How to Date a BYU Co-Ed

I gave my Creative Writing students a "how to" writing assignment recently where they are supposed to satirize something that they go through. I decided to do this writing assignment myself, and, very cheekily, wrote up the following. . .

How to Date a BYU Co-Ed

1. The first thing you need to do is plan your approach. This is not something that should be taken lightly. You, as a man, want to make sure that the female specimen of the modern day knows that you know she is intimidating and frightening, so it is best to plan your approach from a distance. Don’t ever talk to her in person. This makes things very scary for you and makes her feel as though you are manipulative. Don’t call her on the phone because that may make her feel as though you consider yourself worthy to speak to her. The best way to ask a girl out, especially the one you know the name of but don’t ever encounter on a daily basis, is by TEXT or FACEBOOK.
1. NOTE: This is especially true of the female who was kind to you and spoke to you once but has not talked with you since then. It is best to send her an impersonal message through impersonal means because you have an impersonal relationship with her, and you wouldn’t want to take things too fast, now would you?
2. After you have sent your text message or Facebook event invite, the best thing you can do is wait approximately 24 hours for a response, then ask again. It could be that she did not get your message the first time. It could be that she has been stewing in awe of the generosity of your request and she needs to know that you are not, in fact, scary. Be sure to send a new request in the appropriate way.
1. If she turns you down: Note - the best thing you can do at this point is to not give up hope: odds are if you ask her again for another night, she will be more free and willing to grace you with her presence. She may just have needed time to warm up to the idea. Do not give up heart! Try again.
2. If she accepts: Congratulations! You now get the chance to proceed to step number. . .
3. The planning of the event: Remember. The modern woman knows that everything - your entire future of a couple - depends on the first date. Like the male peacock, your job is to ruffle all of your glorious feathers. You must let her know that you are willing to devote hours of your time, and all of your money, strictly to her entertainment. You must take her to every desirable location in one evening. This requires planning and intense concentration. You must be sure, like the male peacock, that the female peacock knows that your feathers are sure to be the most attractive. This is especially true of the Utah Valley BYU Co-Ed, who has been raised from birth to believe that a person only dates to find a mate. You. Must. Be. That. Mate.
4. The event should include. . .
1. Eating at an expensive restaurant
2. A clever activity in which you, as male peacock, can show off your masculine ability, and she, as female independent 20th century peacock, can demonstrate her intelligence.
3. Dessert (Euphemistic or otherwise.)
4. Followed by the in apartment movie watch. The date should never end until you have had the chance to sit on an uncomfortable couch and entertained yourselves by some viewing pleasure.
5. On the day of the date itself, remember that the event is the most important part, followed shortly by the looks of the female herself. Your job is to flaunt your impressive planning skills, not your hygiene. Nothing will intimidate an intimidating woman more than a man who looks better than she does on a date. (Plus, she might think that you are, in fact, gay.) Thus, to prove your straight-ness and your consideration for her beauty, do not spend more than approximately ten minutes preparing yourself. Spend approximately five of those minutes showering. Find whatever shirt is clean, put on the running shoes you’ve had forever, and whatever jeans seem most appropriate for the event. This should take you no more than two minutes. Spend the remaining time brushing your teeth. (The “look no better than she does” exception does not extend to smell. The female creature loves it when you make it very clear that you do, in fact, wear aftershave and cologne at the same time - particularly if you are going to drive for long distances.)
6. During the date, let her do all the talking. And only use one syllable words if you should feel the need to speak.
7. After the date is over, be sure to send the appropriate text message thanking said female for her time. Then, should you feel the need, be sure to invite her out for the next weekend on an activity of similar grandeur. If you slack off on the next date, she will know you are a fraud. You must shower this female with every trick up your sleeve all the time to remind her that you “care”.

Happy Dating!

Follow the Prophet

Since last weekend's LDS General Conference there has been quite a bit of discussion on President Packer's talk about standards of morality and the power of repentance. Opinions have been shared and debated and protests have been staged because the talk was seen as a step backward for the church as regards the way we approach the LGBT community.

I have my own opinions on the matter that I don't really feel the need to express here. Suffice it to say that I have been in theater long enough (and in the world long enough) to have made several friends who associate with that community. I've enjoyed and treasured their friendships and valued the mutual respect that we've had for the beliefs we share or disagree on. This is true of every friendship I've had, really - the need for mutual respect and understanding even when you disagree.

I don't wish to discuss the political ramifications of President Packer's talk. Members outside of the LDS community are not always in a position to understand our beliefs as well as we would and they can't be blamed for that. What makes me nervous is when members of the church start calling the Presidency of the church and the Apostles 'out of touch' or 'misguided' or 'misinformed'. When they start asking for the Presidency to re-think or re-phrase what they have said so that it is more comfortable to hear. That is dangerous.

The Lord has made it very clear that he speaks through his prophets. There is no room for debate on this. Blaming age or so-called naivety for the reasoning behind any official message of these men is a sign of a lack of understanding or faith in that doctrine. Are these men perfect? No. Would the Lord allow them to make statements on His behalf that were contrary to His plan? No.

I understand when people outside of the church misunderstand or misread what the apostles say because they do not hear with the same experience that members of the church should. They listen to these words as politics because - for most other churches/religious organizations - that's how messages are given. But when members of the church willingly say "well. . . I follow the Prophet, but sometimes he's a little out of touch. . . " - that is dangerous. The Lord did not tell us to follow the Prophet when it was comfortable. He did not tell us to follow the Prophet only if we understood everything that He said. He did not say to follow the Prophet, but you can pick which members of the Apostles are crazy - He said:

"What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself; and though the heavens and the earth pass away, my word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled, whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same."

As members of the church we have a responsibility to be kind and understanding to all of God's children. We can't be comfortable with naivety about the state of the world. We have to associate with and love those who do not share our beliefs. We also have to recognize that the doctrine of this church is not always comfortable. It does not fit with the standards that the world would set or the way that knowledge is constructed and categorized in this world. The gospel is manifest in ways that can't always be measured or seen - but it can be felt and understood.

So there it is. The Lord does not excuse Himself from what needs to be said, and it is not my responsibility to excuse Him (or his servants) either.

The more I love my dog. . .

This. . .

. . . is Schatzie.

She was, for all intents and purposes, my replacement. When I moved out of the house, my parents allowed her to take up residence. As I no longer spend large amounts of time with my immediate family at home (excepting Christmas, of course, and the odd vacation here and there when I'm lucky), I do not get to see her very often. Lucky for me she always remembers who I am and, thanks to my conniving methods of hour long belly rubs and the promise of beef jerky, she will allow me to hold her. She'll sleep in my room and keep my feet warm. She'll pee on the floor when I come in for excitement. She'll lick my face. She'll give me high fives. She'll look up at me expectantly when I tell her to stay, then put a treat on the floor, and stand there like a cruel slave driver, watching her patience, waiting for the command to come.

I've been thinking a lot about that particular moment recently. Those times when we test her training to see how long she will wait when the treat is not only promised, but in full view. My otherwise crazy and impatient dog will, because she wants so badly to please us, stay in her chair for extended periods of time until she is told to eat. If we walk away, she will come looking to me for permission before she eats the treat. It's funny how powerful the words of 'stay' and 'come' can be.

Not that she's perfect. I highly doubt that her patience would last if we, for example, asked her to stay, put the treat in the tray, then left the house for an hour or so. But maybe it would. Although she can be naughty and she doesn't always want to be bothered - I think Schatzie's ultimate desire in life is to please each of us.

There's a powerful symbol in that, I think. At least for me in my life and my situation right now - I feel at times like my poor dog, sitting on the floor in comfortable but foodless chair, watching the rest of my friends partaking of feasts that I have not been invited to.

