. So, I asked if he wanted to go to the reception with me, and then have our date. To my surprise, he said okay. This meant showing up with a boy at a family function--all my aunts and uncles would be there, including the 'rents and the sibs. But he wanted to go. I knew he must really like me.

On the way down to the reception, I tried to warn My Date about my family. Now,my family is a very loud, very fun bunch, but you would never know this unless you stuck around long enough to get past the--well, it's not weird, it's just us-- stuff. Because we are, for lack of a better word, us. Natalee knows everything about music there is to know, and she loves sharing the information. Yarley is the belching champion of the world, but knows better than to perform in public. Rory is very funny. But it's not a regular funny. If you didn't know he was being funny, you would just think he was being weird. Example: At the wedding, My Date had valiantly survived Meeting the Family (on the second date, mind you) and we were leaving when Rory tapped on My Date's window to say something. Date rolled down the window and Rory said, "The cock crows at midnight," looked furtively over his shoulder, and snuck away into the night. I, knowing my brother, laughed. My Date, not knowing my brother, thought he was a freak. It wasn't until I explained the joke (which took quite a bit of time--how do you explain "the cock crows at midnight?"), My Date smiled (or tried to) and let it pass. He must REALLY like me.

My Date and I headed to see the movie Hitch. We arrived early for our show time, so we walked around Thanksgiving Point for a while and chatted, during the course of which I finally grabbed his hand because I was tired of making my hand available for someone who so obviously wanted to hold it. We finally went into the movie theater and sat in our seats, waiting.

"So," I began, "Did you go on a mission?" Now let me explain my thinking to you. As a rule, I hardly every mentioned the mish to my dates because one, I usually didn't have to--returned missionaries in the single scene usually waste no time in exploiting the valour; two, there was a Spanish person in the theater, and My Date didn't stop to have an obnoxiously long "secret convo"; and three, if you mention the mish to a date, you can kiss other topics goodbye. But this guy was different. There were no Spanish conversations, no mention of the best two years of his life, yet there were garment lines. So I was curious.

My Date hesitated after my question, and finally said, "No, I didn't."

"Oh," I replied. Thank goodness. No stupid companion stories to suffer through. However, My Date was thinking something else.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

"Umm...no. Do you not want to see this movie? I mean, we don't have to see it if you don't want to."

"No, it's just...I can take you home if you want." Okay. I really was confused at this point. I thought things were going so well. We were holding hands, he braved the fam, but now he wanted to take me home. I couldn't figure out what went wrong. Finally, it dawned on me--I don't know why or how I figured it out. Looking back, the only explanation I can think of is that well--Heavenly Father liked us together. So He helped clarify--and it was crystal clear.

"I don't care, you know," I said after an awkward silence. "About the mission thing, I mean. I know lots of good guys that didn't go on missions, my dad one of them. And my bishop. And every bishop I've ever had. I don't care."

He looked surprised. "You don't?"

"No. I just asked because you hadn't mentioned it, and most guys mention it by now. All I need to know is that you go to church, right?"

"Yeah"

"And you can go to the temple, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Good enough for me." And to prove my point, I put my head on his shoulder. He put his arm across my shoulder. We sat that way through the rest of the movie. I realized that night that it wasn't just that he really liked me, but I really liked him, too. He asked me out for the next night--for his birthday.

I didn't find out until later that My Date had run into the "I-Will-Only-Date-Returned-Missionaries" so many times that he had promised himself that he would only go out with ten more girls, and then he was done with dating--with the church. I was girl number 10.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Flashback: March 12, 2005

I went shopping with two of my best gal pals for a fabulous shirt, a new denim jacket, and jeans. Then I went home, meticulously applied some serious make up, and did my hair to the best of my ability (which, if you know my hair, and I don't mind saying this, is saying something. I have great hair). I did all this in preparation to go on my first date with a guy I had been trying to get to ask me out for a couple of weeks. I could tell he liked me, but he just wouldn't ask me on a date. Finally, after a couple of very obvious hints (I have never been good a subtle) he asked me out. One a date (not a hang-out) and he was coming to pick me up. I was very excited for this date. It had been a long time since I went out on pure free-will. Everything prior to that was a blind-date. Apparently, when you have good hair, people like to set you up.

