Rhett Butler's People

Currently, with the help of my trusty eBook that I got for Christmas, I stumbled across a new book that caused to my heart to beat faster than when Myrtle got run over by a car in the fateful chapter 7 of The Great Gatsby, which, if you know anything about me, is saying something.

The book I stumbled across was one called Rhett Butler’s People. Now, if you have never graced the pages of the great American classic, Gone with the Wind, you can never understand why this title captured me like it did. I discovered Gone with the Wind in eighth grade when a friend of mine said she was trying to read the 1024 page-long epic, and I, not to be outdone, decided that I, too, needed to read it. I still remember the first time I tried to read that first very long chapter; I thought I was going to die of boredom, but my competitive nature kept me plodding along, slow and sluggish until Miss Scarlett O’Hara swung her hoop skirts in the towering pillars of Twelve Oaks and met caught Mr. Rhett Butler’s eye and said to herself, “God’s nightgown!...He looks as if –as if he knew what I looked like without my shimmy.”
From then on, I have been a Rhett Butler groupie.

I loved how Rhett was described as a malicious tomcat, a man too muscular to be a gentleman, and a swarthy pirate. I thrilled when Scarlett, having a temper tantrum in the library, threw a figurine across the room after the genteel Ashley Wilkes told her could not marry her, only to be surprised when Mr. Butler, a man rumored to “not be received,” popped his head up from behind the couch. It was just so cool! And then when she says, “Sir, you are no gentleman,” and Rhett replies, “An apt observation…and you, Miss, are no lady,” my heart just about dies with the agony that Scarlett O’Hara is such and idiot that she doesn’t jump him right then and there, forget the wanny-pants Ashley Wilkes.

Needless to say, when I stumbled across a newly written companion book to Gone with the Wind, I was thrilled. Especially in that Rhett Butler's People isn’t really a sequel to Gone with the Wind (the last attempt at a sequel being really, really, really bad—like Rosanne Barr trying to follow up Celine Dione in a concert), but rather, the love affair told from that swarthy pirate’s own point of view. I approached the book knowing that the author, Donald McCaig, had a really huge responsibility ahead of him, and to not expect too much. I was pleasantly surprised by the first few chapters, intrigued by the past that up till now had been very mysterious. Halfway through the eighth chapter, I decided that I needed to read these books side-by-side, in order to get the full affect of the he-said-she-said feeling that I enjoyed.

So I downloaded Gone with the Wind on the eBook, even though I have a (very battered) copy at home. I wanted to be able to switch back and forth with ease—and I began reading. Again, just like every time, I wished I were the cat-eyed belle with a 17 inch waist so I could be looked at like he knew what I looked like without my shimmy. And then I flipped to Rhett Butler’s People and began to read Rhett’s side of the account.

I have always pictured Rhett as laughing at Miss Scarlett because of her petty games and attracted to only her body. I really did think that Rhett Butler, a man of experience, knew what Scarlett looked like “without her shimmy.” So it was only natural that when I read, “Hope welled up in Butler like a healing spring…His heart slowed. He looked away, smiling at himself. It had been a long time since he’d made a fool of himself over a woman,” that I was extremely disappointed. No, no, no! Rhett is supposed to be the one person who doesn’t fall in love with Scarlett at first sight! He is supposed to regard her as a silly child to laugh at, to mock, and to lust after. He’s not supposed to fall in love with her until later when he finds that he can’t forget that silly thing without an ounce of brains.

I would have been much more satisfied if Mr. Butler, being the rascal that he is supposed to be, would have just thought Scarlett was nothing more than a nice piece of ass—that is, until she threw that stupid thing at his head in the library. Then he could have justifiably fallen in love with her, thinking, “Now that’s a woman!” In fact, the original text supports my expectations: later when he proposes to Scarlett, he says, “I always intended having you, Scarlett, since that first day I saw you at Twelve Oaks when you threw that vase and swore and proved that you weren’t a lady. I always intended on having you one way or another.” See? He doesn’t get all sentimental and sappy on the steps at Twelve Oaks. It’s later, in the library! Donald McCaig’s version took all the mystique of Rhett Butler, his charm and his swarthy pirate-ness, away from him. It made him just as bad as stupid old Charles Hamilton and that pansy Ashley Wilkes.
Although, on the other side of things, and to give McCaig a little credit, I was impressed at Mr. McCaig’s attention to detail. He did place every incident where it was supposed to be, and got most of the conversations right. And, he did give Rhett a good reason for laughing at Miss Scarlett under the Oak tree, so I wasn’t totally disappointed. But still!...

I guess the fact that the book sets Rhett’s sentimental nature in the forefront rather than his “to hell with ‘em” attitude I had always loved took the wind out of my groupie sails. It was just like finding out that Clark Gable had really bad breath, or that JFK had an affair with Marilyn Monroe, or that Carey Grant might have been gay, or that Miss Lehi was pregnant (a revelation that thoroughly caused me to lose all faith in humanity when I was in elementary school—if Miss Lehi could fall, anyone could fall). An illusion, a beautiful, wonderful illusion, had been shattered for me, has been shattered for me, and I am quite upset about it. I mean, Rhett Butler was my model in what I wanted in a man.

My first ever attempt at real annotation was in the pages where Rhett proposes after Scarlett has gotten her second husband killed. In that dashing way of his, Rhett kisses her, and after she asks him to stop because he’s "making her faint" with his fantastic moves, he proclaims, "I want to make you faint. I will make you faint. You’ve had this coming to you for years. None of the fools you’ve known have kissed you like this—have they? Your precious Charles or Frank or your stupid Ashley--…I said your stupid Ashley. Gentlemen all—what do they know about women? What did they know about you? I know you.” And then (get this) he proceeds to kiss Miss Scarlett O’Hara Hamilton Kennedy most inappropriately in the parlor of Miss Pitty-Pat’s home in such a way that her knees cease to work, and she agrees to marry him.
I had underlined this scintillating passage with a red sparkly gel pen when I re-red the book my sophomore year and scrawled in the margins, “I want to be kissed like this!” Little did I know that my current crush was more of an Ashley Wilkes than a Rhett Butler. (Joe’s kissing falls in the Rhett Butler department. Hence the wedding).