Now - don't get me wrong. My life has been so abundantly blessed in the last several months that there are no words for me to adequately describe the gratitude I feel to my Heavenly Father for the guidance I have received. I have a job that I love. I have real, sincere friendships that have built me up and made me feel so wanted and loved that it's like having family close by again. I am blessed.

But occasionally, like Schatzie, I feel as though I am being relegated to a chair while others around me feast on food that I am not yet allowed to eat. It's this constant battle of wills inside of me: that feeling of overwhelming gratitude for the life that I'm leading, and the desire for the part of life I'm being denied for some reason that isn't quite clear to me yet.

So in the mean time, I'm going to try and be a little more like Schatzie. I'm going to work a little harder to please the one responsible for giving me all good things, and I'm going to (at least try) to keep my focus on those things that I have been given.

Self Reliance

I have little patience for impatient students.

It's a little contradictory, and probably a bit unfair, but it drives me absolutely up the wall when a student of mine spends thirty seconds on an assignment and then complains of boredom.

I have one such student in one of my classes. A writing assignment was given today that said student claimed to have finished in approximately a minute and a half. I asked if this was the best work that could be done. The student nodded enthusiastically. Fighting the urge to roll my eyes and say "yeah, right," I gestured to the turn in tray.

Said student then proceeded to bug me about every five minutes for the remainder of work time. May I sharpen my pencil? May I go to the bathroom? I don't know what to do! What should I write about? I've written about everything that interests me!

ARG!

There's almost nothing in the world that bothers me more than a student that wastes his or her own time (and mine - and the rest of the class) by not being self reliant. Students who don't use their resources or ask questions about every trivial thing make me seethe.

I think this is because, recently, I've felt the joy of being almost entirely self reliant. I have a job that allows me to provide for myself without parental assistance. While I certainly don't jump up and down every time I send money off to pay a bill, I do take a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that I can provide for myself. I consider myself to be a fairly resourceful person, and for a girl living on a second year teacher's salary of all things, I'm doing pretty well.

Oh, if I could only teach that to my students. It always amazes me when, in the same day, I have several students freaking out over an empty numbered list on the board (Student: "What's THAT for?!!!" Me, sarcastically: "I'm never going to tell you. I just put it up there to confuse you."), and even more students in the same day begging to know when class gets out, to which I point at the bell schedule that has been on the board the entire YEAR but they have not noticed.

So, to sum up my day, I bring you a quote from Gilmore Girls:

Lorelai: Michel, the phone.

Michel: Mmm-hmm. It rings.

L: Can you answer it?

M: No, people are particularly stupid today. I can't talk to any more of them.

Let us oft speak kind words about each other. . .

"I resolve to speak ill of no man whatever, not even in a matter of truth; but rather by some means excuse the faults I hear charged upon others, and upon proper occasions speak all the good I know of everybody."

Benjamin Franklin

Why Suzanne Collins is a Gutsy Writer, OR, Why The Hunger Games is a smarter series than Twilight

Warning: This post will contain spoilers for each book in The Hunger Games series. If you have not read them before and would prefer not to be spoiled, then get them read and then come back.

It's no secret that I don't like the Twilight books. I have made that abundantly clear in various blog posts and personal rants over the years. My primary complaints rested in the weakness of the main character, whom I found altogether to repulsive to like, and a male lead, whom I found far too sappy to be in any way tolerable. Other complaints rested in Meyer as an author completely unaware of her own message and the cop out of having her main character be so spineless and unwilling to consider consequences for actions.

Ahh, but then I discovered The Hunger Games.

It was such a breath of fresh air to read a book - probably the first since Harry Potter that managed to find a book that lived up to the mass hype it had received. It was bold, entertaining, and so wonderfully different that I couldn't stop talking about it. It was one of those books that mattered. A book that could be read by a person at any age and still mean something.

The trouble was, Collins gave herself an almost impossible set up for American readers. Americans are big fans of tight, happy, fairy tale endings. It's all part of that American Dream mentality. We like the couple to get together. We like what Miss Prism in The Importance of Being Earnest calls fiction: for the "good to end happily, and the bad unhappily." But it wasn't going to be that easy in Panem - not with the complicated set up Collins gave herself. Panem wasn't a nation that had barely entered some kind of complicated, oppressive government - Panem was a government with a 75 year long tradition of sick, public mutilation. Obviously the ultimate goal of the book series wasn't just to survive the game itself alive, but to survive the government - surviving the game wasn't good enough.

That's a huge task, particularly in a government so intricately structured and varied and unpredictable as the one Collins created.

This is why, I think, the last book in the series will raise some eyebrows. Is it perfect? No. Is it still pretty darn brilliant? Yes. Is it going to please most American readers? I'm not sure. Most of the Twilight obsessed teen crowd will likely be disappointed by the lack of romance in this book compared to the others. In fact, the resolution of the "will she or won't she" conflict between Katniss and the two men was almost an afterthought, because it really didn't matter as much as everything else (though I still think I could have done with at least a proper send off for Gale. Not that I thought Katniss should be with him - I didn't - but I felt as though his character deserved more credit than he was given.)

All the same, Collins dared to write a book that was not happy and did not end entirely happy either. Readers who wanted a story full of hope without the taint of dread that it was all too good to be true at the end were not going to find it in Katniss, who, as a narrator, had enough scarring after the first games she participated in to make her suspicious of every good thing for the rest of forever. Katniss is wary, and with good reason. Things weren't ever going to be cleanly finished.

But that isn't the point, is it?

As far as I'm concerned, the most important part of that last book was in the transformation of Peeta, who has always represented the hope for a better future. No matter what has been thrown at him in the past, Peeta always managed to keep his chin up and find the bright side of things, without being Pollyanna like, but by being practical. He was an incredible judge of character. Until the Capitol got hold of him and addled his brain. Throughout the entire book he is fighting for himself back - trying to figure out what is real and what is not real. It's even turned into a game. Isn't that the point Collins has been making all along? The importance of asking yourself what is and what is not real? In a society so steeped in "keeping up appearances" and glamorizing the grotesque for the gain of others - isn't that the whole purpose? If that was her purpose, then she accomplished it wonderfully.

Did the government miraculously turn pure and clean overnight? No. Will Katniss and Gale and Peeta and all the rest of them ever lead "normal" lives? No. But have we as readers learned a little something about where our values are? Hopefully. Is there hope for their future - and ours? Definitely.

So thank you, Ms. Collins, for writing a series that took nerve. Thank you for making me think. Thank you for providing me with endless conversations with friends and students about the value of entertainment and the value of reality. Your books are masterful.

Reverse Angle

In film, a reverse angle is when you film something from the opposite side of what is considered "normal". For example, a dinner table scene is usually filmed from one side of the table only. To film from the other side is disorienting and a bit harsh on your audience.

I feel like my life is a pretty decent representation of a reverse angle at the moment, because it is so, so very different from last year. Last year I came home after the first day of school overwhelmed and worn out and not sure I would be able to handle everything that went along with teaching three classes of seventh graders. I honestly didn't think I would survive until May. This year I came home after my first day of school thinking: "Gosh, I love this - I am glad to be back in school!"

Such a strange thing, but so refreshing. Do I love planning lessons for four classes I haven't taught before? Not particularly. Do I love grading? No. But I do love working with students and trying new things and seeing excitement and growth and enthusiasm. I love the chance that I have to be a complete unabashed dork for the sake of keeping teenagers entertained and interested in a stupid syllabus.

In other words: life really is wonderful when you are doing something you love. I have nothing more profound to add to my life right now except a strong, wonderful sense of contentment. What a luxury that is - how many second year teachers have this feeling? I don't know. But I do love that instead of teachers treating me like I don't know anything, they're treating me with high expectations and excitement. It's such a delightful little shift.

In other other words: *smile*.

Music Man: A Recap

I'm in mourning for the loss of my obsession. I still feel the need to run lifts and scenes, even though the show closed earlier this week. This was such an incredible theater experience - I had to write it all down. I'm sure as I remember more things the list will expand, but this is what I have for now. . .

