he's wittiest when he's mocking me

The other day, Conlin said the following:

"Summers off aren't supposed to refer to your hygiene." 

I think he was referring to the pattern I've developed: 

1. Go to spin class.

2. Contemplate showering but decide What's the point?  I have to coach later, anyway.

3. Coach.

4. Contemplate not showering again because I'm just going to another spin class in the morning.  Except for this time I *cough* normally end up showering.  

The logic behind this routine is this: if I'm already gross and sweaty, I'll be less reluctant to get gross and sweaty again.  Solid, no?

In other news:

I tried a saltwater flush this morning.  The operative word being tried.  

A saltwater flush requires that you chug a quart of salty, warm water.  The first couple sips are reminiscent of broth; quickly, though, it begins to taste like vomit.  And thirty-two ounces is no joke.  But, in the name of good health, I sat down with my mugs of salt water and began to guzzle.  It only took me about 12 ounces to start feeling really sick [I was teary-eyed and muttering anguished exclamations even though I was without an audience], but pushed through determined to wash out all the gunk in my body.  

Turns out, though, I was only adding gunk.  Because I used the wrong type of salt, which renders the process ineffective.  

I can't even-

I just-

[Insert sympathetic expletive here.]

shall I summarize lake powell?

: Firstly, a week in a bathing suit?
Let's just say that I have a renewed determination to hit the gym and cease pizza-scarffing.  Which I guess is good?  Although part of me is like, forget motivational bathing suit trips, I need to find some unfit homies to vacation with!  Then I can simply enjoy the illusion of fitness.  [If you're reading this just to correct my grammar because I'm an English teacher, here's my edit: with whom to vacation. But sometimes correct usage seems stuffy, so allow me to abandon it?]

: Food:
We believe in abandoning all self-respect while at Lake Powell.  So, the only real standing rule is this: no chocolate before 9:00 a.m.  [Did I mention my renewed determination started after getting home?  As is the pattern with all healthy, procrastinated mindsets.]
At one point my brother, Paul, pounded four KitKats in a row and then bellowed at me to toss him another!  [Which I'm pretty sure I did.]  That same brother downed a gargantuan bag of hi-chews during a game of Monopoly.  Later, my sister was relaying the event to my mom, saying, "Paul ate like twenty-five hi-chews!"  Paul heard this and promptly corrected: "I believe the term you were looking for was at least twenty-five hi-chews."
We really were savage.  Candy bars were being dipped in Nutella, Red Vines were being eaten for no reason (because as far as I'm concerned every time a Red Vine is eaten, it's for no reason.  Who really likes those?), water was replaced with soda, etcetera.

: People:
We went with a delightful group of humans.  My sister and brother brought friends and I commend their friend-picking skills.  You know how normally on a trip with 10+ people, there's at least one person you wish you could vote off?  Well, not this trip.  I wanted to keep them all.

Semi-related story: during a past Powell trip, we were getting ready to head back to the Marina and emptied out all the unnecessary liquids and food items to lessen the hassle.  A few minutes into the return trip, the wind really picked up and we were forced to turn around.  We were stranded for another night, but had rid ourselves of the food/beverage supply.  Someone joked about how we might have to eat one of the crew members.  Joke or not, our eyes all landed on the same boy: a truly irksome nine-year-old that had a knack for whining.  It's like we were all assessing how many meals he was worth.

: And now, a tragedy:
We were the first family to use the houseboat this season and found that some birds had built a nest in shading curtains.  When we moved the boat, the mama bird was startled and flew off, leaving the baby. Because we changed locations, she was unable to relocate us.  So we were left with a baby bird incapable of providing for itself.  Before I continue, a picture:

It was actually rather homely, with it's old-man hair, but my dad's a softy for all things animal.  So he took it upon himself to save the bird.  He concocted a dripping device to give it water, researched what type of food it might eat [after being ridiculed by us for feeding it turkey, it's cousin], and made a nest/lounging area for the bird in a plastic bin.  And he named it.  Are you ready for this?

Chirpy-chirp.  But really.  That's what he called it.

Annnnyway...we noticed a Raven circling our boat, so my dad was careful to cover the bird before we left anywhere.  He was seriously attached to this little guy and would check on him after every boat trip.  As you've probably guessed, a tragic scene met us after one particular boat ride.