I cut my literary-analysis teeth on Gone with the Wind, particularly Rhett Butler. And then I find this book, this Rhett Butler's People, and it has upset me so dramatically that I tossed and turned with the indecency of a "soft" Rhett Butler that I was compelled to write this rant at 2:23 in the morning.

But, despite my protests, I will continue reading, because even though some of the image is shattered, there is still plenty Scarlett/Rhett romance moments where Mr. McCaig can try to redeem himself. And the allure of Rhett, no matter how botched in this new version, is still too strong for me. So this is probably not the first "RhettRant" to be gracing my blog in the future. Prepare yourself.

Merry Christmas! 2007

It has been a long while since I have graced the pages of my blog, but I feel it is time to give the year-end review of Joe and my life together for the year 2007. This is taking the place of a Christmas card letter, for those of you who care.

2007 started out pretty rough for Joe and me. Joe started out the year working for Jerry Seiner collision and was racking in a whopping 30 hours for every two weeks. Even to people who don't understand the collision biz, it sounds small. Just to give you the idea of how hard this was on us financially, Joe is used to flagging 150+ hours every two weeks. So, needless to say, we were hurting. But a lot can happen in a year. Joe finally quit Seiner's in January or February and began working for Larry H Miller Collision out on 2100 south. It was a welcome change. The people there loved him! He was getting so much work, and flagging up towards 200 hrs! It was a huge blessing. Then, in July, his first shop, AutoMenders, called and practically begged him to come back, but this time under a new owner, and a promise of a promotion in the office writing estimates. So, we went back to AutoMenders. Now Joe is working part-time in the shop doing collision, and part time in the office writing estimates and handling all the work from Progressive Insurance (who are a bunch of cheapskates and buy crappy parts for their customers, if you wanted to know). He is now looking for someone to replace him in the shop because the owner wants him to move full-time in the office, which is a relief to me, because the phrase "part-time in the shop" and "part-time in the office" has translated to be "full-time in the office and you better plan on working 12 hour days to get your work done in the shop." Eventually this office position will become shop manager when the current boss retires next year. We have really hit a turn around and finally feel a little stable.

In the midst of all this job-hopping (can you imagine having to explain all those job changes to a lender when we were refinancing our house?! It took some fancy vocabulary to confuse them so they would stop asking questions), I stayed at good old reliable Lehi High teaching Creative Writing and Sophomore English. I finished out my third year in May (which means I have tenure and can't be fired now!) and began my fourth in August. We are currently slogging through a very long, very treacherous, research paper. The research paper is my least favorite unit to teach, although this year I feel that the students have actually learned a little about the world. I had them research the candidates for the upcoming presidential primary. The students had to write mini papers, on background, 2 issues the candidates face, and personal opinion. It has been surprising to see so many Republican offspring become intrigued by Democrat, Barrack Obama. When Christmas break is over, I will be greeted with final papers and spend around 24 hours total grading them. I'll let you know what the class' consensus is.

Well, that's us in a nutshell. Now, Christmas! We had the most wonderful Christmas ever! I have to admit, Joe spoils me shamelessly. I got an eBook, which is this cool little hand-held device that downloads books from a site and you can read, like on a page. I am really excited to take this bad-boy to the gym and read without worrying about pages, and it will be great to finally pick out a purse without worrying how many books it can hold.

Joe got a Kitchen Aide Mixer, which he is very excited about. A lot of people have chided me, saying it was more of a gift for me than for him, but he was the one who asked for it, and he's the one who makes the cookies. See? Look how excited he is.

I made out with several Cd's, a DIGITAL CAMERA (hence all the uncharacteristic pictures), a camera bag for my film SLR, and a zoom lens for my film SLR, which I hear Joe got for a killer deal on ebay. Along with the Kitchen Aide, Joe got a cordless drill, a Magnum PI shirt (pictured above), an iPod cord for his truck, and some movies. I know. I am really really spoiled. But I assure everyone that Joe will get his turn on his birthday in three months.

We spent a few hours at my parent's house, where my niece, Taylor, just had to show off her new princess dress, hair, shoes, and makeup. Then, my brother, Rory, felt that he was too distinguished for the rest of us .

We spend some time sledding with Joe's niece (Alexias) and nephew (Hunter). Isn't Joe cute when he's cold? And then we played a little Guitar Hero. We were thoroughly out-classed by Alexias's James-Tayloresque skill and Hunter's Jimmi-Hendrixion style. It was a wonderful Christmas with lots of friends, lots of family, and LOTS of food (side note: anyone every been to Rib City on 94th south and 2oth east? That's some goo-ood eating!), and more blessings than we deserve. We hope this year has been good to everyone. Merry Christmas, and we Love Everyone...who reads this blog.

Just kidding. We love EVERYONE, even if they don't read this blog.

Buy we love those who do read it better.

You Are a Blue Crayon

Your world is colored in calm, understated, deep colors. You are a loyal person, and the truest friend anyone could hope to find. On the inside, you tend to be emotional and even a bit moody. However, you know that people depend on you. So you put on a strong front. Your color wheel opposite is orange. Orange people may be opinionated, but you feel they lack the depth to truly understand what they're saying.

What Color Crayon Are You?

What Color is Joe?

You Are a Green Crayon

Your world is colored in harmonious, peaceful, natural colors.While some may associate green with money, you are one of the least materialistic people around.Comfort is important to you. You like to feel as relaxed as possible - and you try to make others feel at ease.You're very happy with who you are, and it certainly shows! Your color wheel opposite is red. Every time you feel grounded, a red person does their best to shake you.