Things I Will Miss. . .

1. My wonderful costumes! Clothes these days just aren’t the same. . . plus, I looked awesome. I really felt beautiful.
2. The thrill of singing some of the most wonderful and iconic songs in musical theater, and knowing when they sounded nice.
3. Walking around everywhere in my bloomers. On stage, off stage, grocery stores, restaurants. . .
4. My Paroo family. Mama calling me ‘darlin’ and both Winthrops giving me hugs to wish me luck.
5. Making the audience laugh when I was being sly or a bit snarky.
6. Hearing such genuine compliments after the show from generous audiences.
7. Working so hard to make Marian and Harold a couple you want to root for – and then succeeding.
8. Shooting marshmallows out of my mouth.
9. Everything about Marian the Librarian (especially that vest. . . )
10. Late night (mostly focused) quiet scene rehearsals
11. My power ranger boots
12. Lift-a-palooza
13. Wearing the completed footbridge dress for the first time. It was the first moment when I really thought "Wow. I look like Marian."
14. Watching characters come to life on stage – like the first time Rob went off on the school board.
15. The challenge of developing a difficult character so completely from one end of the spectrum to the other.
16. Waking up in the morning with my cheek stuck to my pillow because of tape residue – because it reminded me that I’d been in a show the night before, and it was satisfying
17. Rehearsing Shipoopi and bonding with the cast
18. The cast carwash, in which I managed to thoroughly soak many people, and get soaked by just as many
19. The fireflies and smoke during the footbridge – I never got to really see it, but it looked like it looked beautiful
20. Symbols and metaphors happening on accident (the color of the handkerchief, people carrying books around that trusted me from the beginning).
21. Lindsay’s snort during Pick-a-Little, and the look on her face/Chris’ face during their solo of Shipoopi
22. Craig's sound jokes and obnoxious kissing noises from the booth.
23. Being able to yell or say mean things without having to repent afterwards ;). (I'm mostly joking!)

Things I Won’t Miss. . .

1. Non-scripted drama.
2. Mic tape giving me hives behind my ear.
3. Stage make-up making my skin break out.
4. Fake eyelashes.
5. The debate over my stage make-up in general and the great eyebrow debacle of 2010
6. The door to the Paroo house
7. “Like two junior high kids in the back of a movie theater!”
8. The "Did you really kiss my daddy in the show or was it pretend?" question. . . Yeesh!
9. Hairspray. (The product. Not the musical.)

Things I Want to Remember. . .

1. Seeing my name on the call back list for Marian and shaking for about a half an hour afterwards from excitement
2. How over the moon excited I was when I got the call from the director telling me that I got the part – and adding again to that excitement when I found out that Greg got the part, because I had so much fun with him at call backs (good thing that continued. . . )
3. The moment in call backs when I thought “. . . I might actually be able to get this part!”
4. The first YOPTC night
5. The huge feeling of accomplishment I had when I finally committed to all parts of Marian’s journey. It was an emotional triumph for me, and a healing experience.
6. Lawrence Welk-ing the footbridge ("Never a peaceful moment in the -" "Yeaaaah!")
7. The director pulling Greg and me aside after the final show and telling us that he was afraid that he would only ever compare us to Robert Preston and Shirley Jones, but that now he will compare all other performances of Harold and Marian to us. That was a huge honor.
8. "I couldn't kiss him! My acting skills are NOT that good." (Re: The "other" Music Man.)
9. Steve Black telling me with such enthusiasm that we had nailed the transformation of both characters. His high opinion of the show was, at least for me, the moment I really knew I had succeeded!
10. Scores of people telling us that they had never understood why Marian loved Harold before they saw our version and knowing that the months of hard work had really, honestly paid off the way we hoped it would.
11. Greg’s wife telling me that her favorite song in the show was “Till There Was You” – pretty much the last thing I ever expected, but it was a huge compliment! She also said she likes my voice better than Shirley Jones – which is also a great thing to hear, even if I think she’s crazy.
12. The night I was offered my job. I thought I was in some kind of trouble. I was - but a completely different kind of trouble than I thought.
13. Walking into Maple Mountain’s theater for our first rehearsal there and thinking “ooooh boy. . .”
14. Showing off Shipoopi for the first time to the ensemble – mainly because I didn’t have many scenes at all with ensemble in them and it was my first chance to really show off what I could do! The reaction was pretty fun.
15. Slapping Greg at rehearsal (mostly on accident).
16. The “Sadder But Wiser (Budwiser?) Girl” dance at tech rehearsal.
17. Lady in the Tramp hair at intermission
18. The development of the hummingbird fascination.
19. Being so giddy over finally rehearsing the library that I couldn’t stop from grinning at how much fun it was to perform. That was always my favorite scene in the movie, and performing it every night was one of the greatest thrills ever.
20. Realizing how completely the Lord loves me to lead me to the show – not just because playing Marian was fun, but because it changed my life in nearly every way: with friendship, with opportunity, and with some major personal growth.
21. The emotion of closing night – feeling everything so much more keenly than I had in any other rehearsal or show because I knew it would end.
22. Watching the pick-a-little ladies can-can during the entr’acte music before the curtain opened. So, so entertaining!
23. Watching Lindsay sing “Columbia, Gem of the Ocean” off stage so that I could laugh all I wanted without being seen.
24. Larisa’s excellent “Baaalllzac!” during the pick-a-little reprise
25. The joke we played on Lindsay. We texted her during notes on one of the two days that she wasn't at rehearsal and told her that she might want to get to rehearsal fast because our director had just told someone else to start memorizing her lines. We thought that she would roll her eyes and laugh, but instead she panicked and burst into tears and her whole family started planning a siege on the school. Whoops! It was really funny, though - in spite of how mean it was! Fortunately she's still talking to all of us.
26. “I thought so.”
27. The blessing of being surrounded by priesthood holders when I needed them.
28. The care that so many people took to make sure that I was taken care of – feeding me and bringing me food and helping me in so many ways on and off stage. It was comforting to know that people cared about me enough to notice when I needed help or encouragement.
29. How hard it all was – I’ve never had to work so hard at making a part good. It took rehearsing nearly every day for three and a half months to feel worthy of playing Marian. I only missed one rehearsal during all of that time, and I came every other day whether I was scheduled to or not because I wanted to get it right. The responsibility and pressure of being a lead in such an iconic show. It was so, so worth the work – but it was hard.
30. How fun it all was – to take such pleasure in saying lines I’d known for years from watching the film, to talk for hours about character development and how to take Harold and Marian from one place to the next in a way that is uplifting and praiseworthy, to have all the fun perks of being a lead – riding on the float in the parade, kids giving me hugs after the show, custom made costumes and a quiet dressing room, interviews and pictures in the paper – it was definitely a selfish bit of fun to have that kind of attention!

Seeing the Good

"It is a terrible injustice to be falsely accused." - Anne of Green Gables

I'm going to toot my own horn for a second and seem very contradictory. You'll have to forgive me.

One thing I realized about myself several years ago is that, on the whole, I'm pretty good at assuming the best in other people. Those of you who know me well might look through the files of your brain and find moments where I haven't been that way, but ultimately I think that, as a person, I'm generally good at assuming the best in others and assuming that they see the best in me.

This means that it always comes as a bit of a shock when I'm confronted by accusations of poor behavior on my part, whether those accusations are valid or not.

I had such an experience recently and it's brought to mind lots of random thoughts that I'm going to attempt to string together here. . .

The "grass is always greener" mentality can be quite frustrating when you know the grass isn't greener, it's just a different kind of grass. Being cast as a lead in this play has been, then, both a wonderful experience and an extremely stressful one. I have been around the theater business long enough to know that everyone experiences the stage differently. When you're in the ensemble, particularly if there are long breaks between backstage and stage time, it's a great time for you to play games and socialize. I knew before getting this part that as a lead you'd have lots less of that time because so much of your time would be spent on stage. What I hadn't realized was exactly how emotionally and physically taxing that can be.

