Sometimes, 82nd Time's The Charm

Years ago, before I was thinking about boys or marriage or eternity, a woman told me that I should go out with at least 100 different boys before I got married.  She admitted that she also had been challenged to do that, and--while a hundred had seemed a bit high--she had worked to go out with at least fifty.

At this time, I still had a year or two left before I would even go on my first date (a double date where I went bowling with my brother and one of his friends), but I seemed to think it was a great idea.  I could keep a record of all my dates--first to make sure I went on lots and lots and knew exactly what I wanted when I got married and didn't just run out and marry the first person to come along, and second to have as ammunition in case I ever needed to show my husband all the people I could have married and didn't.  (Don't worry, I wrote that at the beginning of the notebook where I planned to keep track all those years ago.  I know.  I was pretty awesome.)

It didn't hurt that by this time, my grandma had already started in on her "marriage talks," in which (contrary to what you might be expecting) she informed me that college would be full of boys who would think they wanted to get married, but that I should pay no mind.  After all, I had my whole life to be married.  And not that marriage was bad, because it wasn't, BUT....

And so, starting with that funny double date UNO bowling at age sixteen, I began to keep track.  For each "real date" I went on (you know, the kind where the boy knows he is on a date--like he actually asked you using the "date" word and picks you up and pays for you and all that), I wrote down who I went with and what we did.  I listed their age and home state.  I made note of whether or not they'd been a blind date or actually asked me out themselves.

Time passed and the list stretched on.  Every time I would go home to visit my grandparents, my grandma would ask if I was dating someone.  "No," I would reply, a little sadly.  "Good!" she'd say.  "There is plenty of time for that.  Finish your education."

And so I did.  I graduated from college.  I started working.  I watched my list of dates get longer and longer.  I began to think more about quality than quantity.  As time went on, people stopped sighing, "Oh good," when they heard I wasn't dating someone and started saying things like, "You know, it only takes ONE."  (Yes, thank you.  But it still takes one!  I wanted to scream.)  Or, "You know what the problem is?  You're being too picky.  Is that it?  Are you going for the wrong type of guy?  You just need to find someone average.  Nice, but very average."  (Few things are worse than being told that with what you have to offer you are clearly setting your sights too high.  Thanks.  Thanks a lot).

The more time went, the more people tried to "help," and the longer the list of blind dates got (which actually did wonders for my numbers on the list to 100).  Some of them were very nice.  A few of them I would have dated.  But mostly, they were just other "old" people who were still single too.  Which, really, what more did I need?  I mean, do you see why people thought I was so picky?!  I was single, they were single, I was "old," they were "old"....What more did we need?!  Gosh!

After a few experiences that convinced me I just may be one of those "star shaped tupperware" who didn't have a "type," I was just about resigned to stop altogether and just buy a dog.  (Golden retriever, in case you're wondering.)  It was during that time, that I decided one night to go to yet another activity (I was going alone) at which I decided I would stay approximately ten minutes.  Long enough to convince myself I was a good person for going and not feel guilty, but not so long that I'd actually have to have it get awkward.

As I sat down at a park bench to eat some watermelon, I noticed a new person across from me.  Thinking of my resolve to be better about communicating in person, I sucked it up, took a deep breath, and (after mentally telling myself I was a good person and I could talk to strangers and really, it probably was the right thing to do), introduced myself.

The guy's name was Paul and we must have talked for a few minutes before I gracefully ditched the activity and rushed home to sink back into my safe couch at my own apartment.

I was surprised later that week when Paul called to ask me to a movie (with a big group, of course).  Due to several circumstances that had very little to do with Paul, I decided not to go.  After all, I told my roommates, it wasn't a date.  He didn't specifically ask me.  It was a "group activity."  And if other plans came up, the group would be just fine without me.  I wasn't obligated to go.  (Little did I know at the time, the entire thing had been set up just as a way to get me there.  Sneaky, Paul.  Very sneaky).  And so, I planned not to go.  Until a friend texted me, specifically asking me to come.  "Don't leave me alone.  You have to come."  You know me.  I'm a sucker for that kind of thing.  I never say no.