What'>http://www.blogthings.com/whatcolorcrayonareyouquiz/">What Color Crayon Are You?

Tag, I'm It?

Not a big fan of the tag, I'm not gonna lie. I've always hated tag: the running, the touching, the running, the running, oh yeah, did I mention the RUNNING? I remember getting so tired when I was a kid, and just wanting to stop for one second, but then some little butt-head who had inhuman amounts of energy would smack me on the back, and BANG! I'm IT.

There was abnormal fear in Kid-dom of being "IT." You never wanted to be IT. In fact, you would all put your foot in a circle and chant some sort of rhyme having to do with dirty-dirty-dish-rags and hope desperately that your friend's finger would land on the top of your grass-stained tennis shoe and say "You are not it!" YES! In fact, we would all go to great lengths to proclaim "Not It," at the top of your lungs, hoping that you were the first for this proclamation, so you could run from the would-be IT. If I had been smarter, I would have volunteered to be IT and walked home to end the stupid game (just a side note, isn't it interesting that we never wanted to be IT when we were children, but we all thought we were the sh-IT when we were teenagers? Sorry for the profanity). At any rate, since the abnormal fear of being IT has been dyed into the very wool of my life, I was not excited to to be blog "tagged" by my lovely cousin, Cali, who I am guessing, was an avid tag-player. But come to find out, being IT in this game means I can sit back and write about myself! Two of my favorite past-times--writing, and talking about myself. So let's begin.

1. I have read The Anne of Green Gables Series (books 1-8) a total of 9 times. I was so into Anne of Green Gables when I was younger that I almost believed that Anne and Gilbert were real. I remember walking into a little trinket shop and seeing some sort of figurine and thinking, "Anne would just love that." And then I remembered that Anne was not real, and even if she were, she was living in Canada and there was no way I could ever get the address to Ingleside, where she ended up living with her six children, until Walter died in WWI. I am hoping for the day when Jeopardy has a special "All Anne" episode. I would be the Ken Jennings of Green Gables trivia. WARNING: The last movie in the Anne of Green Gables series called Anne of Green Gables: The Continuing Story is pure blasphemy and a slap in L.M. Montgomery's face. Thank you.

2. I take 30-45 minutes to peel and eat an orange. I know, I know. Crazy, so they tell me. First, I remove the orange part of the peel, that takes like two minutes, and the remaining 28-43 minutes consists of removing as much of the yucky yellow stuff (that happens to contain all the vitamins) as humanly possible. Joe seems to think it's one of those quirks that makes me irresistible...yet another reason I am glad that Joe wasn't a heavy dater before we met.

3. I want to get a Master's degree in Creative Writing. The reasons for this are three fold: one, because I have always wanted to get a Master's; two, I am mortally afraid of a Master's Thesis, and I figure I won't have to write a true thesis in Creative Writing...just something like a novel or a collection of short stories--something that requires little to no research and documentation; three, believe it or not, I really like to write (something I bet no one could know, based on the length of my customary blog), and I like to teach Creative Writing. Why not be in Creative Writing classes myself?

4. Once my sisters stopped going to Girl's Camp, I became the Girl's Camp Belching Champion three years running. It's not something I SHOULD be proud of, but yet I am. Poor Joe. Two weeks after we were married, I was standing in the kitchen doing something, and Joe was watching T.V. Suddenly, I opened my mouth, and out it came, a Champion-sized belch. He looked at me like he had just seen Big Foot. "Oops," I said, "didn't I tell you about that?" Joe answered with a resounding "No!" "Oh. Well, you're stuck now."

5. I once was the coordinator of the Almost Miss Lehi Pageant. The Almost Miss Lehi Pageant came about because my friends and I were upset that there was no "spoof" pageant for women. So we created one. The idea was that Almost Miss Lehi would go on to compete in the Nearly Miss Utah pageant, and if she won that, she would go on to compete in the Not Quite Miss America pageant. The requirement was that each contestant needed to have a platform, a talent, and give five minutes of community service. The first pageant involved me and three other friends, and was attended by five people. Almost Miss Lehi was decided by a very heated game of Paper, Rock, Scissors. Platforms ranged from "Better Homes for the Homeless" to "Promote World Peace: Give the World a Puppy." Talents ranged from roller-skating hoola hooping to interpretive dancing. We only had two competitions, but with pride I report the second and final year of the pageant, we had over twenty people attend the Almost Miss Lehi Festivities, and I was actually approached by someone who wanted to take it public and charge for the show. We were almost included in the Lehi Roundup Parade, too.

6. I love singing. And I think I'm pretty good at it, and if showers could talk mine would concur. Some of my favorite songs to sing are "You Were Meant for Me" by Jewel, "Stay" by Lisa Loeb, "So Far Away" by Carole King, "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" by Carole King," "Natural Woman" by Carole King, and "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles.

Well, since I don't like telling people to be IT, I will volunteer and walk home, ending the game.

Tears for Turkey

I have a little bone to pick with this media-crazed society. The other night I was driving, and it was dark, and it just wasn't the time for my regular 101.9 The End radio station. I felt I needed something more mellow, more...soft rock of the 70s. I have a soft spot for Bread, Airsupply, Journey (sometimes the only thing for a late-night drive is to belt out at the top of your lungs "And so I co-o-ome to you with o-ohoh-pen arms!"), REO Speedwagon, and possibly my favorite soft 70s rock song, "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight" by Dan England and John Ford Coley. I don't know why. Dark drives make me feel that way. Maybe it's because I feel the night brings a different kind of mood, a somber one, maybe because that's when we go home and cozy up with a Pendleton blanket (Pendleton's are the best when you are cold) with the heating dish on (because I don't have a fireplace) and a great big heaping mug of hot chocolate (Stephen's is the best) with enough marshmallows on the top to keep you tide over until you can reach the actual liquid underneath and the bottom mallows are all melty and wonderful. Well, when you can't have that, and you're driving by yourself, you want to recreate that cozy feeling and the only thing that could create that fireplace experience is listening to a really cheesy song with a guy singing that never fully made it out of puberty. And I was really looking forward to this on my lone night drive to Target.