The bird was nowhere to be seen.  And feathers littered the deck.

It's almost so tragic as to be funny, no?  Or am I a sadist?
Oh, shit, I'm sensing you think the latter.  Okay, I take it back!  Not funny.  Zero funny!  Please don't tell PETA.  And let's just move on:

: Lastly, Bailey-style family turmoil:
Q peed on Paul.  Paul did not take this particularly well because the same thing happened last year, and he had been clear about his I-don't-like-being-peed-on stance.  [Is it odd that you have to have a stance on that in my family?  Like, we don't just assume you don't like being peed on?].  So Paul was justifiably upset and familial tension ensued.  The only reason I share this episode with you is because I have a hunch you'll like how things played out.

After some bitter bargaining, a deal was struck between the brothers.  Paul would forgive Q, if Q let him urinate on his person for ten seconds.  Once the deal was stuck, Paul began chugging Diet Cokes to prepare himself.

Once ready, and in the name of family redemption, they marched onto the beach.  Paul began to pee and Q had to step into the stream and remain stationary for the allotted time.

And now you know how my family resolves conflict.

let's irish goodbye this thing already

I am fine with endings as long as I don't know they're happening.

The other day I thought of an old friend and realized it had been almost two years since I'd seen her.  I thought back to the last time we'd been together and was glad I hadn't known that was the last time.  Because I probably would have ugly cried or something and ain't nobody got time for that.

The past two days have brought about some endings, some ugly cries, and some grateful smiles.  On Thursday night, my brother's soccer team played in the state championship.  It's his senior year and he leaves on his mission shortly after graduation.  They lost, but he was incredible.  As the game came to a close, I found myself crying.  It wasn't necessarily that they lost [although I would have loved to see my brother take home a win], but that this was the end to a chapter.   Watching the supporting crowd mingle with and cheer the players, I thought Q made that school a better place.  He left a mark.  And isn't that the point of things?  To leave them better?

He's going to continue leaving places better.  So it's good he's moving on so that he can leave marks all over.  But it's bittersweet to acknowledge endings regardless.

My classes ended Thursday as well.  Gratefully I get to stay at Lehi, or I would have been a right mess. Friday was yearbook day so I didn't expect to see anyone, but small herds of students found their way to my classroom.   Some of them came to give me gifts along the lines of this:

But others came to say goodbye and thanks.  

Two of the students that dropped by are best friends.  They love skateboarding and anime and have half-grins permanently plastered to their faces.  And they brought me flowers.  

The walked in, handed me the plant, and said, "This is for you."  

I hope they know how happy that simple gesture made me.

Full disclosure? I had Conlin take a full-body shot because--mint shoes.

So with potted plant in hand, my first year of teaching comes to an end.  It was tiring, it was entertaining, it was a lot of things.  But most of all it was something that made me feel just a little bit more alive and more in love with the world.  

oh, for the love

I've found myself saying, "Oh, for the love!" with alarming frequency these past weeks.  The primary agitators being the weather and looming school end.

First, the weather.  I fully admit it has been a unique type of lovely.  But, if you take lovely [read: hot] weather + 32 students + a trailer without air conditioning?  ...you catching my drift?  Rather miserable.  [Although it's nice from a managerial standpoint, in that my students are made lethargic by the heat and yell less.]  Anyway.  We try to make do--we've made paper fans, we've opened windows, we've spouted encouraging things like persevere, and doesn't it feel great to build character?  But.  We all have our breaking points and, to my students' delight, all includes me.  Yesterday, with four minutes to go, I felt a trickle of sweat making its way down my back.  Taking that to be an omen of sorts, I slammed my hands on a nearby desk and bellowed, or more truthfully tried to bellow, "Oh, for the love!  This heat.  You may leave.  I wish you all shade and popsicles."

Other for the love outbursts have been in response to increasingly idiotic end-of-school-year student behavior.  Such as:

Today when a student decided to yell the following during a [miraculously!] quiet activity: "Mrs. Gull! You should name your daughter Stacey so that all her friends can sing, Stacey's Mom! Has got it going on!"  And then, before I could address the inappropriateness of the comment, the class burst out with various forms of, Wait! You're pregnant?  You're having a daughter?  When are you due? I knew you were pregnant!  Etcetera, et-freaking-cetera.  [Who would have thought my students would be more fixated on me having children than my sister?]