It's true that everyone in the cast is at the theater for the same amount of show time, but I've never been so drained in a show before this one. Staying "on" and being completely in character for two and a half hours is hard. It's a completely different challenge than any other play I've had the chance to participate in. It's been a very welcome challenge, but a difficult one.

What I really didn't understand, though, is how hard it is to walk that fine line between putting on a good performance and being a good friend to everyone in the cast, especially with the part that I have. Marian doesn't socialize much. Nearly all of my time on stage is spent in small group scenes. This means that I haven't had the chance to get to know as many people in the show as well as I normally would in any other position. I noticed after we started rehearsing that people treated me differently because of the role that I had, and I tried to counter that by being as kind and complimentary to people as I could. No one should have an ego built on community theater of all things. I'm just another small fish in a very big and very insignificant pond doing my best to perform where I'm placed. But in spite of all that, people will still interpret distance for arrogance and think that things come easily where they don't. It can be frustrating.

Which brings me to the point of the day: It is easy for humans to criticize what we don't understand and allow ourselves to be annoyed by what we haven't experienced. It is easy for us, then, to back bite and sneer at the success of other people. It is easy for us to imagine that there is a cap on success and that the success of another person is, in some way, inhibiting our own success or potential for success. Instead, we should remember that we are always happier when we are excited for others and supportive of others. Jealousy is a waste of time, and holding a grudge even more so. We should observe before judgement, and give others the benefit of the doubt. I'm of the firm belief that rational people generally act out of good intentions.

So there it is. I feel better after a bit of venting. This ride as Marian Paroo has been rough. It's been a huge challenge for me in the actual performance, but - in some ways - a larger challenge in terms of how I relate to my cast. I hope that they know, as a whole, anyway - how much I appreciate and admire them. I hope that I've been easy to work with and generous in complimenting. If I haven't been as good at that as I would have liked to have been, or as people might have needed me to be, then I hope that there will be a spirit of understanding and forgiveness. After all - we're really all in the same boat.

Good Enough

I am a person of many insecurities. Not that people would always know it by looking at me. I'm told that occasionally my "confidence" is so overwhelming I intimidate people (working on that.) But that confidence isn't always as pure as it might seem. I'll blame it on years of the "fake it until you make it" mentality - or perhaps just better than average acting skills that I possess.

I bring this up because recently I've been faced with the kind of perfect challenge that is at the same time catered to some of my greatest strengths but also leaning on some of my insecurities and weaknesses. This particular challenge calls for me to place said insecurities and strengths in front of large groups of people and hope for the best. I can't really blame God for any of this, seeing as I volunteered for the thing in the first place, but recently I started to feel the pressure kind of getting to me. That nagging "you don't really think you can do this. . . " voice of discouragement that makes me want to quit the whole thing and just avoid the potential for failure at all.

So this is the pep talk I've been giving myself: The devil wants us to hide our talents, even our weaker ones, because weaker ones can become strong ones. Right now my talent might just be good or passable, but the Lord will make up the difference and make it great. The only way this is going to happen is if I stop trying to improve this talent out of some desire for personal acclaim or recognition, and only if I remember where I got the gift in the first place. I also need to remember that my weaknesses make life interesting and give me something to work for - and that as a person, I'm good enough because I am His.

Pep talk over.

Lead Kindly Light

Three years ago, right now, I was sitting in Fitz Park. Fitz Park is a small but happy little place in Keswick, England - one of my favorite towns in the entire world. Keswick is in The Lake District - an area in the North Western part of England known for their, wait for it, lakes - and their untouched countryside, mountains, and the general sense of peace there. I don't know if I could ever live in Keswick permanently - it's a bit too small for a girl who grew up in the suburbs - but it is a place that I will always have a soft spot for. It's a beautiful, remarkable sort of place to just be.

I was in Keswick that time around for my study abroad. On this study abroad, our theme hymn was "Lead Kindly Light", a song that I'd always loved but understood better after actually walking across the moors and having my feet be so literally far from home. Since then it's more or less been my favorite hymn. This morning I turned on my church music playlist on iTunes and "Lead Kindly Light" was the first song to come up. Normally I'd smile and think about how much I like that song and move on with getting ready for church, but I stopped today, thinking instead about how appropriate this song is to my life right now.

Several months ago I decided I was moving. I decided that I was ready to be done with Provo, that I didn't want to do what everyone else does in sticking around Utah forever, that I was tired of living where I am and needed change - that the best way to get it would be by going somewhere entirely different and new. A clean break. I wanted Seattle. I went to visit for a week in April. I went again the next week for a teaching fair. The second I got off the plane - or soon after, anyway, I knew what I'd more or less known and been stubbornly denying the entire time - that it wasn't where the Lord wanted me to be. I had been - like the song said - trying to choose my own path.

So much of that decision was based on how completely miserable I was for nearly all of February and a good portion of March as well. I was feeling suffocated. I was trapped in a place I didn't want to be without very many real friends around. I holed myself away and threw myself into my teaching. A worthwhile thing, perhaps, but the Lord hasn't ever been entirely content with my hermitting. Neither have I, though I might not always have the gumption to fight against that tendency.

What I am meandering around to say, then, is that I realized again this morning that I am glad that the Lord chooses paths for me instead of allowing me to choose them for myself. I have a great capacity to dream and imagine great things, but the Lord has always known better. In the last several weeks, a string of things has happened that I never thought would have, but they are better than I ever would have imagined them to be on my own. I have made dozens of new, positive friends to replace pessimistic ones. I have opportunities lining up in front of my eyes that I never would have found without meeting those same people. I am in the right place at the right time. These blessings have been months in the making - going all the way back to last August when I first told the school that I wanted to help with the play. Going back to being placed at this school in the first place.

I don't know why the Lord has blessed me in this particular way. I think about the ways that other people are blessed and so much of this feels unnecessary and extra. I don't really need to travel as much as I have, do I? I don't really need theater, do I? Aren't there other ways that aren't quite so elaborate? Ways that don't make me feel this happy? Perhaps - but whether that's true or not, today I am feeling decidedly grateful to my Heavenly Father for caring enough for me to guide me to where I am right now. I am overwhelmed.

Theater

Theater has taken over my life.

I knew that it would. It always does. The second I get cast in a show I don't even bother trying to deny the fact that everything (nearly) takes a back seat to making the show good. I obsess over it. I think about it. I re-think about it. It goes on and on because I am determined to never do a half baked job in a show. Music Man is definitely no exception.

It's all got me thinking though - about my entire "career" in theater, what got me to where I am now and why it's all so important to me that I would devote everything I've got for several months at a time to a production. Recently I was asked to write an article about why the arts are important for schools. These are some of the things I've come up with, most of which will be related specifically to the arts with theater, since it is what I know best.

1. This one is a bit cheap, but you can't cheat your way through the arts. If you're a smart enough student, you can cheat your way through many things. I know this. I will proudly admit to being an expert essay fluffer. I can mooch my way through any last minute essay and still do well on it once I've learned how to give a teacher what they want. Any English major worth their salt can do that. I'm sure that such skills translate into other areas of study as well. But you can't do that in the arts. You either know the song or you don't. You have your lines memorized, or you don't. Now, there are levels of perfection, certainly, but you can't cheat off anyone else's work. You have to put the time in yourself.

2. That said, you learn to work as a team, and, if you're smart, learn that the success of the team is better than anything you can do on your own. I've spent years getting cast in the chorus. Many, many years being cast in the background with small showcased moments or a line here or there. Every now and then I've managed to get a lead. All along the way I learned that nine times out of ten I cared more about being in the show and being on stage and doing my best than I did with getting the starring role. People who learn to really care about the arts, people who learn the lesson that they have to teach, will recognize the truth behind the cliche of there being no small parts. The arts - on stage or off - teach the same lesson taught all around the world in religious education that you are both everything and nothing at the same time. The arts are - or should be - a grand lesson in humility and hard work no matter your place.