So I did anything every sensible light rock listener would do--I turned it to 100.3 for my favorite segment, "Love Songs After Dark." But instead of finding my favorite tune, "There's a warm wind blowing/the stars are out/and I'd really love to see you tonight," instead I heard, "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens..." AUUUGH! This isn't my cheesy 70s rock! This is really BAD Christmas music (which, for the life of me, I can't figure out why this whiskers on kittens song is a Christmas song. It came from a movie about a nun and Nazis! Where's the Christmas in that?).

This is where my bone-picking begins. As of today, it is 8 days away from THANKSGIVING! The day where you give thanks! And eat turkey! And lots and lots of pie and yams! This is NOT the time for yultiede gaity, damnit! Then, I got to Target, without my fill of Chicago's Love Anthems, and I walked to the back, and guess what, IT'S ALL CHRISTMAS!

I want to know this: where is the love? When did it become okay to skip over the whole Indians-helping-the-Pilgrims-survive-Holiday (although I am sure most Native Americans today are not so hot on the idea of celebrating the beginning of their downfall. I bet there are more curses on Squanto than we white-eyes really know about. Ten bucks says they think "Shoulda let them starve," every time they leave the Res.). I want to know why Thanksgiving is always so overlooked. Granted, it's not glamorous with all the sparkle and tinsel and elves of Christmas. It's not fun with all the costumes and blood of Halloween. But it is probably the most important holiday that we have, even its placement, squashed between candy-grubbing Halloween and present-grubbing Christmas, has important value. Thanksgiving to me is like a comma--just a breath, a short break in a very long-winded sentence--where you can sit down from your few days of baking, eat some really delicious food for about 20 minutes before you have to be up an running again to do the dishes.

Thanksgiving dinner is that break for all of us to stop and rest, and BREATHE after the craziness of Halloween ends and the craziness of Christmas begins. And we all talk about how we need a break, yet here we are, a break actually BUILT IN for us, even if it is only 20 minutes, and what do we do? We skip right over it, and only look forward to the day for the great shopping that takes place the Friday after. Breathe people! Breathe! And then think about all of the blessing we have--we're warm, most of us have cars, we have a lot of clothes, some of us some really cute ones, and we all complain about how fat we are (myself included) when some people don't have any food at all. Just...I don't know. Breathe. Notice Thanksgiving, and actually give thanks that Squanto didn't scalp those pilgrims so that we could be here in America today.
Anyway, this is my little Thanksgiving rant. It was long too. Sorry. But take a moment in the next 8 days or so, to breathe a little and slow down before jumping into the fray of Christmas.

My Twilight Character

You're Edward Cullen - You have great taste for the finer things in life, a classic style, and you understand the way people work so you can manipulate easily. You have many talents and a bit of a temper, but you are mostly level-headed and rational.

Okay, I don't quite know how I feel about this. I mean, Edward is kind of everyone's favorite character because he is so EDWARD. But sometimes he really bothered me. Really, didn't he know all of his attempts to keep Bella safe just drove her to be reckless? But now that I think of it, I was always thinking, "Geez, you stupid woman! Give the poor guy a break! He is eventually going to get tired of saving your life." So maybe I am more Edward than I originally thought.

And another thing...I didn't picture Edward to look like this. Not that I'm complaining, because this is a heck of a lot better than what was in my mind. All this time while my female students were swooning and dreaming and writing love poems to Edward (yes, there were a few. And they were pretty bad), I was thinking, "I just don't think he's that great." But seeing this picture, and re-reading with this stud in mind, I might just write a few really bad love lines myself...

But I do have to admit I like the description about classic style. Does that mean I am justified in still wearing a shirt I bought in the tenth grade? Just kidding. I threw that away. Last week.

Can't Get Enough

So I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I love Barry White. Not only do I love Barry White, but I love dancing to Barry White. Not only do I love dancing to Barry White, I love dancing. And that leads me to what I would like to share with the world today.

I have a policy in my classroom. It's called the "Sing For Your Supper Policy." Here is an excerpt from my disclosure document to explain what this policy entails: "In this class, we ask you to be prepared at all times. This means coming to class with paper, pencils, your notebook, any assignments, your writer’s notebook, and any reading material for the class. If you are not prepared and ask to return to your locker, we will implement the “Sing for Your Supper” Policy.

“Sing for Your Supper” is a saying that means you cannot get something for nothing. Going to your locker to get things you “forgot” or didn’t have time to grab because you were “late coming in from lunch” is a privilege, and you must earn it. If you must go back to your locker, you will have the option to “sing for your supper,” which in our class means you must dance. For 30-45 seconds. To music of our choosing. In front of the class. We will not force anyone to dance if you do not want to. You may choose the other option: go without materials. We don’t do it because we don’t like you. We do it because we want you to be responsible and prepared. And because we love dancing."

So let me tell you about Weston. Weston Marsden is one of the funniest kids I know. He had an unfortunate accident a few years ago that left him slightly...weird in the head. So he forgets a lot. But he also uses it for a crutch, but you can't get mad at the kid because he's hilarious. Let me give you an example: One day, while I was reading out loud to the class, I heard giggling. I looked up from my book to find Weston army crawling underneath the desks and people's feet. I stopped and gave my best "What the hell are you doing" teacher look. I mean, I brought out the pointy eyebrow and everything. I said, "Weston, what the hell are you doing?" (I cuss in class occasionally).

"Going on an adventure." I tried to not laugh. But it really was funny. I later found out that he was really trying to play Hide 'N Seek. He didn't think he'd get caught. So anyway, one day Weston said he needed to go back to his locker because he forgot his book. This was the third trip, mind you. So, I decided to implement the Sing For Your Supper Policy. So, I picked a CD and found the most dace-able music alive: "Can't Get Enough (of Your Love, Babe)" by Mr. Dark Chocolate himself, Barry White. Well, Weston was at a loss of what to do. So I helped him out a little. And someone caught it on video. Damn the cell phones!

