Massachusetts A - Z

During my recent family vacation to Massachusetts, my dad, sister and I offered each other photo challenges.  Mine was A-Z. Some of these pictures were taken with a letter in mind. Others were assigned to a letter afterward. Enjoy!

A - Alleyways and streets which demand exploration  (Boston)                                 

B - Boston, a modern city with history around every corner

      C - Clover fields, cranberry bogs, and old cemeteries pop up unexpectedly (Plimoth Plantation; Boston)

  D - Dahlias and so many other beautiful flowers everywhere (Heritage Museum and Gardens in Sandwich)

E - The 'Everyman' calls Massachusetts home (Rockport)

F - Foggy mornings and afternoons in the salty sea air (Rockport)

G - Generations of family members loving and learning from each other 

(Grandma and great-granddaughter Claire)

H - New England's Holocaust Memorial (Boston)

I - The luck of the IRISH for the NBA finals in downtown Boston

J - Jetty's sometimes lead you to what's beyond the fog (Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod)

K - Knot-tying was a must to sail the seas to the Americas (Mayflower replica, Plymouth)

L - Lobster, and the means by which it ends up on my plate!

M - Motif #1, the most painted structure in New England, in Rockport

N - Nevermore (my nod to Poe, who was born in Boston)

O - Ocean breezes, sounds, and sea life (Provincetown)

P - Patriots, alive and long dead (Sturtevant Cemetary, est 1728, Halifax)

Q - Quincey Market, along the Freedom Trail at Faneuil Hall in Boston

R - Red Sox baseball at home in Fenway Park (Boston)

S - Skiffs lined up to take their owners to their fishing boats in Rockport

T - Taking the T is the easiest way to get around the city.

U - Unpretentious; there isn't the pomp and glitz of Europe, but America's past and present are nevertheless amazing and inspiring (Wampenog Village, Plimoth Plantation)

V - Villages; from living history museums to all of the little towns we drove through during our comings and goings, small-town is the way to go (English Settlement, Plimoth Plantation)

W- Whethered by cold winters and hot, humid summers, paint doesn't stand a chance (Fenway Park grandstand seating, Boston)

X - Xanadu, a place of beauty.  There is a lot of it to be found in this glorious state (Rockport storefront)

Y - Reminders of Years gone by, as well as how far we've come as a nation and people.

Z - Zest of life and vernacular, seasoned air, bustling traffic - however you choose to define this word, just look around you - Massachusetts has it!

Another School Year Ends

And what a year it was! I get nostalgic at the end of every school year - thinking about all that the graduating seniors have ahead of them (and being a bit jealous), having to say goodbye to some that I wish you could keep around forever, even feeling a pang of sadness that some of my favorites of the year will be in other parts of the building and I won't see them often if at all. High school is this weird social experiment where a bunch of students of all interests, maturity levels, and abilities are thrown into a classroom together for what sometimes seems to be too long to humanly endure each other, but that same length of time that could push a person over sanity's edge is the same length of time to really start caring about these kids. But that dynamic that develops in the classroom changes when I don't see them every day, when I don't have to sit in the same room with them all and hope for the best on the worst of days. Another group will come along to fill in the empty space, but I am forever changed by the ones that were there before. Here's to another fun year filled with great experiences and students!

Helping a former student ask a girl to homecoming ("I'd 'P' my pants if you would go to the dance with me.")

Danna, Ann and I watching while our students play outdoor games.

All year I've had a website that I devotedly updated with each day's assignments, activities, what needed to be turned in, and downloadable assignments. I quickly discovered after adding a visit counter to my site that I was the only one looking at it when I was updating it! When my students would have excuses as to why they didn't know about an assignment because they were absent, I would ask them if they were checking the website. The always said no. (I asked them a lot.) I would remind them to be checking the site. They still didn't

On the very last day of school, a few students from my A-2 class came in and told me to pull up the website. STRANGE! When I got there, I just started giggling. A few of them got together and spent their night going to my website so that the visitor counter read 999. When I pulled it up, I was visitor 1000. I gotta love 'em for...something!

A few students in my B-3 class and I would discuss...ok, complain about the final season of LOST. This was their gift to me on the last day of school.

These two were my shadows most of the year. I'll miss them, but I have a feeling I'm not rid of them just yet.

I don't know if this is a joke or a compliment, but either way it's hilarious!

I've commented many a time about how my students razz me for being a GB Packer fan. My B-4 class was my naughtiest this year, so when I walked in a few minutes late one day and they were dead silent and all staring at me, I knew something was up. Oh, how I know my students!

A few students (from B-4, nonetheless) stole a dry erase marker and wrote encouraging and silly notes all over my car windows. I didn't notice this one until I was almost home. And how right they are.