And so, my roommate and I went.  She sat next to him and talked to him.  I sat by a very nice girl I didn't know.  Right after the movie, my roommate and I jetted out and went home.

However, Paul must have felt like a group movie bridged whatever social gap was needed in order to make it kosher to then ask me on an actual date, because ask me out he did.  It caught me off guard when he asked me to come over.  I told him I could only stay an hour.
Which is exactly what I did.
("She hates me," he thought.)

I guess he decided I was worth one more chance, so he texted me one day from work to see if I would drive down to the Manti Pageant with him that night ("It is a long way to drive alone").  Of course, it was a day I didn't have my phone, so I didn't get the message until nearly six o'clock that night.  Feeling a little guilty (mixed with panicked at the idea of spending hours trapped in a car with someone I barely knew), I simply texted back, "Sorry, I just got your text.  Have you left yet?"  which he took to mean, "YES!  I would love to go on a date with you!  I am ready whenever you are!" and he responded, "Great!  I'll swing by and pick you up after work."  ("What am I supposed to do?  I never even said I would go!"  I yelled to my roommates.  "Talk about 'assume the sale!'")

I figured that three hours in a car with someone would either seal the deal that I should never see him again or give me a pretty good sign that they at least there was potential.  And so, after a well-more-than-three hour date that included lots of "adventures" (calling my mom, for instance--like I said...I'm pretty awesome), I actually wanted to see him again.  As surprised as I was right then in my life, it was a pretty good surprise.

And so I did see him again.  From then on I saw or talked to him every day.  For hours.  We talked about everything from our families to our favorite books to stupid things we had done as kids to religion to politics to education to medicine to the fact that I'm cheaper than a dollar store to what makes us laugh.  And we had fun.  We went geocaching and to new restaurants and to plays and watched football and cooked and went kayaking and went to a rodeo and ate an elephant ear and watched a meteor shower, and hiked and mostly just enjoyed the fact that it was summer.

Gradually, throughout this whole thing, I realized that something was different about this experience.  When I was with Paul, I was still me.  My real self.    And I found there was someone on the planet who liked that.  Who liked me.  Not only that, but I found I could be with him and not get tired of him.  I had someone I could tell anything to.  I'd found someone who took care of me and made me want to be better.
(I'm sorry.  For those of you who get ill and tend to throw up in your mouths, I'll stop.  I really will.  Believe me, I know.  Sometimes there are few things grosser than love.  Bleh!)

So, one night we started talking about the M word.  You know...The M word?!  Yep.  And I decided (after a few weeks of thinking it over) that I really did want to marry this boy and keep him around forever.

"That was fast!"  people always say.

Yes.
Yes it was.
Very fast.
WAY faster than he originally expected.
Faster than even I expected
(and I was pretty sure I'd seen enough to know it when I saw it).


But as I began to panic (while thinking about what everyone would say), I realized something about myself.  In the almost decade since I left high school, I have lived in 3 states and 2 foreign countries.  I have worked in 8 very different jobs.  I have lived in 14 different apartments, had 54 incredible roommates, and been out with 82 different boys (Sigh.  I guess I never did quite make it to 100.  Oh well).

I would say, based on my experiences, I have gotten the chance to know myself and what does (and doesn't) work for me pretty well over the last nine years.  (Not that everyone needs to take nine years of soul searching, but I guess that was the way I had to do things...)

And so, call me crazy, but for whatever reason, this time it's just different.  Anyone who can get me to say the word "marriage" is living proof that something is different--in a very good way.  I'm not scared anymore.  I don't want to throw up at the thought of love.

