Packing.

Packing.

Throwing copious amounts of stuff away.

Pack some more.

Grading, teaching, grading, testing.

Frantically visiting friends.

DC next week to leave Trav behind.

Europe the week after.

Then back to Utah to teach my final semester at UVU.

We're finally leaving.

Molly

Three weeks ago today, my 16-year-old cousin Molly got up in the morning and didn't feel well. She trudged down the stairs to tell her mom that she wanted to stay home from school and was going back to bed. My auntie knew that Molly had been feeling a little off, feverish and such, for the past few days, so she didn't think much about it. Molly went back to bed and slept and slept and slept. And slept.

Sometime in the early afternoon, my aunt went into Molly's room to check on her. She had, after all, been sleeping for more than even the average teenager should sleep. Auntie called her name, shook her, tried to wake her up, to no avail. She was breathing, but not responding. An ambulance was called. Molly was admitted to the hospital and dozens of tests were run. Still nothing.

By Friday morning, things weren't looking so good. Molly's brain had swelled during the night, and it was no longer responding to the tests the doctors were running. The family, hoping for the miracle Molly deserved, called Molly's two older sisters and told them to come back from college right away. But by the time they arrived late Friday night, Molly was brain dead. They kept her breathing long enough for the family to say good bye.

Molly was my younger sister Kate's best friend and like a sister to us. Like a sister in all the ways you have a sister- all the fun, as well as irritations, of a sister. She and Kate used to torture Kristi and me (though I'm sure if you ask them, they would say it was the other way around). They were annoying and loud and giggly and messy and juvenile. They were also adorable and funny and sometimes even sweet. Molly spent half of her time at my house, and Kate spent half of her time at Molly's house. Sometimes when they had slumber parties, I would make them pancakes for breakfast and pretend to be the waiter. They had to call me sir, or I wouldn't respond. When I did reply, it was only in a British accent. Sir didn't speak American.

Molly was one of the wittiest people I ever knew. Sometimes she and T-rav and I would make snarky comments about whoever was hanging around us. We would laugh about little things under our breath and then refuse to reveal their meaning. She understood jokes way beyond her years.

Molly was smart, beautiful, athletic, popular, and a little spoiled, but most of all, and most importantly, she was nice. Everyone who knew her loved her. Over 1000 people came to her calling hours; there were nearly 900 at the funeral, including her entire sophomore class. Everyone talked about how kind and friendly Molly was. She talked to the lonely girl in gym class or always smiled at the nerdy kids. She definitely wasn't perfect. But she was compassionate and thoughtful. And loving.

We don't know why Molly died. It makes me inexpressibly angry that she was taken from us, from Kate, her sisters, and especially from her parents. How do you go on with life when something like this happens? Why did this tragedy happen? I wonder when and if the anger will ever go away. This is the type of tragedy that is better read in a Reader's Digest article and not experienced on your own. It's not supposed to happen.

I know that somehow life will continue, somehow my poor aunt and uncle will carry on, somehow life will regain a sense of normalcy. But we will never forget her.

Molly, I love you.

si, yo hablo

One of the most amusing parts of being an ESL teacher is tricking your students in to thinking you don't speak their language when actually you do. You hear all sorts of things you're not supposed to...like who is at home in bed rather than in class because they stayed up too late playing video games, or who is actually on vacation and not visiting their dying aunt, or who so-and-so is dating, etc. And swear words. It's really quite entertaining.

But the funny thing is, sometimes I make it more than obvious that I understand what they're saying, and they still have no idea. For example, a student might lean over to a friend during class and ask the translation of a word in their native language. But before the friend can reply with the translation, I might supply it for them. The students rarely bat an eyelash; they continue on as if it was perfectly natural that their English speaking teacher could have translated their language.

At some point during nearing the end of the semester, they usually get around to asking me what and how much I speak. If their native language is among the list, there are usually exclamations of shock, excitement, and, quite possibly, dismay: "You mean you understood us all along?"

Yes, yes, I did. Ha!

bountiful baskets

I bought my first share in a food co-op the other day. Here's what $15 got me:

4 tomatoes

3 mangoes from Guatemala in perfect ripeness

3 yellow squash, slightly hail damaged

1 pineapple

1 huge bunch of spinach

5-lbs of yellow (my favorite!) potatoes

10 apples

10 delicious juicy oranges

7 bananas, very green

2 lbs green beans

2 turnips

Here's how it works: you sign up on the website (bountiful baskets) on Monday or Tuesday for a location near your house- and you have to be quick about it because the sites fill up fast- and on Saturday, at a designated time, you go pick up your produce from someone's back yard or business or greenhouse. It's mostly local produce (except for during the winter, when it's Arizona or Mexico local), and organic baskets are also available. ($25/basket). You never know what you're going to get; each week is different. And it's a lot of food.

a rant about a ten-year-old

I have a confession: I've spent the past few weeks grumbling about 3 particular 10-year-olds in my dance class. I complain about them on the way to dance, and then rant about them on the way home. You might be wondering how can a fully grown, mostly adult person could spend her time thinking about and being irritated by someone less than half her age.