Claudia's Flower

There is a tulip named after my beloved twin sister. When buying the bulbs to plant the garden at the high school (see this post), I came across them and had to buy a bag as a homage to someone who has listened and suggested to many a teaching story/complaint/cry of desperation. My first actual day of teaching was only accomplished because of her. My sanity after a frustrating day is often because of her. So now, for the next few years at least, Claudia will be stretching toward the sun at the heart of the school each spring. I love you Claudia!

Round Robin Photo Challenge: Statues

I came across the Round Robin Photo Challenge blog when I was looking for challenge ideas to give to my sister and dad as we prepare to travel to Massachusetts next week. I've been to MA few times through the years, and most recently two years ago. Knowing I would be visiting a lot of the same sites as I did two years ago, but having a desire to avoid redundancy with my pictures, I offered a challenge to Claudia so that I would in turn be given a challenge. I found this site, want to jump in (all are welcome) to the photo challenges, and went to the SUU campus to photograph statues I've seen dozens of times in -hopefully - interesting ways. Check out the website to see what other participants came up with!

Ok, so I took this one last summer at the Louvre, but I took so many photos of statues while in Europe that I had to make a shout-out to one of my favorites!

"Two paths diverged in a wood..."

Two weeks ago, I saw a clip on CBS Sunday Morning about two men with the same name but very different lives (see segment below). It made me think about the time I once saw a punked-out woman about my age at a UPS store, her hair blond with a pink stripe, tattoos, short shorts, and skulls and hearts on her fingerless elbow gloves, talking with the clerk about how she was joining the Peace Corps and heading to Africa where they were in desperate need of French speakers, which she just happened to be. I was jealous slightly that she could pick up and go. She walked out just before me and got into the same car I was driving. Different color, but otherwise the exact same car. Oh, and the "Rock Slut" sticker stuck to her back window. I felt like I had crossed paths with my alter ego. I used to love to go to concerts of the rowdy persuasion. Heck, I had even been in a band (though I would never claim to be the rock slut of the group). I had chosen to become a teacher and was at UPS sending back a globe when I had ordered a map of the world. She had chosen to become, well, a Peace Corps something-or-other and was going to see the world. Yet we had both chosen the same car. This is what I thought about as I heard the story of these two men who share the name Wes Moore - one a graduate of Johns Hopkins, the other serving a life sentence prison term for murder, who each happened to grow up in the same Baltimore neighborhood.

Later that evening, I was getting my things ready to bring to work the next day when I picked up the book True Notebooks: A Writer's Year at Juvenile Hall by Mark Salzman, which I had checked out from the school library weeks before but hadn't touched. I decided I would just bring it back, but as I got into bed, I cracked it open and began reading, to double check, I guess, if it would be yet another book I wouldn't get sucked in to. I couldn't put it down. It is Salzman's memoir about his experiences teaching a writing class to teenagers with life sentences for murder (mostly gang-related) in LA County's youth corrections system. I laughed and cried my way through and thought a lot about choices - the breaks we get and the ones we don't; how we handle the consequences of the choices we make; how, when and why we choose to get involved or stay out of things; the opportunities we have to make a difference that we take or pass up - and how I am grateful that I had parents who were around enough to teach me how to make good choices. How I had friends that didn't try to bring me down when I was at the vulnerable age where I could have been much more easily swayed. How I had teachers that pulled me aside when they noticed that I was acting different or my grades weren't what they usually were. Those things don't always make a difference, but often times they do, and not everyone has had the set and quantity of "guiders" that was dealt out to me. Regardless of the choices that we make though, we are all worth something - with as much worth as how much or how little time as it takes any of us to make a split-second choice and live with the consequences of it.

One quote in particular has stayed with me from that book, and somehow it connects to all of my ramblings. I have written it on the white-board in my classroom. I am delighted with how many students have asked me about it, though I have said nothing to draw attention to it:

Our world cannot be complete without you, and without hearing what you have to say. True justice cannot exist without compassion; compassion cannot exist without understanding. But no one will understand you unless you speak, and are able to speak clearly. (Sister Janet to all the students, page 155)

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Adventures of an Aunt - New Baby Sarah Edition

After wasting hours of time of the last three days trying to upload this video only to realize that the file size was too big, I edited it down after teaching myself how to use Windows Movie Maker. This clip is one of many adorable musing of my niece Rori (almost 2) and especially nephew Mikey (3 1/2) when they met their new sister Sarah for the first time Wednesday night.

The next day:

The softest little angel herself:

The Fruits of Our Labors

Back in October and November, the service club and Cedar High, of which I am advisor, embarked on a big project. There is a courtyard in the middle of the school, but in the six years since I have been teaching, it has been used usually once by the faculty in the spring when we have an end-of-the-year cookout and potluck lunch. It's been this great space but completely under-utilized and, frankly, really sad looking. So I had the idea for the Athena club to spruce it up a bit.