So, that being said, how did he propose?  Well, (for those of you starting to feel like that pumpkin, skip this part and be done) he had told me he was working until 9:00 pm all week long.  Knowing that, I had made other plans.  The night he proposed, I stayed at work until 6:30 pm and caught up on all my piles of grading.  I came home long enough to have a little to eat and was on my way out again when his roommate knocked on the door and delivered a card.  It was a note from Paul, explaining that he knew we wouldn't get to see each other much this week, so he had a surprise for me.  It was obvious it was some type of scavenger hunt.

Now, any NORMAL person would have thought, "Fun!"  and gone to find the first clue.  Instead, I exclaimed to my roommates (who apparently knew what was going on), "I'm supposed to be meeting my friend for Institute.  Should I go?  Oh...but what if he's proposing?!  I didn't even get ready today.  I'm in ugly teacher pants!  If he is proposing, there could be someone in the bushes taking pictures!!!"

I ran upstairs, changed clothes, tried to fix my hair and makeup, and threw in a load of laundry (Sure, why not?  As long as I was near the washing machine...)

THEN, I went on the scavenger hunt.  It led me to all our spots--where we first met, our first date, where we had our first kiss, the spot we first said "I love you" (thank goodness he didn't propose there!  The place was crawling with jr. high kids who were doing some type of service project), and ended at the place we went to see a play for my birthday.

It was an outdoor amphitheater, and as I approached it in the darkness, all I could see was the glow of candles.  I began to walk up the stone steps lined with candles and when I got to the top, saw a balcony with lights, a table set beautifully, and flowers.  Music was playing and--of course--Paul was there.

I won't go into all the details, but it included what every good proposal should: a good down-on-one-knee asking, complete with a ring (Not just any ring.  THE ring.  The one I really, really, really wanted.  The one with my grandma's diamond in the middle.  The one I have had at least two nightmares about not getting.  The one that I had to look at before I told him that I would marry him.  Ooops...).

The best part is that the diamond is from the grandma from the beginning
of the story who wanted me to find myself and then get married.
Once I finished college.  I think she'd be proud.  :) 

It didn't hurt that there was some food involved, and that the chicken was not only stuffed, but also wrapped in bacon.  ("Bacon?!  I LOVE bacon!")

So, there amid the trees and flowers and stars and music and perfect weather and three hundred candles, I said yes.

After all....
Sometimes 82nd time's the charm.  :)

Mawwige is what bwings us togevah today

My new class is great.  They seem to be fairly well behaved--although it is still the first week and the newness of everything is probably still on my side.  Unlike other classes, they seem to be able to read longer, work more quietly, and fall into routines faster.  YAY!

It always takes awhile at the beginning of the year to start figuring out the personality of each class.  A few years ago, my students were really, really funny and joked all the time (which was only good some of the time), but the next year they were so innocent and oblivious, I had to explain all jokes to them, which took out all the fun.

Some classes have cared whether or not I have a social life and some seem oblivious to the fact that I don't live at school (What?!  Teachers have a life???).  Some become obsessed partway through the year with trying to find me a boyfriend or get me married off.  Some just hope I never get married and stay an old, single teacher forever.

While some classes have been very intrigued to know about my social life, I've never had a class start in on me the first week of school the way they have this year.  Here are some gems from Week 1:

"I want Miss Waite to marry a smart, handsome boy who is her age, her height, and really loving to people.  If there were a guy like that, Miss Waite would totally marry him."
-Journal entry of a girl in my class

"Maybe Miss Waite should stop going to receptions and get married herself.  Like, seriously."
-Journal entry of a boy in my class who knew I would be attending two wedding receptions in one weekend.

"You should marry someone really smart and really handsome who does his chores."
-Girl in my class

Ella: Miss Waite, how old are you?
Me: Twenty-seven
Ella: Twenty-seven?!!!  You need to get married!
Me: Um...yes....
Other girl in class: Do you at least have a boyfriend?!
Me: (long pause as I consider the consequences of any response I may give) Yes...
Other girl in class: Oh good!  Will you please marry him this year and then invite me to the wedding?  I mean, not the temple part, but all the rest?!
Me:  Uh...wouldn't that be fun?  Oh look!  I think the lunch line is moving!