Well let me tell you.

Thanks to my current teaching schedule, I get to the studio exactly as dance is about to start or, more likely, a few minutes late. I run in with my bag in hand, ready to rip off my teaching clothes and fling on my dance clothes. It would take me all of 3 minutes. But as I rush in, I notice the lone bathroom is occupied. "Who's in there?" I ask. It's no surprise that it's girl #1, who's been changing for at least 7 minutes. Oh, and did she get to class 10 minutes early? And did she spend her time gossiping with the other girls rather than change? Yes, yes, she did.

I wait by the door while class starts warming up. And I keep waiting. When girl #1 finally gets out and I finish getting changed, I'm well over 10 minutes late. Great. I go join the rest of the class and try to hear the instructions being hollered at us by the teacher- hollered because someone is clomping out some beats with her hard shoes while the rest of us are trying to hear. Oh yes, it's girl #2.

Some of us turn to #2 and tell her to stop. She smirks at us with her beady eyes and jowly face and pauses just until we turn around to listen. The clomping starts again. And when it's time to do our group dance, guess who's in the wrong spot and doing the wrong steps with bad form and terrible posture? Yep, it's #2.

Until this point #3 has been silent, but that's because she's been hiding in the back with her friend. Now that she's in with the rest of the class, the questions start. "Miss Jo, can I be the leader? Miss Jo, can I show everyone the step? Miss Jo, I want to be on the first line! Miss Jo, can I be Harry Potter if she doesn't show up? (this is for our group dance) But if she doesn't show up, can I do her part? I want to be Harry Potter! Miss Jo, she pushed me! Oh, I already know this step; let me be the leader!" All of this wouldn't be so unbearable if it didn't cause a riot among the other dancers. No one wants to let this girl have her way, and for good reason.

At the end of class, my friend and I are discussing what type of solo dress we'd like to buy when #1 walks past and hears the word "dress." She butts into our conversation, spewing forth mindless drivel about the new dress she got and how great she looks in it and how it means she's so advanced and how it will help her win all the medals at the next competition.

My irritation level is rising just thinking about this. And yes, I realize that makes me a very petty person.

winter blues trip #1

Last week was a glorious one for one main reason: I only went to work for 1.5 days. Monday was a holiday and Wednesday we left for a trip to San Diego to visit my brother.

Bro-ter, as I like to call him, was graduating from recruiting school for the marines (much to his dismay- no one really wants to be a recruiter. It's like being a missionary except without any of the spiritual blessings associated with religion and a lot of cold calls and public speaking. Yuck). And since I'd never had the pleasure of visiting a military base, we popped in for the occasion.

Our first night there we stayed on base in "billeting," which is a weird word for fancy barracks for soldiers on a short-term stay or their visiting families. Think dorm room circa 1960. After bro-ter's graduation, we hung around San Diego with him until his flight left. Although I felt a bid morbid doing so with a marine brother, we spent about an hour wandering around a navy cemetery, pristinely located on a peninsula overlooking the bay and Pacific ocean. Beautiful.

The next day the sun finally succumbed to my pleadings and showed its face for a few hours in the afternoon.

It was here that we spent my favorite part of the trip: watching the sea lions and seals sun themselves. They looked like big dead blobs on the beach, but I assure you, they were very much alive. I NEED one.

We also visited the statue modeled after the famous picture of the sailor kissing a nurse. There was a posse of teenage Italian students that arrived there just before us, and like all Italians, they dominated the whole area with their loud Italian chattering while their chaperon directed each of them to imitate the famous kiss. I think ours beat theirs.

She's a HE?

T-rav posted this on his family's blog. I thought I'd share it with all of you.

Have you ever gone through life thinking that something was one way and then it turned out to be the other? We've had a chicken for four months that we thought was a hen. When we bought her she was too young to lay eggs, so we didn't worry too much about her. The other two hens we bought at the same time started laying eggs about a month ago, but Blackie never did. We did our internet homework and found out that chickens of her breed don't like to lay eggs in cold weather so we made some excuses for her. Yesterday I observed some suspicious barnyard/backyard behavior involving the chicken in question and another hen and I knew I needed to go back to the source of all light and knowledge in the world...the internet. I found the above picture and our "hen" looks suspiciously more like the one the right than the left. "She" also fits a whole lot of other patterns that make "her" a "him". So it turns out that our late blooming hen is actually a rooster. I feel kind of confused and both Kelly and I have had a hard time changing to masculine pronouns when referring to Blackie.

I think the most helpful bit of information that I found for how to tell the difference between a Black Jersey Giant hen and rooster was the one that told me to look into their eyes. A hen has a peaceful absent sort of look in her eye while a rooster should have an intense look with a glimmer of anger or rage. Today we made sure to look our chicken in the eye and sure enough, there is a fire burning behind those beady black eyes.