My date showed up after I had to go outside and wave him down because of my bad directions, but I went back in the house and made him come to the door. He picked me up and looked pretty good, despite the fact that his shirt was tucked into his jeans, which were pulled up way too high. But I could change that. I mean, jeans are just jeans, right? So, giving myself a last once-over in the bathroom (to make sure my cleavage wasn't slutty, just alluring) we left. And we talked all the way to Mimi's Cafe.

When we arrived to dinner, I didn't know what to do. Do I get out? Or do I wait for him to come open the door? I always have hated the guess work on this one. And personally, I really hated waiting for the guy to walk all the way around the car while I am sitting there perfectly capable of getting out, by myself. So, again, not so good with the subtle, I asked. "Do you want me to wait for you? Or should I just get out?" This guy just looked at me for a clue as to what he should say, and I finally gave him a hint, "I would much rather get out. I hate sitting here by myself."

My date said, "Okay. I sometimes forget anyway."
Me: "Good. Then it's settled. But you should probably get the door for me getting in."
My date: "Good to know."

Usually, with the other boys I dated, this kind of comment would lessen their manhood, and they would think I was bossy. This boy, on the other hand, was just glad he didn't have to read my mind. It was refreshing to have someone realize the value of knowing what I am thinking at all times, instead of getting offended or embarrassed.

We ate at dinner, talked constantly, and completely ignored the other couple we were with. Bet you didn't even realize this was a double date, right? That's how much they didn't matter. Then we went to a hockey game. I had never been to one, and knowing of my penchant for loudness at a game and how it embarrassed all my other boyfriends, I gave this one a warning, "I get really loud at games and sometimes I swear at them."

My date: "Sweet. Then you mind when I heckle, right?" This date was going very well.

We didn't yell or heckle at the hockey game. We talked through the whole thing. Throughout the course of our conversation, we discovered the my grandpa and his grandpa were brothers. That put a damper on stuff for a minute until I realized that my grandpa was not my biological grandpa, but my dad's step-father. So we weren't really related. My grandmother and I just have the same taste in men. Again, when I said this, there was an awkward minute.

Finally, me: "I don' t have a problem if you don't."
My Date: "I don't. As long as we're really not related."
Me: "We're not."
My Date: "Then I'm fine."

He took me home, and we laughed the whole way. He was laughing at me because my laugh sounded funny, and I was laughing because he was the first person I had ever met who laughed louder than I did. It was a match made in heaven.

Wednesday, March 09, 2011

Dear Grandpa Bingham,

Even though you are not my real grandpa (a fact that I don't usually recognize, but considering my marital status, it is important) you are the only grandpa I have ever known. I feel that I am writing this to you several years late, because you have truly been gone from us that long. I should be sad, and I should mourn your passing, and I should cry a little bit more than I have.

But I can't. And it's not because I didn't love you. I did. I loved you a lot. It's because I can't be sad for you when I know that you can finally see, hear, and remember for the first time in a long time. I am happy when I think of you young and fit, like your pictures in Joe's genealogy book, going around with Weldon and Sprig and Bish and all your other brothers. I am happy when I think of you finally seeing your first wife, Alice, again, and your sisters, and your mom and dad. There was a great Bingham bash, I am sure, when you went home, and I can't be sad about it. There are, however, a few things I would like to ask of you, now that you know who I am and where you are:
  1. Please watch over Grandma. There are plenty of people here to do it right now, but no one can be there all the time, and I am sure she needs you.
  2. Tell Weldon about Joe and my Miss Alice. Joe never got to know your favorite brother, except through stories you told on all those Malt-Shop outings Joe took you on. So it would be nice if you could pass on what you remember.
  3. I hope you remember how much all of us Pete Jones girls loved you. As I said, even though we weren't biological, you were the only grandpa we knew. When I was little, I couldn't figure out why I wasn't a Bingham, and when my mom told me that you were not dad's dad, I was a little sad. We all miss you--not the you that laid in a bed for the last two years, but the you that kept sheep and swore in the corner and loved the movie Shane and the you that loved chocolate malts. We've been missing you for a while.