It just makes me laugh.  I mean, if you are as OLD as I am (Twenty-SEVEN?!), you should probably have or be looking for a nice, short, equally-old boy who does his chores (that's always a good thing!), is nice to other people, and wants a bunch of fourth graders at his wedding.  At least now I know what I'm looking for.  What a relief!  :)

I'm bAAAAck!

In keeping with the past trends of giving up on blogging during the summer (although it's probably only because I am actually out having fun for once rather than inside blogging), I am now back.  Yes.  Back.  Blogging.  Because school has once again started and I am left to look back on summer and just write about it rather than live it.
Sigh....

It has been a good summer, a rill good summer.  (<--say accent.="accent." an="an" ecause="ecause" half="half" i="i" idaho="idaho" m="m" my="my" nbsp="nbsp" over="over" p="p" part="part" pretty="pretty" s="s" spent="spent" summer="summer" sure.="sure." that="that" where="where" with="with">
What did I spend it doing?
Well, I took kayaking lessons with my dad.  We went up near Sun Valley and learned how to river kayak, which was incredibly fun.  Except for when I slipped and got a bruise that I still have traces of almost three months later.  Nevertheless, I kayaked.  I kayaked!  Far, far away from the land.  AHOY!

On a less fun note, I also moved apartments.  Again.  After I swore I would stop doing it.  And right after, I swore once more I will never, ever do it again.  (And we all know it's a lie.)  You may wonder, if I claim to hate packing up all my junk and cleaning out every single drawer and baseboard and selling furniture I can't take with me bothers me so much, then why do I keep doing it--every year?

Really, it came down to the fact that my roommates were moving out and I figured I could either take my chances with two new people (who may or may not be crazy), or just move in with people I already know and like.  I don't know about you, but after over 50 roommates (very few of which were crazy, by the way, so maybe it shouldn't have been that big a concern), I decided not to take my chances and just live with people I liked.  There are enough things in life to stress about without worrying about that one.

The best part of the move was that my home teacher has an enormous "creeper van" that was able to hold WAY more than any truck we could've used to move.  Thank you, Tim.

No, we did not offer any small children candy.  But we could have.  Oh, we could have.

One of the bummers of moving (besides no longer living with Karen and Caitlyn) is that now I no longer live next to the Provo Chief of Police.  Although we don't still share a wall, don't you worry.  I have his card next to my bed...just in case I need anything.  :)

I know I joked about it earlier, but I really did spend probably at least three or four weeks of the summer in Idaho.  It was so nice to just be home!  These visits weren't my typical summer visits, however.  Part of the time I helped my mom do some home projects--like paint the living room, kitchen, and dining room, get new curtains, do some family history, and work on other projects.  The rest of the time, we worked on cleaning out my grandma's house.  (My grandma passed away this summer.)   Talk about a proooooo-ject!  Whew!  I mean, I know it's good to be prepared, but we have enough bows to outfit Christmas gifts into 2050, I'm fairly sure.  And if one bottle of hydrogen peroxide is good, twenty would be better, right?  Just in case.  Our most incredible find as we cleaned was vegetable jell-o.  Yep.  Jell-o.  Flavored like vegetables.  Apparently, back in the day, they would make it with ham chunks and chopped veggies in it.   Mmmmmm.....Delish.

I'm getting more and more tempted to find that box and make it!

Vegetable Jell-o Pie.  With mayo, perhaps???

Please tell me how this ever stopped being sold!

I went to Seven Peaks once--with the fear that I would just start walking around in my swimming suit and hear a "Miss Waite?!!"  Don't worry.  It totally happened.  I never know if it's more awkward for me or them.  Nevertheless, I didn't mind getting a little sun.

There were a lot of other fun things this summer--going to the rodeo in Idaho and then having an elephant ear after (my heart is still recovering from the combination of deep fat fried goodness slathered in butter, honey, and sugar), going to a Rodney Atkins concert, and celebrating my 27th birthday--which was full of exciting surprises (including breakfast, flaming food at dinner, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at an outdoor theater, and a surprise party).