-Trav

lame duck books

I used to believe it was a terrible sin to quit reading a book without finishing it. I clearly remember reading one particularly awful book upon the recommendation of a friend (called The Clan of the Cave Bears. The title should have been enough to tip me off, I know) and being either scandalized or bored out of my mind. Yet I kept plodding through, waiting for it to get better. It never did. It's not that I really thought the author would suddenly morph into an amazing writer or that the plot would get interesting 10 pages before the end. I just couldn't leave it unfinished. The remaining pages would haunt me, and whenever I saw the book sitting on my shelf, I'd be tempted to pick it back up and see how it ends.

Luckily, as a moderately speedy reader, I've been able to keep the time-wasting to a minimum. Not to say that I haven't read plenty of worthless books over the years- it pains me to think of all the pages spent on badly written material when I could have been reading something better.

So lately I've begun to reevaluate my policy. I started reading a book last spring that I just couldn't get into. I hated the writing style, the plot was confusing, and the characters flat and uninspiring. After about 100 pages, I put it down. Last week I started a book I got for Christmas from T-rav (one that I thought I wanted to read) and I'm thinking about dropping that one as well. I feel like I've given it a fair chance to persuade me to keep reading. If a book can't interest me after 210 pages, what's the point?

control freaks

I'm perfectly willing to admit that I can be a bit controlling. A bit. When I think I know how to do something, I think everyone should naturally do it my way. Who doesn't? But fortunately, I don't think I'm the best at everything, nor do I have answers to every question or solutions to every problem. And very unfortunately, I'm more and more often becoming surrounded by people whose level of control-freak-ness rivals that of Stalin. Or Hitler.

I'm finding it exceedingly difficult to hold my tongue. How can I not say something when blatant lies and/or misinformation are spewing forth out of the mouth gaping back at me? When the justification just won't stop coming, even when my coat is on, bag over one shoulder, hand is on the knob and foot our the door. When there's a conspiracy around every corner, but no amount of factual evidence or detailed explanation can convince the person they might be wrong. Or when the "answers" to the problem actually have nothing to do with the actual problem.

Fighting back with passive aggressive notes aren't my style. I prefer to directly tackle the problem (or rant about it on my blog). But what to do when I've addressed the problem(s) directly, and still nothing comes of it? My approach thus far has been that of peacemaker, but my tolerance for peace is waning. I'm starting to realize that you can't rationalize with people like this. You also can't change their minds.

I should just be in charge.

a fender bender

On our way to school just barely past our house on our street, T-rav notices a large sedan sitting at a stop sign on the left, waiting to cross the street. I am just driving along, not speeding, not poking, just going, paying attention to my surroundings, but also trying to see through our very dirty windshield while chatting with T-rav. I suddenly hear him saying "Tia, tia, TIA" and I finally look over to see that the car sitting at the stop sign is no longer sitting. She's attempting to cross the street, but obviously hasn't looked to see if anyone is coming. I simultaneously slam on the brakes, curse, and honk, hoping that she will see me and stop.

She doesn't.

Luckily, we both slow down enough that when I finally ram into her, it's not very hard. I'm instantly enraged. I try to zip after the moron I just hit, but find that I can't. In the split second of panic during impact, I took my foot off the clutch and killed the car. I start up the engine, squeal away, and park just beyond the red sedan. I'm ready to get out and rage at the idiot who doesn't know how to drive when I see that it's the nicest little old lady from our ward. I can't yell at her. I feel bad because I know she's probably a lot more shaken than I am. I also realize that I kind of enjoyed the sensation of ramming into another car (Trav later suggests that I should become a derby car driver).

I pull the key out of the ignition and leap out of the car with no thought of anyone's physical well-being. Who cares if someone is injured- what about my car! How much is this going to cost me! I later wonder what it says about my personality that my first thought in a crisis is always of the expense of the repair and never my health. The little frau I hit asks if we're ok while admitting that it was her fault; she was thinking about how she was going to get across the busy intersection a few streets ahead rather than the one she was driving on. She didn't look for cars coming the other way.

We're lucky- our front bumper is scraped up and slightly cracked, but no serious damage done. Her insurance should easily cover it. Our little frau is less lucky- I hit her right in the wheel, leaving it bent at a strange angle. We're not sure she should drive on it, but she insists it's ok. I think she's quite shaken but doesn't want to admit it. As we chat I start feeling guilty- I should have driven slower (slower than 25?), I should have looked more carefully (but she crossed without looking), and worst of all, the thought that T-rav would have slowed down in time if he had been driving!

We exchange numbers, and she reminds us where she lives so we can come over and sort things out later. I wish to myself that I had hit a nasty punk 19 year old I could have yelled at. Who can be mad at grandma? We hop back in our cars and go about our day. A few blocks from school, I remind T-rav that he better not even think for 1 second that he could have avoided our accident. It has nothing to do with me being a good or bad driver. I admit that I'm overly concerned about being considered a good driver and hope this doesn't tarnish my good record, for today was my very first accident.