RAYMOND BINGHAM


Raymond Bingham 1913 ~ 2011 Raymond Bingham died early March 6, 2011 at the Legacy Village in Taylorsville, Utah. Ray was born on Indian Bench to Ashel Calvin Bingham & Grace Eudora Casper on August 16, 1913. He married Alice Runsted and they had five children, Lorna Rae (Rolf Petersen), Alice Ielene (Clyde Rydalch), Jack Raymond (Helen Fitz) and Robert (Suzie Green). Ray was a veteran of World War II and served most of the war in the South Pacific. His wife, Alice died in 1965 and he later married Dorothy Fern Jones (formally Warden) on July 16, 1970. Dorothy brought with her seven children, Sherry Ambrose (Rick), Krista Kanenwisher (Ken), Winston Jones (Leora Tingey), Jennell Colvalt (Norm), Jenniffer Walton (Don), Peter M. Jones (Suzanne Nicholes) and William Raymond Jones (Barbara Boyack). Ray and Fern have 44 grandchildren, 64 great-grand-children and seven great-great-grandchildren. Ray's surviving siblings are Loke, Dick and Acel Bingham. Ray's Alzheimer's decline took him back to Indian Bench. His last thoughts were of his boyhood years spent on Indian Bench with his brothers and sisters (8 boys & 3 girls) and the parents he adored. Ray taught us how to bear our burdens lightly. A family viewing will be held on Wednesday, March 9, 2011 at 12 noon at Goff Mortuary, 8090 S. State St., Midvale, Utah. Graveside services will follow at the Bluffdale City Cemetery at 1:30 p.m. www.goffmortuary.com

Monday, March 07, 2011

The Bright Side of Life...Stick With It...I'll Get There

So if anyone has had the nerve to hang out with me in the last few weeks, you would know that everyday I have become increasingly more negative and pessimistic. I know. I sound like a bundle of joy. Yet, I lay awake every night and wonder why? Why don't I have any girlfriends? I know. It sounds so very Jr. High of me. But I have realized that girls will be Jr. High, no matter how old they are. Girls will get their feelings hurt, they will hold grudges, they will form cliques, and they will gossip. And it's not fun.

Lately, it hasn't been girls that has been my problem. It's been my job. I don't know if anyone watches the news, listens to the radio, or participates in any sort of conversation, but it appears that teachers are horrible people who do horrible things and are intent on brainwashing their students. Most normal people, (and by "normal" I mean people who do not have control issues, over-sensitive career issues, or an overwhelming fear of being mediocre), can brush it off, saying, "Whatever. You don't know. You're not here." That's what a sane person does. I, on the other hand, am not sane, nor am I normal.

I have, as I alluded to earlier, severe control issues. I want to control everything, which is why, up to this point, a teacher was a great fit for me. I was like an independent contractor. My students entered my room, and they were mine. I controlled the pace, what we did that day, and the atmosphere of my classroom. As long as it was just me and my students, I was happy. Unfortunately, it doesn't feel like that anymore. I feel like I'm getting told what to do by my administration (which, I do realize, they have every right to), the parents (again, they have every right to), and talking heads on TV (which they have no right to). I feel like any dominion I once had is slowly depleting. For someone like me, the loss of control is equivalent to the loss of all mental capacity. And suddenly, I don't feel competent. I feel mediocre. And I am the type of person who needs to be good at something.

I can't stay home with my daughter. It's not an accusation, it's not a complaint; it is a matter of fact. I can't right now. As a result, I realize I can't be 100% mom. I also can't be 100% wife, because I'm not home. So, as a result, I have always tried to be 100% teacher. I would spend hours planning lessons, grading papers, and trying to help students. So this loss of control now takes the one thing I felt I was really good at, and it pulls the rug out from under me, and I'm not handling it very well.