And then he posted it on You Tube. And I am going to put it under my Friends Family and Whatnot because I can't figure out how to get it from You Tube to here. I'll put it on this blog when my student gets it on DVD for me. Anyway, have a nice long laugh at me shaking my huge booty.

I need a picture?

So it has been brought to my attention that I need more pictures on my blog. Unfortunately, I have yet to join the rest of the technological world and purchase a digital camera, so getting pictures on is kind of a pain the in the ever-growing rear end. For some reason, I really don't want a digital camera, because knowing me, I would never get pictures. I would never print them. They would just hang out, chillin' with the storage card (I don't even know what that is). The real truth, if you want to know, is I love the surprise film brings. I really do.

I have a problem remembering to get my film developed. A problem that my husband gets really annoyed with. But let me tell you something--I secretly love it. I love taking in three or four rolls at a time, with no idea what is on them, and getting pictures back that I don't even remember taking! It's like Christmas! It's like getting a bag full of memories at your doorstep--memories that you forgot about. It's great.

And like Halee Barry said on Oprah (even though I don't like Oprah--she's racist, but this is another story) when I was flipping through the channels: there are so little surprises now days, that you kind of have to create your own. And I do love surprises. My dream is to have a surprise birthday party someday, but I can't tell anyone to throw one, because then it wouldn't be a surprise. Damn the paradox!

But back to the picture thing--I don't really have a recent picture of Joe and me (yes, that is the proper pronoun) because of the aforementioned ever-widening rear end. But I will slap an old one on there just so Kristin will read my blog...

Happy October, everyone. Thank goodness for the end of first term! Only three more to go!

Sins of the Past

I feel there is a desperate need out there amongst those of us who grew up in the 90's to know that just because N Sync, Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera are "out of order" does not mean that we, the products of the 90's don't have any new music to turn to. I admit, I myself was swayed by the striking good looks of Nick Carter, the upbeat tempo of "Pop," the Catholic school uniform and pigtails, and the wailing strains of Lady Marmalade. But wo, wo, wo unto the sinner. (But in our defense, we didn't know any better.) I now call all of you music sinners to repentance. Turn from your trashy pop ways and embrace real music.

Regardless of our past musical sins, there is hope of redemption. This comes in the form of New Music. New Sounds. New artists who don't take off their clothes or perform complicated dance moves or be "Dirrty." These new beings have resurrected the idea of writing and performing their own music--an idea that died with Madonna, Tiffany, and I assert will end with Hannah Montana. There are new frontiers to pursue--new sounds to experience. And I have one for all those ladies out there who are looking for a new Fiona Apple/Sarah McClaghlan (sp?)/Joni Mitchell/Norah Jones. And her name is Sara Bareilles.

Her album, Little Voice, is filled with the songs she wrote for herself, and they are up-beat- brave. I must warn you, though. The males in our lives might protest this music saying, "This is a chick album filled with chick songs." Behold, I say unto you, Yea, yea! This IS a chick album filled with chick songs! It just so happens that a CHICK wrote and is singing those songs. And even more importantly, I AM a chick! Therefore, these songs are for ME!

What follows is a song-by-song review of the album from a highly biased source--me.