Here I am with Mr. Rodeo-Attending-Elephant-Ear-Eating-
Concert-Going-Birthday-Planner himself!
Proof that getting older isn't ALWAYS traumatizing...

Teachers can't resist doing some school stuff during the summer (I know, it's just too fun to give up for two and a half months) so a week of summer involved "Team Collaboration" where all the 4th grade teachers in my school (six, to be exact), got together and planned out week-by-week, subject-by-subject what we are going to do this year.  I was SOOOO happy to have a plan that it was worth all five days I gave up.

The summer ended with a surprise red-eye flight to North Carolina and one of my best friends getting engaged.  The Friday before school started I went to work, went to my cousin's wedding reception, and then went to the airport where I caught a red-eye, and I ended up in Raleigh, North Carolina the next morning.  Wade, my friend's boyfriend, picked me up and I went with him to help plan the engagement.  Although I, Western girl that I am, forgot all about the humidity and spent the day dripping with sweat (what was I thinking taking an outfit that required a cardigan?  For the love!), Duke Gardens was a perfect place to get engaged.  Thank goodness I was there to ask the couple under the pre-designated willow tree to please move...someone was about to propose.  Thank goodness also that they struck a deal with me and moved (on the condition they could watch the whole thing).  Thank goodness ultimately, that when Wade and Krissy did make it to the tree, he did get down on one knee and she did said yes.  (I will probably tell the whole story in another post, but suffice it to say, it was a happy, happy occasion.)  I flew back Sunday night, got home at 1:00 am, and was at work by 7:30 the next morning.  I met 32 of the 33 parents and students that Monday, went to a funeral, and then started school Tuesday.

I love my job.  I love my life.  I love that I got a whole summer full of family and fun and co-workers and kayaks and sunshine and friendship and love and yes, even vegetable jell-o.

Happy New School Year!

Technology: Always and Forever

I love technology.  

"But I still love technology...Always and forever."

I text.  I Skype.   I Facebook.  I blog.  On rare occasions, I even tweet.  In other words, I participate in all kinds of things that weren't even in the dictionary (and probably had yet to be invented) twenty years ago (or really even ten).

THEN....

NOW....

I regularly do things in my life that as a child I knew about only from The Jetsons.

Remember when the face of George's boss would pop up on a screen and they would have a conversation?! (Like that was ever going to happen in real life.....).



It wasn't really until Spring Break a few weeks ago, coupled with some interesting experiences of my own, that I began to question this amazing Jetson-like world I've been living in.

This year I decided to spend Spring Break in Arizona with my brother's family.  I loved being with them for a week--feeding the baby, playing cars with the two year old, reading stories, playing games, watching dinosaur shows, and having every piece of clothing in my suitcase spit up on.

Hard to believe this angel is a clothing-wrecker, right?

One afternoon, I took my nephew to the park to play on the swings.  As he began to swing, another girl about his age, Marcella, came up with her mom and began swinging on the swing next to him.  When he would laugh, she would laugh.  When she would talk, he would talk.  When he would roar, she would roar.

Just swingin' with Marcella

When they were about done swinging, she turned to him and said, "Hey, wanna slide?"
The next thing I knew, they were sliding, climbing, running, and chasing each other around the park, all the while laughing hysterically.  Unsure what to do, Marcella's mother an I--people from different walks of life--stood side by side watching them until we finally began a conversation.  As play time came to a close, the new best friends embraced and said goodbye as her mom and I gave a little wave with a, "Nice to meet you!"

I began to wonder what makes it so dang hard for us grownups to be like kids.  Why on earth did we stand there awkwardly, wondering what to do?  Why can't a grownup person just look at another grownup person and say, "Hey, wanna talk?!"