3. The arts teach you to trust others. One of my favorite quotes comes in the movie Nicholas Nickleby at the very end when the narration says that "family need not be defined by those with whom we share our blood, but those for whom we would give our blood." The best shows - the ones that have meant the most to me - have been ones where life long friendships are built. You have no choice. In a short period of time you have to place yourself at the mercy of total strangers, risking yourself emotionally and physically as you get to know them. For someone like me who is generally very guarded and wary of people I don't know, theater as taught me to trust that other people will do their part, and that they will not let me down because I will do my best not to let them down. The bond of a solid cast is remarkable.

4. The arts teach you how to walk in someone else's shoes. I think one of the reasons that the Lord has blessed me with so many opportunities on stage is because I learn about myself when I play someone else. I learn about my flaws and my strengths - not just in terms of acting or dancing ability, but because making an effort to really understand another way of thinking refines your own. That kind of intense character study and analysis has taught me to be careful about pre-judging others.

5. It's just fun. Heaven knows how much I love to analyze things to death. I could spend the rest of eternity picking apart books and movies and never tire of it, but being on stage gives me the chance to do something just for the thrill of performance. There's something intensely exciting about the accomplishment of seeing a show progress from start to finish. It's fun to put on a great costume and sing your heart out when saying it just wouldn't be good enough. There's a kind of energy that comes when you know the audience is eating out of the palm of your hand, and that they will leave entertained, or changed in some way.

I am in awe, sometimes, when I think about how lucky I have been to have the theater experiences that I have had. Recently, especially, I've been completely overwhelmed at the weight of it all, grateful that the Lord has seen fit to bless me with experiences that bring me such a huge amount of joy.

The Think System?

UPDATED

I'm being haunted.

Backstory:

I don't dream very often. Not in the daydreaming sense - I do that all the time. I mean the actual 'I'm physically asleep and thinking about random things that science can't completely explain' kind of dreaming. But recently something pretty awesome happened to me that has set my previously dull slumber into chaos.

For nearly as long as I can remember I've wanted to play Marian Paroo in The Music Man. We have far too much in common, Marian and I. It seemed like a good fit. But I've never really seen myself as leading lady material, so I didn't really let myself dream too far with that. So when a local theater decided to put on the show I figured I'd audition, put up a decent fight, and get cast in the chorus somewhere, as per usual.

But then something strange happened. I actually got called back for Marian. That in and of itself was a pretty big deal. Something stranger happened when I started to think I could actually get the part as the audition went on. Something out of this world crazy happened when I GOT the part. Wahoo! Cinderella was actually right when she said that dreams could come true. Phew.

So this is where the haunting comes in.

I was called about the part nearly two weeks ago. Our first rehearsal isn't for another five and a half days from now. I'm going crazy. First, it was dreams that I'd imagined the phone call. Then, after the cast list went up, it was dreams about the director changing his mind. When I found out the first rehearsal would be a sing through of the show, I had dreams of losing my voice and sounding like an idiot in front of the rest of the cast, and then I dreamed that the rest of the cast hated and resented me for the rest of the show.

It gets weirder. The show of Music Man has started to mix with other shows I've done recently in my head. (Imagine, if you will, Music Man and Seussical into one production. Trippy.)

The weirdest dream I've had so far, though, was completely hilarious. If you're familiar with Music Man, you know that fast talking salesman Harold Hill is selling a Boy's Band with his brand new revolutionary method called the "Think System". If you think the Minuet in G, you don't have to bother with the notes on an actual instrument. Well, I dreamed that the director of the show decided that the best, most authentic way to produce our version was through the "Think System" and that we were just going to barrel headlong into production of the show and not bother with rehearsal.

!!

In other words, until rehearsals actually start, I'm going to be a little bit nuts. After they start, I'll be a little bit busy. A little bit more than busy. But also a little bit more than happy.

I. Love. Theater.

New dream: I meet Shirley Jones. She is wearing a lovely blue suit. I am wearing nothing but a bath towel (?!!).

Fire Rabbit

The olympics were a big deal in my apartment, and figure skating held the most weight. Not because it's the sport that we like most (though it is definitely my favorite), but because the biggest star this year was a Korean, and I'm living with a Korean. Never underestimate the power of honor and winning one for the team in Asian culture, or at least this Asian's culture, apparently. Our friend made us a traditional dinner and flew her flag and waited like a father outside a delivery room for the Queen of ice skating to take to the rink.

At dinner on the night of this event, we got to talking about the zodiac calendar, and, naturally, all had to look up what we are more specifically.

I was born in the year of the rabbit. Fire rabbit, to be more specific. According to the zodiac, rabbits are creative, compassionate, sensitive, friendly, outgoing, and are decidedly non confrontational. We are supposed to be serene and good at hiding our feelings, and not big risk takers.

There are more specific things you can read about for relationships and health and career and what not, but that's the gist of what most websites will tell you.

I usually kind of roll my eyes at this sort of thing. How is it seriously possible that everyone born in the year of the (insert animal here) will demonstrate those personality traits? Of course it's not possible. Nor do people who do have those traits demonstrate them conclusively or all the time. Humans are more complicated than that.

But I did laugh a bit at how well I feel this describes me. Outgoing but anti social. Creative but lacking in self confidence. Good at hiding true feelings but very expressive. No wonder it's so hard for people to understand me sometimes - I am ridiculously polarized.

(In other news, Newsweek is reporting that 55% of males 18-24 are currently living at home with their parents. No wonder men tell me I'm intimidating. They have no reason to get a backbone if their mother is still paying for their groceries and washing their socks. If that's what I have to look forward to in a marriage, forget it!)

Hello, Seattle

I'm moving.

!!!!

As a kid, I assumed that moving was the sort of thing that adults did. Big people who were married with a couple of kids and lots of stuff. I am neither a big person, nor married. I'm followed around constantly by kids but they are not my own. I do have a fair bit of "stuff" but not enough to fill an entire U-Haul. All the same, though - I'm taking the plunge.

I think that Provo is like a drug for some people. An addiction. A disease. A safety net. It's the place you come, and then the place you stay until you marry and that's when you're allowed to leave. It's a kind of progressional limbo, and I'm a little sick of it.

So I'm out.

I don't want to be the kind of person that leeches around Provo for no reason except I'm not married yet. I'm young. I'm single. But I'm also a completely qualified teacher with options anywhere I want them to be. And in this case, I want them to be in Seattle. So I'm heading to the great unknown.

The funny thing is, as soon as things like this happen, everyone seems to have ideas on whether or not I'm making the right choice. One well meaning extended relative, for example, suggested that I might have better luck finding a job somewhere like Washington DC or Compton.

Compton?!

So, in spite of a few people who have been a little less than encouraging, I've decided that I'll be moving no matter what. And the reason for that choice? Because I know it's where the Lord wants me to be next year. That's the reason. I don't have any great reasoning other than that wonderful little bit of personal confirmation that says a move is right for me. And after the string of help I've received so far, I'm pretty sure that things are going to go just fabulously.

A Romantic Comedy Waiting to Happen

One of the troubles of living in such a homogeneous community is that 23 becomes the new 29. In other words: Provo thinks I'm old. Nearing my expiration date. The dating version of menopausal. Destined to become a cat lady - especially given my obvious lack of extended relationship experience.

This became slightly more apparent to me the other night when some friends of mine were discussing a new roommate who NCMO'd for several hours a few nights ago. NCMOing (or Non Committal Making Out for those of you not well versed in Provoese) is kind of a fad among the rebellious set. It's the kind of thing people wear as a badge of honor. It's also the kind of thing I wouldn't ever consider doing. This, my friends concluded, was because of my aforementioned lack of extended dating experience. "You play it too safe," they say. "Your life is like. . . a romantic comedy just waiting to happen."