#1: "Love Song": This is the current single that people (women) are falling in love (no pun intended) with. It's a She-Ra Woman song, meaning that it's all about taking a stand and not letting the man in her life tell her what to do. Contrary to the suggestion of the title, the key lines are:
I'm not gonna write you a love song
'Cause you asked for it
'Cause you need one, you see
I'm not gonna write you a love song
'Cause you tell me it's
Make or breaking this
If you're on your way
I'm not gonna write you to stay
If all you have is leaving I'm gonna need a better
Reason to write you a love song today
It's upbeat and peppy. I'm talking Kirsten Dunst in Bring it On peppy. I love it.
#2: "Vegas": This is a song about going various places to chase dreams. I personally am not a big fan; I don't have a specific reason why--it just doesn't have that zing that would be desired by one who grew up in the N Sync years. But my mom loves this song. She says it's because it's the one Bareilles yells in the most. But she grew up in the Joni Mitchell age. A few key lines,
It's always just around the corner or you're
On your way to somewhere
That is bigger or better...
If you could only get there
#3: "Bottle it Up" This is a song that see-saws between wanting to fall in love and getting burned, or protecting yourself. The final outcome, of course is " Oh, only gonna get get what you give away,/So give love, love." I like this song--the pick-up is catchy. The only problem is it says a swear--the S-swear. But if you grew up in my house, that's nothing new. I'm not saying the S-swear is okay, I'm just saying I grew up in my house, I work at a high school, and my husband works in the car repair industry. The S-swear isn't anything I haven't heard.
#4: "One Sweet Love": This song is a mellow yet melodic (praise to alliteration!). It is a sweet love song, wondering if the "one sweet love" is behind her, wondering if she wasted time, wondering if she will ever find her way back. Like I said, it is more mellow than the others, but it still a pick-up and some passionate loudness in there. It's Sarah McLaughlin. I like this one, but it's not my favorite. Some key lines,
The time that I've taken
I pray is not wasted
Have I already tasted my piece of one sweet love?
Ready and waiting for a heart worth the breaking
But I'd settle for an honest mistake in the name of
One sweet love.
#5: "Come Round Soon": This has a very Fiona-ish feel to it. The song is about being left by someone, but yet, as in the age old tradition of Jewel in "You Were Meant for Me," believing that he will come back. I like this one because there are some serious lung-age used at key moments. If you're into that sort of thing... Some key lines, " Well I may seem naive if I cry as you leave/Like I'm just one more tortured heart"
#6: "Morningside" This song is a bit deceiving. The title lends itself to the assumption of a gentle song. But it's not. It's pretty up-beat and catchy. It's all about the frustration with not being able to let someone alone, no matter how much they keep leaving and them coming back again. I really identify with this song, and anyone who knows about the Bryce chapters in my life will know why--right when I would decide to move on, he would keep doing that stuff that I was attracted to--ON PURPOSE! And he wouldn't let me leave. That's what this song is about. A few key lines: " I could try to forget what you do when i let you get/Through to me but then you do it over again/I could rage like a fire/and you'd bring rain i desire/Til you get to me on my morningside." Great tune
#7: "Between the Lines" When I first engaged in the purchasing of this album, the title to this song left me wondering. The very first tape (cassette) I ever owned was Out of the Blue by Debbie (not Deborah) Gibson. There was a song there by the same title of this. I was wondering, was it the same song? No. Thank the music Gods it isn't! This song is a ballad. About what I am not 100% sure. I am thinking it's along the lines of a broken relationship? It's a good guess because that's pretty much what the rest of the album is. But this song is probably the most ballad-y of them all, with a gorgeous piano introduction. But still, with all of it's pianos and intros, I usually skip this song. Not gonna lie. I call it like it is.
#8: "Love on the Rocks" This song is a kind of hip "Benny and the Jets" feel. This is a song exactly what it sounds like. It's about a love that is kind of rocky--like when people say, "their marriage is on the rocks," yet it also refers to an alcoholic drink, which I know nothing about. All I know is what I have seen in movies, when people order a scotch on the rocks. So this love is rocky, but addicting, like alcohol. (Watch me analyze!) Over all, this is another I listen to only once in a while.
#9: "City" Are you ready for a change? Because this song is all about the city, hence the title. Not about love. Maybe on some level--love of her career, that is. It's about how "a girl could get lost" in the city amongst all those who are "whispering Hollywood's name." It's slow, it's soulful, and I like it.
#10: "Many the Miles" This song is kind of an up-beat "Where are you" type of song. "How far do I have to go to get to you? Many the Miles" reminds me of an old John Mayer favorite, "I'm tired of living a lone so hurry up and get here." In theme, not music. Anyway, this is one of the favorite on the CD, not because of its amazing lyrics, but the music is fun, kind of...is jazzy the right word? It's very syncopated, with that demanding feel. It's great.
#11: "Fairytale" This is a favorite of mine, from the very first line, "Cinderella on the bedroom floor/she got a crush on the guy at the liquor store/cause Mr. Charming don't come home anymore/ and she forgets why she came here." It's fun for all the princess reasons (my favorite being: "Tall blond lets out a cry of despair/ says would've cut it myself if I knew men could climb hair." HA!), but it is essentially another She-Ra song that declares, "I don't care for your fairytales! You're all so worried about the maidens, but you know she's only waiting for the next best thing." And the point is, she's not buying into the whole idea that you have to sit around waiting to be rescued so you can get married and be miserable. But in the meantime, it's upbeat and sarcastic, and ironic. Again, another favorite.
#12: "Gravity" This is the all time favorite on the album. If I were a dance teacher, I would force someone to do a lyrical dance to this song. It's slow, it's emotional, it's heartfelt, and extremely beautiful. This is one that I listen to over and over and sing as loud as I can and really FEEL it, and then again in the shower, when I fancy myself a singer. It's the most beautiful song on the album, music and lyrics. LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT.

Well, folks. There you go. I now call all ye to repentance, and learn to listen to REAL music. Not necessarily this, but forsake your bubble gum sins and learn to embrace the truth.

Oh Baby, Baby

In the immortal words of Britney Spears, "Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know..." Our baby news is not good. We have hit yet another brick wall in our quest to become pregnant, but all hope is not lost yet. We are just going to have to get a little creative. So hopefully next year....

So October is in full swing, and as Ray Bradbury says, "October is a rare month." I think I have to say that October is my favorite month. The weather becomes bearable, hoodies are a staple in the wardrobe, General Conference allows us to attend church in jammies, the leaves die gracefully in a flourish of color, and, most importantly, daylight savings ends and for one day we get ONE EXTRA HOUR OF SLEEP! Except this year, darn Pres. Bush pushed ending daylight savings back two weeks--I say we impeach the jerk for that, forget the war in Iraq (that we are fighting because the Afghanis bombed us six years ago--explain THAT one!)

This week is a glorious week because it is fall break (formerly UEA, but they changed it because no teacher in their right minds would go to three days of workshops and lectures if it wasn't required, or if they weren't getting paid for it). And the best thing about this week? I only have A day once. I don't like two out of three classes on A day, so this week is looking up.

Updates on our weekend to Bear Lake (it'll be cold) coming up!

Looooong week and and half (almost)

Thank goodness there are such things as Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas to look forward to. September and October hit me hard at the beginning of every school year, but for some reason, this year's new school season has sent me reeling. I haven't decided if I like my classes or not. I have one or two cute students who I have enjoyed, but right now, my classes haven't really formed personalities. They are just students. Sitting in desks. Staring at me. I don't mean to brag, but I haven't ever had a class that didn't at least crack a smile when I made a joke. And I think I'm funny. I even busted a move and cut a rug. I at least get a "I-can't-believe-my-teacher-is-so-lame-and-just-did-that" chuckle--usually. I guess I should count my lucky stars that I have quiet classes. Other teachers around here would kill for that. But I like a little tang to my days.
And omigosh I am tired. I came home yesterday and crashed from 3:00 to 7:30, and then I was still so tired and ornery that I had time to yell at my husband (poor man) and go to bed and sleep like a rock.
I don't mean to complain. I love my job. I love what I teach. I (usually) love teenagers. Maybe I just wasn't ready for summer to end. Maybe...I don't know. But things will begin to look up, I am sure. The Sophs will get accustomed to high school and homework, and my Creative Writers will loosen their tongues and relax.
One funny thing did happen the other day. I have a jewel named Amelia in my class. She is chubby thing, but oh so cute. One of the first days of school, I gave my sophs. a copy of the school song with some of the words removed. They were to fill in the blanks with their best guesses. In the part of the song that says, "Here's to our classes, here's to our lasses, here's to the lads they adore," Amelia wrote, "Here's to our classes, here's to our hall passes." I guess she figured that the best thing about school was hall passes. I laughed. It was funnier at the time than when I put it into words. This was also the girl who, on picture day, declared that she "didn't believe in pictures because she was Amish." I couldn't figure that one out, until she added, "My soul has been stolen." She was referring to the Native American belief that photographs take your soul. I laughed and told her her mistake and she said, "All right, then I'm an Amish Indian." She's pretty funny.
Anyway, that's all for now. Next time I'll write about the time I fell off my chair in front of my A4 class. That was something that needs to be put in writing.