What if children acted like we do?  Can you imagine those little two and three year olds in the swing thinking:
"Man, I'd like to play but...I don't know.  I'm pretty sure her grandparents are from another country," 

or 

"I'm so embarrassed!  I knew I shouldn't have worn my blue polo.  The Thomas the Train shirt would have been way better," 

or

"Why did I wear my Crocs to the park?!  Mom was right!  You never know who you'll run into!"

As they played, my nephew ran more awkwardly, climbed more slowly, and fell more often than Marcella--because he was younger.  And you know what?  It didn't matter.  No two or three year old was thinking:

"I'm so bad at this!  Everyone's probably laughing at how clumsy I am.  I don't think I should come to the park anymore."

 So why do we as grownups do it to each other and to ourselves?
Why do we compare, judge, worry, fear, hold back, or feel self conscious?  Why would we rather stand by ourselves in the park when we are surrounded by other people?  Why can't we just be friends?

And this is where technology comes in...Because in a world where I have the opportunity to be more connected to anyone and everyone, globally, in a way that has never been possible in the history of mankind (unless you count the Jetsons), I am sometimes even more alone.

I live in a world where I can know who you are before I pick up the phone.  Meaning I can reject that call until I know what to say.  Or, I can simply ignore it altogether.

I live in a world where you can text me and I can take as long as I want to come up with the perfect response--which may or may not have been formulated entirely by me.  

I live in a world where I can look at every family vacation you have been on, see every friend you have, and know all about what you do and don't like without ever even needing to say hello to you in person.

I live in a world where I can look at all of your creations and achievements and children and compare myself to them without ever being inside your home to see what real life is like.

I live in a world where I can track how many people follow me, read about me, and electronically "care about me"--and yet can sit home alone to do it.

I live in a world where I can base my worth on how many of my 400 friends remember to type, "Hope it's a great one!" on my wall for my birthday, how many people "like" my accomplishments and opinions, or how many people "follow" me.

And yet, for the hundreds of "friends" out there, how many could really respond in a time of need?  How many actually know what's going on in my life beyond vague status updates?  How much of my life is based around something besides me?

I'm not anti-technology.  I'm just pro-reality in addition to the technology I use.  I begin to worry when I notice I would rather just text someone than call, or drop something off on their doorstep rather than visit, or send them a message rather than have a face-to-face conversation.  Because if I want to be able to walk up and say, "Hey--wanna slide?"  it's going to take a little more real person-to-person interaction.

So, here are my new rules:
1.  Answer the phone if you can.  Right then.  
2.  Don't text unless you can't call.  
3.  Talk to people and ask them yourself rather than looking it up on Facebook.
4.  Don't judge anyone you haven't had a face-to-face conversation with and actually know 
(Although "Don't judge anyone." would probably be better...) 
5.  If you're dropping something off, talk to whoever comes to the door.
6.  Sit by new people and find out what their story is.  
7.  Deal with confrontation right in the moment when possible.  Don't let someone else figure it out for you.  
8.  Ignore what you learned as a kid.  Talk to strangers. 
9.  Don't be afraid to be the first one to start a conversation.  
10. Do something that scares you or is out of your comfort zone every single day. 

In a world that is sooo smart, I'd say the smartest thing we can do sometimes is take a lesson from someone who's two.  Just "assume the sale."  Ask.  Expect things to work out.

After all, who wouldn't want to slide?  

"Whose idea was this again?"

Tears, Taxes, and Flour Babies

I don't like to cry.  Perhaps it's from having an older brother who used to say "REALLY bad" words---like....cry baby. (GASP!   I know.  He was pretty naughty...)

Who knows.  All I know is I try to keep my crying tally at five times a year or fewer.

(You must realize, however, that when I say "crying" I'm not talking about some touched-by-something spiritual, I-feel-warm-and-fuzzy-because-I-just-saw-someone-return-from-war, I-watched-a-really-good-"I'm-a-Mormon"-video, or some-one-left-me-a-box-of-Kraft-Mac-and-Cheese-on-my-bed type of tearing up.  I'm talking about that deep, "I-just-can't-take-it" sobbing that takes so much energy and gives me such a bad headache that it's just not worth it more than a few times a year.  