Well, that might be true from a certain point of view. I am about to move to a new city on my own and start a new job. That seems to fit. I'm thinking about getting a cat. That works. I'm not unattractive most of the time, but I am enough of the time that there could be some Sandra-Bullock like moments mixed in with the Meg Ryan like ones. It's not a bad set up if I say so myself.

But it does frustrate me when we have conversations about our futures and the conclusion is "oh, we're sure you'll find someone someday, but imagining you with that person is WEIRD."

Excuse me?

What is so strange about the idea of my being in some kind of relationship?! Why is that so awkward? I kind of want to glare at these naysayers and remind them that had the timing or situation been right I could have been married three times over now, thank you very much. My apparent lack of opportunity has not always been as pronounced as it is at the moment with my (almost) utter lack of social life. My pronounced practicality in dealing with relationships does not entirely reflect the girly dreams that I most definitely have, even if I do not choose to gush about them to the world.

So. To those people in my life who find the idea of my having a relationship so utterly repulsive: you can go have your NCMO's or whatever else it is that you do on weekends while I stay home alone watching Road to Avonlea re-runs. I may not have much to encourage dreams in the reality of my life right now, but I'm not about to quit now. I'm not exactly ancient.

Merry Christmas From Randall

It's been forever and a day since I wrote anything. Not just here, but anywhere. I told my students recently that when I'm not a teacher I'm also a writer but lately that's started to feel less and less honest. I haven't written anything really for myself in the essay/story department for ages. I'll consider this repentance.

'Tis the season for strange student gifts. It's something that I've looked forward to for a long time. One of the benefits of being a teacher, I thought, was an influx of cool Christmas giftage this time of year. I watched as other teacher's desks filled up with gift cards and huge bags full of stuff and lotions they don't need. I would glance in my box as I came and left each day, hoping for some surprise tucked away inside of it. I'd watch students come in, checking for signs of wrapping paper.

I got (almost) no dice. Some (very amazing) students brought in some Diet Coke to help keep me awake during class (bless them.) One student brought in an orange (love oranges). I got a mouse pad (?!) for my computer and a little dragon picture frame with a nice quote in it, but that was about it. For days now I've been thinking 'Alright. Don't be ridiculous. You don't really need your students to give you junk to feel validated as a teacher. You don't need lotion and you don't scrapbook and you don't want to take their money.' But there was a very selfish little pit in my conscience that wanted to puff out a lower lip and say "but I like gift cards!"

Here's the best part of the story, though. All selfishness and wishful thinking aside, one thing did happen that made me laugh. One (female) student brought in some kind of homemade treat that I thoroughly enjoyed yesterday while traveling home when I took a look at the tag attached to said bag of treats. "Merry Christmas From Randall".

Who the heck is Randall?

Ah, the joys of re-gifting.

(I'll just have to build them up big time for my birthday?)

Locked Out

I've been having some issues with the managers of my apartment. Last year everything was just peachy. We got along. We were buddies. We had a water heater break, and got it replaced within twenty four hours. We made suggestions for repairs and they were considered respectfully and often honored. Things were good.

Then new people came in and old people moved out and now we don't get on so well. I was charged a ridiculous amount for a cleaning check that I did do. We were told that someone came in to clean our apartment for us, but that was a complete lie. I was treated like a petulant child and grew very annoyed at said managers. You'll have to forgive me: in the five years I've lived in BYU housing I have never once failed a cleaning check or turned in rent late. Ever. So this was especially irksome, even though after this year I won't be in BYU housing and it won't matter.

But, ah, revenge is occasionally sweet.

Recently we had a new lock installed on our door. One of the fancy-shmancy key pad-like ones. Ours has a little key pad and a knob that you manually turn that will lock or unlock the place. Apparently it's for increased security. And, if that's what they're going for, then it works, since most of the time you can't unlock the darn thing. Something inside the mechanismals of the keypad doesn't catch the lock. Very frustrating.

We called our managers about this the day the thing was installed. They sent someone to fix it. They blamed the locksmith. We called the locksmith. They came, and blamed it on the door. We called the managers again. They came and blamed it on the locksmith. They said they would call the locksmith.

Essentially, both teams have washed their hands of us, and we still can't get in.

So another problem crops up: our vacuum breaks. They come to collect said broken vacuum to "fix" it. Several days later, they call and complain to us that they tried to return the vacuum but could not get in our apartment because they couldn't unlock the darn thing.

We did not feel bad.

We then left a message with them in return expressing our sorrow that they, too, had not been able to open the darn door. We then expressed our concern that they wouldn't be able to get into our apartment for our soon to be returning cleaning check season.

Ooooh, how I adore irony. Especially when it is at the expense of people who deserve to be on the bad end of it.

I believe

This is going to be a very different type of blog post than I normally do. Normally I like to write about the weird or strange things going on in my life, or write about discussions I've had with people that I thought were particularly good, or generally just have a good time. I haven't talked all that much about my faith or my religion. Not that this post is going to be a downer, it's just spurned on by something not that great.

Last night I was watching TV, getting cookies made to send to my brother on his mission and half-heartedly grading papers when I got a message on Facebook (of all places) from an old friend telling me that one of our mutual friends from high school had killed herself on Tuesday. I think I should be clear that, for the most part, the telling of the information in that particular way without any preamble or titling the message "bad news" or something almost took me by more surprise than the message did. What's more, I've lost touch with both of these people since I left home, so I don't feel as though I was personally responsible or feel like I'm in any huge emotional breakdown mode. What it has done, though, is brought back many memories of when my uncle killed himself nearly ten years ago.

It's also brought back memories of how horrible my junior high and high school years would have been if not for this wonderful group of friends who pulled me through. This particular girl was always happy. She had a beautiful smile and a wonderful sense of humor. She welcomed me in without question. Unlike so many other people, I rarely heard her join in with joking about others or backbiting. She was gracious and kind. In recent years, I know she'd been suffering with a lot of depression. As I said before, I don't know how long this went on - and I definitely hadn't imagined it to be so extreme that death would feel like the best option - but I know that she's found a release from that pain.

The culture of my church can be very secretive when it comes to "skeletons in the closet". I'm not entirely sure of why this is, but I've experienced it in my own family and seen it in others. Someone struggles with something that isn't "kosher". It's alright to struggle with certain things, but more embarrassing to struggle with others. I think that depression is one of those "others" - I don't think many members of the church recognize it as legitimate suffering. I think many people assume that if a person would just pray more, or get a blessing that life would just come up roses again. That feeling sad or lonely is only something that can be spurred on by sinful behavior. That my uncle and this dear friend are wrong and have no hope for recovery.

I can't believe that. I won't believe that. I've felt it. Depression runs in my family and I have been there. Not to the extreme of my uncle, but there are days when I feel as though I am suffocating under some invisible weight. Days when I would rather close the door to my room and be alone than see anyone. Days when I get angry about little things that don't matter. I don't know why the Lord made me this way, but He did. The wonderful thing, though, is that He's also given me the wonderful gift of faith.

I want to be clear when I say that what I'm getting at is in no way supposed to lead to the assumption that my friend was not doing these things. I would have a hard time believing that of her. All I am saying is that for me, when things get hard, my first reaction is always to turn to the Lord. Always. Thanks to the example of my parents who trained me so well, I turn to the gospel when I need help, and I find answers that are sent with peace and reassurance, even if the answer is only to endure a little longer before things get better again.

I love my faith. I can't imagine life being livable without it. I am amazed and humbled at the knowledge that I have a Savior who would die for me and a Father in Heaven who loves me and knows me enough to have given me the life that I have. I know that after I die I will be with Him, and with the rest of my family (and friends) forever - and that is the best feeling in the world, even when everything else seems wrong.