Nothing Much...

It's that time of year again. The time when I am tired of being home. I know, I know. I never thought I would say this, but I am done with summer break, and I am ready to hit the classroom again. I miss my kids. The only bad thing with this coming school year is that I won't have my same kids. I loved A4. I will dearly miss A4. Hopefully there will be another class that I adore.

This year's schedule is great. 2 sections of Creative Writing (Never been done...my program's growing), 2 sections of co-taught (where I teach with another teacher and half the students are resource) and 2 sections of regular English 10 (YAY! This is what I love. I mean, where else will you find students who fight over reading the part of John Proctor in The Crucible just so they can say "Whore! Whore!" as loud as they can? No where, I tell you.)

This year will be nice and refreshing. For the first thing, I am no longer considered a "new teacher." I have gotten through my third year of teaching, and about to embark on the fourth, and that means I am a seasoned veteren. The other wonderful wonderful thing is that I don't have to be evaluated for another three years!!! Natalie will know that this is certainly a relief. And even better, after year four I will be released from my scholorship/loan obligations! YAY!

I have been wasting away my summer by reading, reading, reading. Reading blogs, reading books, reading fledgling novels written by one of my former Laurels. I am going to work on a "Must Read" book list for anyone who needs a good story. I don't quite know how to do it, but I will somehow. I have read Twilight, the seqeul New Moon, Anne of Green Gables (again), The Secret Life of Bees, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Bridge to Terabithia, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 4, and now I am currently looking for a new one. I still have three weeks left! Any good books?

Literary Rant

Okay, so online journal. Who thought of that? What ever happened to the little girls who write their secret crushes (Chris Hanmer 3rd grade) in their diaries and hid them under the mattress so no one could read it? Now here we are, publishing our lives for one and all to read! But, when in Rome. Besides, I have the writing itch right now, and this alleviates my urges to write ridiculous little romances.

Lately, if anyone has had a conversation with me in the past oh... year, they know that my husband and I have been trying to become parents for the past year with no success. It was just last week that we realized that the stork wasn't real. When I found out what made you pregnant, well you could've knocked me over with a Maxi pad. Just kidding. We knew. Anyway, in a fit of frustration with my brainless first doctor, I wrote a harmless little rant. Really, I don't mean to brag, but I felt it was one of my better ones. So I am going to post it here. My goal isn't to toot my own horn (kind of), but rather it is to let people out there know that there ARE people in Utah who are struggling with infertility. And like I said, it is a RANT. Therefore, the tone is a little...let's just say angry.

(Working on Title)

The process of getting pregnant isn’t as simple as all those promiscuous teenagers on Maury Povich make it out to be. There’s a lot more to it than just sleeping around once in a while—or in their case, several times a day. First, you must understand that your body is your mortal enemy. It never does what you want it to do. If you want to get pregnant, you don’t. If you don’t want to get pregnant, you do. You tell the doctor you are a regular 28-day cycle-er, and then you have a 56 day cycle, but you’re not sure because you just went off birth control, so it might still be in your system, although that doesn’t really make sense because your sister went off birth control, and then like the next hour was miraculously pregnant. AND SHE DIDN’T WANT TO BE. It’s as if your body is a cruel practical joker that is in cahoots with that damn Murphy from Murphy’s Law. What ever you want to happen won’t, and your worst fears are confirmed, all the while your ovaries, pituitary gland, and breasts are all figuratively rolling on the ground in uncontrollable glee. HA! This one’s on you!

Then, to make things worse, your body operates on an “open when least convenient” policy. Listen to this: The first week of a four week cycle is useless. Granted, it’s doing very important stuff, like shedding last month’s layer of blood to prepare for the hoped for baby, but really, it’s a wasted week. You can’t even pretend to try for a baby because you have that constant reminder every time you go to the bathroom. Change your pad. You’re not pregnant. Use a tampon. Oh yeah, you’re not pregnant. Cramps again—by the way, in case you forgot, YOU’RE NOT PREGANT. Then, in the second week, your body only gives you ONE DAY to get pregnant. And—here’s yet another not-funny practical joke—you don’t know which day it’s going to be! Sure, you can guess day 14, but what if your cycle goes long? Or goes short? Then you’re screwed. Both literally and figuratively. Oh, sure, there are a couple of things you can do to make your guess work a little easier. You can use those ovulation predictor kits. But if you’re like me, you can’t figure out the stupid line thing (is that the same color as the test line? Well, it’s just a tad lighter. Does a “tad” make a difference?), or you can chart your temperature. This process is a story in itself.