Normally I reserve those good kinds of cries for things like funerals, realizing I did something really bad I can't take back, breakups, horribly traumatic or emotional events, finding out the person I thought I should marry is marrying someone else, and of course, pet deaths.

Yep.  I think that's pretty inclusive.

My list is NOT supposed to include taxes.

Especially when they say "EZ" right at the top.
It's like some horrible teen text from all the accountants of the world letting you know that if you have that form in your hands and you have enough of a brain in your head to know the EZ form is the one you need, you should be able to fill it out without them.

I mean, I am ONE person with ONE job in ONE state.
I have no house, no husband, no children, and no notable interest from my bank account.
I think that is just about as easy as it gets.
Supposedly I just put in how much money I made and they tell me how much I get back.

Right?
Right........

Until being so cheap frugal, I decide I will NOT be paying TurboTax or anyone else $30-$50 of that money the government has already taken to tell me how to put a total of about five numbers on a piece of paper.  Not a chance.

But before I know what is happening, I am asked questions in order to fill out this "EZ" form with words I don't even know about documents that may or may not be part of my life--as if I should know these answers.  It doesn't help that while looking for one of the forms mentioned I run across an important paper from last year informing me that I filed last year's state taxes wrong--in at least two places!

Yes, that is EXACTLY how it felt.

Rather than stop, acknowledge I may not know much about taxes, and then pay someone to explain it to me, I have an utter meltdown and decide that society and school have failed me.  (Of course.  That's the next natural step.)

I mean, what were all those high school econ talks about how much a baby really costs as our "preparation for the 'real world?'"  Seriously, we all know no one in Idaho is spending $60,000 a year PER KID.  Useless.  Utterly useless information.  Or how about the day we learned to write a check.  Really?!  (I know, Idaho's pretty cutting edge.)

Why didn't the teacher ever pull out a form and say, "Hey, anyone in here who ever plans to work:  This is a 1040 EZ."  That would have been more applicable than checks, unrealistic baby costs, or hauling around a bag of flour to remind high schoolers they didn't want kids.

Partway through the meltdown I decided that whether or not I had been failed was irrelevant.  What mattered was that someone could put it all into English with a few quick clicks....for only $29.99.

So worth it.

Within two weeks I had both checks.
Just like that.
EZ.

Maybe I'll do my own taxes NEXT year....
Did you know it could save me thirty bucks?!  :)

Rain, Snow, Sleet, and Hell

I love living in Utah.  I feel like laughing at Utah two posts in a row may give the impression I don't like it.  I do.  The mountains are gorgeous.  My friends are great.  My job has a lot of perks.  So, if you happen to be from Utah, don't be too offended as I make fun of you for a minute.  It's okay.  We have the same problem in Idaho.

I am currently teaching about the water cycle.  We go through a zillion words that all end in -tion: evaporation, condensation, transpiration, percolation, accumulation, and on and on.  One of the kids' favorites is precipitation.  It's one of mine too--first, because they actually know what I am talking about (because they have seen it), and secondly because it appears no one in this state seems to be able to say the word hail and it kind of makes me giggle.  Secretly.

Class usually goes something like this:

Me: "Who can name one of the forms of precipitation?"
Kid 1: "RAIN!"
Me: "Yes!  Rain.  What else?"
Kid 2: "Snow."
Me: "Yep, we didn't get a lot this winter, but definitely snow."
Kid 3: "Sleet."
Me: "Sure!  What is sleet?  Yeah, kind of a cross between rain and snow.  Kind of slushy."
Kid 4: "Hell."
Me: "WHAT?"
Kid 4: "Hell."
Me: "Um...hAil?"
Kid 4: "Yeah...hell, those frozen things that come down and they can be as big as a baseball and, like, hit you in the head."

Right.  Rain, snow, sleet, and hell.  The four basic types of precipitation.

It's not quite so bad when it's thrown in with other words like rain and snow, but last time I went home, they sang "We'll Sing All Hail to Jesus' Name" in church.