I lash out at my students, I have thrown food at the TV, and I have composed very rude letters to people like Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity, and Rod Arquette. But the reality is nothing I do will change anything. Parents aren't going to stop fighting for their kids (even if they're wrong), and the administration isn't going to stop giving me hoops to jump through. Teachers are always going to take the brunt of society's ills, no matter what I feel or say or write. So as a result, I have internalized everything. Every complaint is a complaint against me. Every article about the education system is an article about me. Every bad thing that happens is about me. Of course it isn't true, and logically I know that, but the little fat Jr. High girl inside me doesn't, and unfortunately, she is the one who has the reins right now.

I realized this weekend that things are bad because I feel bad. I feel bad. Glenn Beck didn't make me feel bad. My administration didn't make me defensive. I did. I feel bad, so I act bad, and it's no body's fault but my own. I also realize that there is a genetic thing going on here, as well as a Sarah-Is-Not-Normal thing. And I also realize there is only one way out of this crap-hole I've dug for myself.

And no, it's not laughing at everyone I think is dumb. That only makes me feel better for like, 5 minutes. It's not mocking those who put "facility social" instead of "faculty social" on our calendar, although that did make me feel better for a little bit.

Instead, I am going to start trying to find something good that happened every day. Or things that I am thankful for. Because feeling wounded and attacked pretty much sucks. So. For today:

GOOD STUFF:
  • I saw one of my former students at Subway today and found that he's not a transvestite, nor is he dying of AIDS. He is perfectly happy and productive (that sounds morbid, but for some reason, some of my very favorite students are now transvestites. Crazy. I know)
  • Joe called me. It wasn't anything great--just to make sure he picked up the right kind of contact solution, but he called me. It's nice.
  • My students had quite and insightful discussion. Some of their analysis (what's the plural of that word?) were really quite in depth.
THANKFUL FOR:
  • I'm thankful that my Grandpa died. I know that, again, sounds morbid, but he needed to die. He was 97 years old, had Alzheimer's, and couldn't see or hear. He wanted to die. I'm glad he did because now he's happy with all his brothers and his first wife. Also, because my grandpa died, my mom was able to stay home and help with the funeral. Sounds weird, but my mom needed to take a few days off of work, yet nothing but and act of God could make her do it. Enter God.
  • Alice. Sometimes, when I really hate my job, I look around at my students and think, "I could be home. People like me there." And, even though it's a horrible thing to think, it's essentially true. I don't ever offend Alice. And even if I offend Joe, he doesn't cut me off and refuse to hang out with me. He just tells me I offended him, and I apologize, because I never mean to offend him. Funny thing about me: I have never intentionally offended anyone. Don't get me wrong. I've offended plenty of people in my day. When you're blessed (or cursed) with the talent of speaking your mind and have a knack for uncontrollable brutal honesty, it happens. But I never intend to hurt people. I actually really like people.
  • I'm thankful that we are getting a large tax return this year. I get to buy a bed for me, a bed for Alice, and a new TV for Joe. Sounds extravagant, I know. But after a two years of living without using credit cards, it's really nice to have the money for things we want, as well as things we need. And it's not going to be here forever. So I told Joe we could splurge, just this once. We usually take our returns and put it in savings for baby stuff or for bills, or whatever. Not this time. And I'm really excited.
  • Willa Cather and the book O Pioneers! There is nothing better in life than two forbidden lovers getting shot making love under the white mulberry tree. And I'm being totally and completely serious. It's such a grand pay-off for my students. They ended up loving the book, even though they think it's stupid that Marie and Emil die.
  • Board games. Joe and I played Ticket to Ride for three hours last night. I lost every game, but it was still fun.
  • Hot chocolate. My current craving (I've already gone through my OJ stage, my bean burrito stage, and my donut stage. It's time for something warm, like steamy, melty, marshmallow-y hot chocolate.)
  • That I can feel my little baby kick and somersault inside me. I don't like the zits, the continual tears, and the ever-expanding waistline, but when I am laying in bed at night, and I can put my hands on my belly and feel movement, it makes me happy.
That's it for today folks. You can always count on me to be depressing, I know that. But maybe you can start counting on me to find ways to be happy, too.

What It's Like Grading Papers: A Play in Two Scenes

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