Let me explain the BBT chart. BBT stands for Basal Body Temperature. Basically, what you are supposed to do is take your temperature the moment you wake up, before you even get out of bed. Oh yeah: you have to do this at the same time everyday. So, if you’re like me, every morning at 5:45 A.M. the wretched alarm goes off, and the first thing you think is, “better take my temperature because I’m not pregnant.” Then you take your temperature. And then you chart it. The next morning, you do the same thing. And the next morning, and the next morning, and the next morning. Eventually, you get to the point where it’s just a habit and you don’t think about your babyless life anymore. It’s more a nuisance than anything, especially on Saturday and Sunday because you still have to take your temperature at 5:45 A.M. to keep the data accurate. The idea is that your body’s sleeping temperature raises .4-.6 degrees after you ovulate. That’s right, after you ovulate. So by the time you notice a temperature hike, it’s over, and you’ve lost your window. So why do it? Well, the word on the street is that you do it for a couple of months to get the pattern, and then you can guess easier. Now, to all of you Fertile Myrtle’s out there, let me tell you a bit of truth: saying “a couple of months” to someone who is trying to get pregnant and failing miserably is like telling you, “Don’t worry. You are stuck with your child for mmm… only twenty years.” Sounds like a very long time, doesn’t it.

Week three. Ahhh. What can I say about week three? Nothing good. Suppose you do everything right: you chart your temperature, your body actually decides to stop laughing at you long enough to ovulate, and you actually “do it” five days in a row, day 12-16 (too much sex for even the friskiest of all men) to make sure there are some swimmers up there so your egg has no chance of not being violated. So what happens in week three? Nothing. Now, if you are pregnant, your little sperm/egg combo does some amazing things like multiplying a bazillion times so that it then gets upgraded to a zygote, and making the long, treacherous journey out of the fallopian tube and into the uterus where it burrows in the lining that was formed that first sexless, useless week of your cycle. But if you’re not pregnant, then your malicious body decides that it’s going to start up on its practical jokes again. First, it thinks, “Ha! She’s waiting for the tell-tale sign of pregnancy: the sore boobs! Perfect. Okay, boobs, you with me on this? We’re gonna start hurting. Go ahead. Swell up, get bigger, and make her feel like she’s carrying very very ripe peaches on her chest. It would be even better if you could make them really touchy too, so she can’t fold her arms for a week. That would be great.”

And then the boobs, with no mind of their own, begin hurting! The woman’s mind is thinking, “Oh my! My breasts hurt? But how much?” and then she commences squeezing and pushing and poking her own breasts to determine if they hurt enough to “feel pregnant.”
And then the exhaustion sets in. I get so tired, I can’t open my eyes in the morning. My students don’t have to do anything for week three, because I am just too tired to operate. Again, the thought enters your mind: “Could I finally be pregnant?” But you don’t dare hope.

Because hope is the most devastating part of this whole getting pregnant thing.

As a society, we have chosen the word “hope” to represent strength and goodwill. We all have hopes that we will be happy. Religious people talk about the hope that the Savior brings to their immortality. Generally, hope is a very good thing. But while struggling to get pregnant? Hope is most damaging. Because you continue to believe, pray and feel that someday you will be able to have a child that looks like you, and maybe has your husband’s sense of humor (but please not his nostrils!). Then your breasts hurt, and you get tired, and you feel so crappy that all of a sudden you are the happiest person in the world, because that little bud, that little seed of hope that, incidentally, you have struggled to keep down and stunted, sprouts and roots and begins to grow until the fourth week.

Then: cramps. Shit. And then the tears. Crying has become a part of the cycle, just like the bleeding and the ovulating and the waiting. Crying comes with the territory. My husband claims there has been more than enough tears cried this past year to put the actual Trail of Tears on the back burner of importance. But here’s what he doesn’t really understand: I don’t cry because I’m not pregnant. I cry because HE’S not pregnant. He wants children almost more than I do. He is better with little kids. He knows how to talk to them and to love them perfectly, whereas they make me nervous because of their inability to verbally communicate. But him? He speaks their language; he plays their games. And because he chose to love me, he can’t be a father. I cry for his loss, not mine. I cry because if he would have chosen anyone else, he would have a family. Little boys with large nostrils would be running across the yard, playing catch with Dad, and laughing at his jokes. When I tell him this, he gets mad because he loves me more than anything, and if I can’t have kids, then we can’t have kids, and we will be in it together forever.

I know he loves me. I know more now than I ever did before all the crying happened. He sits with me on the bed during week four and watches me cry and blubber and drool. He doesn’t say anything; he just pats my hair and wipes my tears so I don’t leave big black smudges on the pillow cases, because he knows I will hate myself for them later. He strokes my hair and blows on my forehead because I sweat when I cry; he holds me. I have ruined many of his shirts with my makeup-filled tears, and he doesn’t care. He just lays there and holds me in my sorrow. And then it starts all over again. Bleeding, charting, waiting, crying. A vicious cycle, with no end of disappointment, and no end of love.

Hello all those in blog space

I don't really know who reads these things. I don't. In fact, if you'll notice, I haven't "blogged" (see me using the lingo?) in over a year. Yeah. I think I am going to start, however, and see if anyone cares. So, for all of those who know me, things in life are going swell. I am enjoying a nice respite from my profession as an educator. i firmly believe that th Europeans have it right: everyone needs a three month hiadeous from their jobs. This past school year was very important for me. My very first students ever, the ones I student taught in ninth grade, the ones who still called me "Miss Jones" graduated. It made me feel old. But it was a great year, and I only hope I don't pay for that fact next year by having a horrible time. I joke, but I love my job. Things with my spectacular husband are going just swimmingly. We are still called "the newlyweds" even though we will reach our second anniversary in August. He still opens the door for me, and I still love the way he snores. Will we ever wake up to the realities of life? I sure hope not. And finally, I am being punished for all the times I gave women with screaming children at Kohler's dirty looks because I am now doing pennance as a nursery leader. Darling Husband, of course, is wonderful at the job, but I fully recognize now why I went into secondary education. However, the little squirts are growing on me, and now there is really only one little one I don't like that much. I think that the Lord figured I was going to have to learn how to cope with kids someday. As for little ones of our own? Not yet. We hope and pray that Heavenly Father will send one to us someday, but apparently we must not be read for a little Bingham. But we keep optimistic. So this is all for now. Let me know if anyone really reads this.