Now, having mentioned Idaho is just as bad as Utah, it won't take long for you to figure out why I was laughing so hard I was almost crying while my mom was elbowing me and giving me that look she would give me when I was a naughty kid.  (Although I could see her laughing too...)

The best part of the whole thing was that we were the only people in the room who seemed to notice anything was funny at all.

Embracing My Hair-itage

Last Thursday I woke up late.
Very late.
I can't even blame it on my alarm this time.

It was entirely my fault.  Every last bit.
I guiltily admit that I stayed up late reading The Hunger Games.

Yeah, I know I'm a little behind.
I should probably remind you that I waited until all seven Harry Potter books were out and then devoured them all.

While reading The Hunger Games, I kept waiting to get to a good stopping point--the end of the chapter, a break in the action, a bit of a wrap up for the evening--but found there just wasn't one.  I think everyone knows that feeling of, "I'll just read one more page...."

So I kept reading.  One more page.  And then another...and then another....

Until I realized what time it was and reminded myself of what it would be like in the morning when 34 kids were all coming up and asking me questions or telling me they didn't get math.

When I finally did go to sleep, it very definitely wasn't a long enough night before that alarm of mine went off and--despite my best efforts to try to look better at work this year--there just wasn't going to be enough time to do much with my hair.  In fact, because I had slept with wet hair and my bangs had dried funny, there wasn't much at all I could do with them.

Except the Utah poof.

Is that a good look, or what?
I mean, you could hide an afternoon snack in there!
Why didn't I think of that?!

I think most people know what I am talking about when I say "Utah poof."  I spent a good chunk of my junior high and high school years making fun of it.  We had special names for it in my family.
I mean, the look is something of a cross between the Cone Heads and a baby volcanic eruption just waiting to burst from the unsuspecting person's head at any given moment.

All the way to work I kept thinking about how embarrassed I was that I was going to spend an entire day in public like that.  I mean, this wasn't even one of the smaller poofs.  It was the mini-volcano.  Imagine what my family would say!  (I did have some consolation knowing that at least they wouldn't see me.)

I considered everyone else.
Maybe I'll just avoid people, I thought.
(Right.  Like THAT was going to work....)

Imagine my surprise when I walked in the room and three kids said, "You're hair is different!  I like it," and "You look good!"  and "Miss Waite!  I like your hair!"

It got increasingly more strange as someone interrupted math to comment on how nice it looked.  I mean, I know they wanted to stop talking about measuring angles, but still...

And if that weren't strange enough, at least one adult said she liked it and I should do it again.

And there you have it folks.  The day I guiltily poof my hair and run out the door, ashamed to show my face in public is the day I get five (count them, FIVE!) compliments on my hair.

I'm not sure I've even gotten five compliments about the same thing in one day EVER.

This is exactly how I felt...Minus the six Grammys.

What can I say?

There are only a few options possible:
1.  These kind people saw my tired, fell-out-of-bed look, felt sorry for me and decided to compliment me to make me feel better.
2.  Living in Utah, these nice people are so used to this look that they thought it looked good.
3.  My hair actually was stunning, and I should demonstrate my Utah Pride via my hair more often.

Yep, this was me Thursday.
Without the movie star makeup, of course.
And looking like Hilary Duff...

I don't know the answer.  I mean, if Adele and Hilary Duff are pulling it off, it can't just be Utah, because they are about as Non-Utah as it gets (except for Lindsay Lohan, of course, but I'm pretty sure she's a strictly bangs kind of girl).

So, who knows?  Perhaps this is my true "hair"itage (as my friend Linsey put it), and I should just embrace the beauty of it.  It could come in handy.

After all, if the thing erupts, it would really get my kids' attention....
And, eruption or not, it kindly adds enough height to make me at least 5'2".

I think that's worth something.

Besides, if I really do look that good, I may never have to wake up early again.
And if you know me, that's worth more than the rest of it put together.