Is that a euphemism?

Euphemism: (n) the substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant.

Spotted in student writing this week -

"Bella walked down the stairs during her wedding. They cut the cake, left on the honeymoon, and sailed to the island called Isle Esme, and yeah. . . Bella got hurt. (Edward) made her breakfast."

Snort.

"Miss Newman, I have a question!"

For those of you who may not have known, I started teaching school two weeks ago. It is exhausting for more than one reason. The hours alone are hard because I have never, ever, been a morning person, and I hate going to bed early. I have still found, thus far, that it is something that I mostly enjoy. It is a job that allows me a certain degree of freedom. I get to talk about books all day, which is great. I get to organize and color code and, most importantly, I get the chance to help (hopefully) some students believe a little more in themselves than they would have if they hadn't been in my class. It's frightening and exciting and fun and obnoxious and any number of things all in one day. But, like I said, I mostly like it.

There is one thing that tends to frustrate me more than other things, though, and that is the repetition. The school I am working at was shortsighted enough not to give their students planners. I don't understand this. When I was in school we were given planners every year starting in 5th or 6th grade so that we could learn to write down our assignments. It's no wonder, really, that so many of my students forget to turn things in: they have no where to write it down.

Even so, I do what I can to remind them. We have certain due dates that happen every week. We have a vocabulary test every Thursday. They have a reading log due every Friday. I keep both of these due dates on the board all week in red so that they are seen. We repeat these due dates before they leave class.

We do this repetition with lots of things. Papers I hand out. Worksheets. Procedures. We repeat over and over again because there is always someone spacing out or not paying attention.

And yet there are still questions about things we've reviewed. "Wait, what am I supposed to do with this worksheet?"/"We had a reading log due today?! You never told me! I never got one of those logs!" The impatient part of me wants to take that student to the board and make them point out where I write down assignments every day so that they can see it. I want to tell them that it is not my job to give them worksheets whenever they miss them, but theirs. I want to start charging a dime for every worksheet I have to re-give.

But then that little voice in my head that sounds like Liam Neeson says "Joni. . . how often do I have to repeat things for you?" And then, feeling both guilty and humbled, I repeat directions again because it is not fair of me to be impatient with my poor, overwhelmed brood after only a few weeks of new responsibility. They will learn to take directions better, and I will learn to give them more efficiently. And in the mean time, I will learn to take directions better myself.

(Small side note: I have also started an anonymous teacher blog that I update somewhat more frequently than this one. If you are interested in reading said anonymous blog and promise not to give me away so that I don't get sued and all that jazz, let me know, and I would be happy to send you the link.)

In touch with their inner Oprah

On the flight home from England I had a plethora of time at my fingertips in which to watch some of the greatest movies currently off market including the latest Dragon Ball Z and Duplicity. Our plane was older and didn't have the handy TV on the back of the other person's seat feature so I had little say in the matter. The only movie I had even the slightest amount of interest in was He's Just Not That Into You, a movie that was funny at times, disturbing in others, and overall rather insulting to single women as every woman in the movie - EVERY woman - was pathetic and desperate and stupid.

It's something that's kind of bothered me ever since. I've realized that one of the biggest problems of being an imaginative female who likes to read is that every literary hero - or nearly every literary hero - that I "fell in love with" growing up (or heroes that my friends love) - were written by a woman.

Think about it.

Darcy.
Rochester.
(That Vampire)
Gilbert.
Thornton.
Heathcliffe.
Brandon.

Heck, even Harry Potter could probably go on that list to an extent. All the men who are held up in modern woman-dom were penned by women. And re-penned by women, because, let's face it, that kind of speech perfection is not obtained in one editing.

And the more I think about it, the more dangerous it feels. Or, at least, the more potentially dangerous it feels. Take, for example, the following links:

Normal Mormon Husband is a favorite blogger of mine, and he wrote this post a while ago about how he's decided that women are obsessed with (That Vampire) because he is, in fact, a woman. Debate this joke as you will, but when I stumbled upon the response these girls had in a "That Vampire" lexicon, I started to get more than a little concerned. These girls defend this fictional character as though their lives depended on it. They speak about him not just out of literary admiration, but out of a kind of obsession that borders on something that seems rather unhealthy - at least to me. (For example: "lmao that was entertaining, but not entirely accurate…i would just like to point out that bella notices consistently throughout Twilight that Edward does not talk like a normal teenager; you wanna know why??? BECAUSE HE WAS BORN IN 1901!!! of course his vocabulary is more refined than your average male! he is almost a century old, and he was born in a time when men WERE generally more “refined”…tsk tsk tsk, this man needs to do his research!!!")

Granted, this is coming from the girl who has admittedly read Harry Potter and Anne of Green Gables more times than I am years old (by a lot) - but I would like to think that I do know the difference between fiction and reality - between fun trivia and not letting "dreams" get in the way of "reality."

I guess, then, that this post is almost the antithesis to my previous post: dreams (or dream men) are all fine and good, but I think the female population would do well to remember that carefully constructed and edited men in breeches no longer exist, and may not have ever existed. It is not fair to the "less-fair sex" to expect the unexpectable.

It reminds me of a scene from an episode of Road to Avonlea in which the town has been half taken over with obsession over a Valentine's dance at the hotel. Background: Boy named Gus asks girl named Felicity. Felicity says 'yes of course'. Boy named Arthur also asks Felicity. Felicity says she's already going with someone else, but thank you very much, and proceeds to be happy about two men fighting over her. New girl named Suzette moves temporarily into the hotel and causes a bit of a stir because she falls for Gus.

About half way through the episode, Gus shows up to see Felicity at home and to apologize for something. Felicity brings up Suzette's flirting with Gus. Gus says "Well, she may be a lot prettier than you, Felicity, but that doesn't matter to me!"

Felicity slams the door in his face.

In the background you hear Felicity's mother say "Felicity - if you slam the door on every boy who puts his foot in his mouth, you're going to need iron hinges."

I guess, then, my point is this: I wonder at how many girls (or boys) have built up ideals for themselves that don't exist, and end up passing by perfectly good opportunities because they are too besotted with something fictional. I don't think it's fair for either side to expect perfection in their companion. I would certainly hope that, if I ever say something stupid (I know, dream big,) or don't look my best, or make a mistake, that my guy won't think less of me, any more than I hope that I would do the same for him. It's all a matter of perspective and patience - recognizing that sometimes our dreams should be altered to fit reality - and coming to the realization that, in the end, reality is often better then some kind of sterile, fantastical dream.

"A Full-fledged Schoolma'am."

This week supplied me with two things I never thought would actually happen. The first is that my keys have, for the first time since I actually got a key, outnumbered the key chains I have. I have five keys now and only four key chains. What is frightening about those keys makes up the second thing I never thought would happen: I have keys to a school, the school alarm system, and my own classroom.

What the heck is this?! When did I grow up enough to have keys to a school?!

I feel very much like Wendy in Peter Pan at the end of Act One when Peter has just been wounded and the two of them are stuck on Marooner's Rock. Peter looks at Wendy and says "Do you think you can fly without me?" Wendy's instant reaction is "No! I'm just a beginner!"

Only the funny thing in this case is that, for the most part, and probably out of naivety, I do feel ready to teach on my own. It's that growing up thing I'm not ready to do yet. I like my Peter Pan fantasies, thank you very much.

I also feel very much like Anne right before she goes to college. She has a conversation with Gilbert about the various "well meaning" individuals she's come across in the days before they leave, each of whom have bits of advice for her, generally leaning toward "Oh, you're so cute and young and innocent. Have fun watching your dreams shatter!"