Anyway-onward!  Look at what one of my students wore to school the other day:

When I spotted the ensemble I said, "Not that you need a reason, but...is there one?"  To which he simply recited Macklemore lyrics.  To which I nodded, knowingly.

In wrapping up, let me leave you with this horrifying thought:
If I talk this much about my students, can you imagine the psychotic ramblings ahead when I have children?  Oh, for the love.

mr. potter and my lipstick

See the lipstick print on the side of those pages?  This tells you three things about me:

1. I am a devoted lipstick-wearer.

2. I like the smell of books.  [Which led to a sniffing event that ended with an accidental book kiss.]

3. I love Harry Potter.  

how to wake a regan

Let me begin with a sad truth: one night at Lake Powell, after rising from a coma-like nap, I entered the kitchen.  On my brother's sunburnt face were three scabbed-over streaks extending diagonally from forehead to chin.  When I noticed the facial butchery, I asked what happened.  In return, my family just stared at me, disbelieving.  Finally my mother chimed in, "You did that.  When he tried to wake you earlier."  This was clearly horrifying news because I would never consciously inflict physical pain on that adorable, undeserving child.  But sleeping Regan is, unfortunately, a different story.

In short: I am not the kindest person when asleep or in the vicinity of unconsciousness.

So, for those who may ever inherit the unfortunate task of waking me, I have compiled a list of dos and don'ts to consider:

DO: Ensure you have a legitimate cause for waking me.  I will slice your face if you pull me from slumber to discuss something you just ate, a funny comic you read, a movie you're considering watching.  Pretty much: don't wake me up just to talk.  It will take about 30 minutes post wake-up for me to recover my ability to politely converse, so you'll find better company elsewhere.

DO: End whatever you say to me with, "And if you get up soon I'll give you Nutella."  Because, duh.  Nutella.

DO: Start with an apology.  I'm less resentful if you at least seem sorry to end my sleep.  Sometimes Conlin appears almost gleeful when waking me and that doesn't.  Go.  Well.

DON'T: Shove a camera in my face.  This one seems obvious, huh?  Well, tell that to the husband.  I can't even count the number of times I've been aroused by Conlin snapping photos or filming my sleep. I'm pretty sure hell will just be you being repeatedly woken from a nap via camera.

DON'T: Crouch above me and do jazz hands while saying, "But I'm not touching you!  I'm not touching you!" *cough* Conlin.  

DON'T: Wake me up because you're bored.  I took a nap Saturday and Conlin was, I assume, dreadfully restless.  About thirty minutes in my phone started vibrating in the most annoying of fashions.  It wasn't a call, wasn't a text.  Finally I rolled over, and saw the following:

And on....and on.  He sat in bed furiously typing single-word Facebook messages and joyfully listening to my phone's frantic alerts.  In my disgruntled attempts to silence my phone, I knocked my phone off the nightstand and followed with something intelligent like, "Yeah, and stay there."  Oh, how Conlin delighted in my confused tantrum.  I appreciate the situational comedy now, but the humor was lost on me Saturday.

Anyway, in closing: if you must ever wake me?  Consult the above list and then, for good measure, invest in a face mask, long sleeves, and maybe some gloves.

book talk: the book thief

Here's a statement for you: this is one of the best books I have ever read.  And--shall I brag a little?--I've read a lot.

When I finished it, I closed the book reverently and stared at my ceiling in a grateful and humble stupor.  Conlin walked in a few minutes later and, adore him though I do, I needed a few minutes to recover before I could converse with another human.  It's that good.

Zusak's approach to world war two is flawlessly innovative.  Considering all the literature that's been produced about the war, innovation is hard to come by; and sometimes, when it's there, it's so strained as to dilute the message.  But Zuzak's approach--with death as the narrator--left me feeling better connected to the human conditions of the time than maybe any literature surrounding the war.  Or maybe this was just the literature I needed at this time in my life.

A QUICK CONCESSION 

This is a book that demands 

something from its reader-

that they become better.  

Better thinkers,

better feelers,

better humans.

That may sound scary [that it demands from its reader] but it's also delightful in an effortless way.  It's almost like Zuzak tricks you into becoming a more empathetic human; you'll likely be too busy enjoying his prose to realize he's sculpting you into a meaningful person.