Well, Anne, welcome to the club. In the last few months I have had a plethora of well meaning people kindly tell me under no uncertain terms that my first year of teaching will involve nothing but shattered ideals, late nights, devil children, and patches of missing hair on my scalp. Each time this happens, there is generally a good deal of "knowing smiles" in which I can practically hear the individual(s) saying things in their heads like 'oh, she's so cute, I wish I were that young and innocent.'

Frankly I'm sick of it.

I GET it. I get that entering the "big girl world", particularly in my line of work, involves a certain amount of disillusionment and reality checking, but how is that any different from any other job? I don't want the pity of everyone in the world when I say with pride that I am a teacher. Nor do I think that "reality" is as bad as people keep claiming it to be. Why must "dreams" always be intangible and "reality" always be based on the lowest most miserable parts of life that we all dread? (And for that matter, since when do the last four years of my life not constitute as "real" because they didn't involve working full time?)

So take that, naysayers. I like my life, thank you very much. And what's more, I don't intend to hate teaching. I also don't intend to give up on dreaming. I'd be as good as dead if I forgot to dream every once in a while.

The Adventures of Gary, Programme Seller/Photo Police

Once upon a time in a far off place called England, in a small town called London, in a theatre called the Criterion, there was a show being performed. This show required that ushers kindly direct people to take their seats. These ushers were also granted the notable task of selling programmes to their patrons for a mere £8 a book. This lovely, shiny book gave information on the cast and supplied a number of ads and photos that made the £8 suddenly seem like a waste of money, but it was the job of the ushers to ensure that those £8 were made and pocketed and no refunds given.

Most ushers did their job faithfully. But Gary was not satisfied with his job. Not quite. There had to be more he could do for the theatre, he thought. Yes, making the theatre money was important. The show could not go on without it! But Gary knew that the theatre was sacred. That the proper respect must be shown. He took it upon himself, then, to do what he could to preserve the sanctity of the lovely pink cushioned theatre.

So, dressed in his purple shirted uniform with his nicely shaggy hair, Gary would turn on his flash radar every evening and, at the slightest irregularity in light, rush to the offender and demand that the camera be put immediately away.

On one evening, however, Gary met his match. Gary met an individual not only practiced in taking pictures without flash, but also excited about the prospect of taking a picture of Gary to put on her blog to include with her story that she had entitled "The Adventures of Gary, Programme Seller/Photo Police" already in her head. She envisioned dozens of pictures of Gary leaping, flying over seats to put his hand in front of cameras. Abandoning his post by the door to soar over guests to teach them a lesson about nice buildings. Images of Gary's annoyed face as he saw a flash go off on the balcony above or the floor below, to which he had no access. It would be beautiful. Glorious. Hilarious. People would laugh.

But alas, the camera battery ran out, thus leading the offensive would be picture taker to decide that Gary was in fact Super Gary and had the ability to suck the life out of any person in the room who would go behind his back and commit such a misdeed while on his watch.

Gary, I solemnly swear never to cross you again. Or attempt to cross you.

(Dirty, smoky place that it is, I can't wait to leave it. . . )

My overall assessment is summed up quite nicely by Fanny Thornton of North and South fame. Parts of Dublin were lovely, and other parts reminded me quite nicely that it is a city to be enjoyed by smokers, drinkers, and "loose women" so to speak. Nice little virginal Mormon women enjoy Dublin in a way that is unlike the way that most other people enjoy Dublin. It was a very nice city that I don't miss is all. If/when I go back to Ireland, I think I'll make time for some of the other cities as well.

The saga that is getting to Edinburgh would take several pages to do justice to, so I'll fill you in on the most important points and let you fill in the blanks:

1. If you book a ticket for the 19th of July, you won't be able to fly on the 9th (Asenath may or may not have been left behind in Dublin overnight. No worries, she's here now.)
2. If you put your hair up with bobby pins, you set off metal detectors and have to be searched (me.)
3. If you put your hair up with bobby pins and you set of metal detectors and have to be searched, then you will probably also lose your ticket in the process.
4. If you lose your ticket, then walk up and down the terminal, go to the bathroom, and continue walking up and down the terminal, then you will probably return to your chair only to feel said ticket slide down your jacket arm (. . . still not sure how that happened)

Point?: We're all in Edinburgh now and excited to go explore the city. With any luck, nothing else will happen and we'll all make it safely to Keswick tomorrow.

"Umm. . . hi?"

Here's a quick funny story for the day.

Today was the "We've got to see everything we can!" day and involved a plethora of museums and busses and picture taking sessions. There are many gems of entertainment value to be had in these experiences (re: posing with the Oscar Wilde statue), but my favorite happened at the IMMA (Irish Museum of Modern Art.)

We were just about to leave. I was still wandering down the hallway when Asenath decided she needed the toilet. I decided I'd go too a few seconds after she went in, just because public loos are kind of a rare thing in this part of the world. It's all about foresight. So I go in. I see two stalls and know that she must be in one of them, right? So I say "hiiiii." And go into my stall.

She doesn't say anything.

I think "she must not have known it was me, whatever," and finish my business. By the time I'm done, she's already outside talking with Shannon who is laughing.

"Asenath came out of the bathroom and said 'so this weird person came in and said hiiiiii to me while I was in the bathroom'."

Shannon looks at her and says, "Asenath, that was Joni."

So now whenever something strange happens, someone says 'hiiiii'.

Maybe you had to be there?

Today's message is brought to you from the Emerald Isle

That's right. I made it. I'm not dead, I'm not drunk, and (although I'm certainly jet lagged), I haven't been dumb enough to get myself arrested or pulled over. Unlike the man in the car near Christ Church Cathedral who was pulled over by a couple of Policemen on horses. Most amazing thing I've seen in my life. Suddenly my career as a teacher seemed even less exciting. What is the noble calling of teaching youth compared with the excitement of a high speed chase on horseback?!

It's good to be back. I'm not competant enough at the moment to write anything incredibly philosophical, so I'm just going to say that every time I remember something I love about this part of the world I get a little more giddy. "Fruit corners! I forgot about those! We have to get one!!" "Oh, I forgot all about black currant juice." Little things. Mostly related to food.

We spent most of the day walking around to keep ourselves from falling prey to sleep too early. Thus far we've done well. I am proud of us. Lots of walking reminds me of the last trip which is good and sore feet remind me even more of the last trip which isn't quite as good but still ok. The hostel is cramped but friendly enough. Other than not having to pay for internet here, nothing much seems to have changed in the method of traveling.

Tomorrow's plan is booked: Try to make it through two or three museums, go to Trinity College and see the Book of Kells, find out what the "Newman House" looks like, go look at the famine monument and Dublin Castle and, after that's all done, go pub hopping at Temple Bar and listen to some live music.

My general reaction to Dublin itself is fairly positive. It's kind of ecclectic as a city. I can't figure it out. I don't think it's a city I would want to live in, just visit. Parts of it are clean and "classic" as far as European architecture goes. Other parts are distinctly square and kind of retro. And there are so many people. They're everywhere. Thank heaven the driving part of our trip is going to be in Oxford and not here - Oxford doesn't scare me nearly as much.

Fast fact for the day: One of the walls in Christ Church is off by 18 centimeters (almost half a meter) because of a structural flaw. It's kind of funny to look at it and go "oh, that's a nice cathedral, it looks like most of the other cathedrals I've been in", and then look again and go ". . . wait. . . " Pretty funny. I'm not sure how well the pictures I took capture it, but it's been fun.

So there it is. Update number one on the crazy random college trip of a lifetime. We're all fed. We don't have the swine flu. We have a roommate but she's a she and she's Asian so she's been very quiet and clean thus far which is nice. I'd feel bad if some bloke showed up with a bunch of Mormon women to out number him.

I interupt my regular display of Anglophilia to bring you a Patriotic display of affection. . .

. . . for the Muppets and all of their amazingness. Watch. Enjoy. I felt more patriotic at the thought that, if nothing else, I live in a country that provides me with entertainment as amazing as this.