About five years ago (so people say), one of the clubs planted tulip bulbs out there. I would guess that it was much longer than that because only a few tulips would come up haphazardly around the courtyard, filled in by a lot of weeds and grass. One of the problems for any planting projects is that there is no direct water source; all water needs to come from within the building and can be rather messy. Anything that is planted has a tendency to get cooked by the hot sun, so having a lot of summer flowers isn't practical, hence the spring bulbs. Another issue is the soil quality. There is none. The dirt is hard as rock out there, and after digging around, there are all sorts of 'treasures' such as broken brick, ceramic, bolts... A third problem I encountered when I let the teachers know of the project (in part to beg for funds and help from other clubs) was with the reception I got from a few others at the school. Those who had planted the previous batch of bulbs out there were a little...defensive? Telling me it would be a shame to destroy the ones out there; there were about 500 bulbs currently; that I needed to dig everything up so as not to waste what others had done. I was kind of frustrated. How was I going to dig all of them up when I didn't even know where they were? How was I going to dig at all since the ground was so hard? And with all of the weeds, who was going to tell me what was a real plant and what was garbage? And did these people not remember how few flowers were coming up each spring? Most of what was out there was probably baked dead anyway, not to mention that, according to my sources from various Google searches, bulbs have about a 5 year life before needed to be refreshed. Needless to say, I had absolutely no gardening experience, had bitten off a lot more than I knew I could swallow, and was easily being discouraged by the less-than-helpful comments of some of my coworkers.

But begin we did. We started with a drenching of the dirt and weeding what we could - there was one humongous thistle that gave us a run for our money!! About 15 girls showed up for this. After that we tilled - Ok, I did. In flip flops. Dumb move, but now I know for any future tilling projects what the appropriate footwear is. We were out there for a while, but it helped me assess how much more work we had to do and that topsoil was needed.

A few weeks later came the bulb planting. I wanted the "Secret Garden," so I purchases about 700 daffodils, crocuses, and tulips. But 700 did not seem like nearly enough once we started setting them out. And I didn't buy nearly enough topsoil to feel good about it. And only 7 girls showed up. Seven! Out of three clubs that were invited, including National Honor Society (only 1 showed up from that). And then half of them had to leave early for other things. Two other teachers and I stayed until about 6:30 one night after school finishing up. I was even more disheartened.

And then came the waiting. And hoping. And more waiting. Winter. Thaw. More winter and thaw. And then...

Spring!




Teachers and office staff are emailing me and stopping me in the halls to say thanks. They are eating lunch out there. Another teacher contributed lawn furniture, a bird bath, iron decorations, and bird feeders. It's not the secret garden. There are packed areas and really sparse ones. But it is ours. Success sure is        
                                          sweet smelling!

Never's

Never before had I noticed how tall he was,
standing next to my brother
at the deli counter
as he ordered his coffee
and my roast beef on white - hold the mustard.

In the profile of his jaw
was a cool confidence I never knew
he had
because I hadn't ever looked.

But as he slid the money across the counter
and I ate the first meal
he ever bought for me,
I savored my time
with this man I was just now discovering,
deciding then that a roast beef sandwich
had never before tasted
so good.

Little Fish

Steven had beautiful eyes.
Big black ones with long dark lashes
that matched the thick wisps on his head.
A perpetual river from his nose led to a mouth
full of shy grin.
The victim of teasing about
everything and nothing.

The four of us,
little girls on a big block,
spent hours on the swing set beneath
the branches of the chestnut tree
that shed its nuts with spiked husks,
and I only remember him
once or twice in all of those young summers,
standing along the dividing fence,
the rhubarb growing up and out of the garden
by his feet - was the radio's tune what lured him
out to us? sharks teasing him about
everything and nothing
because everyone did.

But I still remember those
beautiful eyes and that shy grin
and how awful I felt
but didn't know how to say sorry,
hoping he didn't believe me
whatever it was I said.

Champion

The ice hung in daggers

from the eave of the garage,

creating a gauntlet to those who walked below,

and despite reason

I inched treacherously close,

mesmerized by its sheen like clean glass

And finding one fallen, hidden in the bed of snow,

I brandished it like a crystal sword

as I controlled nature

until it escaped between my fingers,

soaking my gloves.

The Work of Women

I never liked cooking until I made my first soup.
This work of women to feed hungry mouths
was no desire of mine to claim,
but I resigned myself
with the leftovers of a celebration
not to be wasted.

Not until the onions stained my fingers with
pungence and the amber stock
became a means of sustenance to satisfy life
did I feel the power that this
potion of nutriment could have
in turning me into a woman.

The Painter's Audience

Mr. Ott down the street
painted statues in his garage.
Religious ones.
Gave face-lifts to faded colors.
And the Virgin shined mournfully beautiful,
her red lips haunting,
while beside her on both sides
was her son,
His arms frozen,
outstretched with pierced palms out.
Two effigies - of both the suffering and the salvation

Through the fumes of acrylic spray
I felt reverence,
close to the sacred somehow
in that paint splattered
garage down the alley
where the shirtless smoking man worked,
and I stood in awe at Their feet,
waiting, half hoping
They would speak to me.
But scared that they would,
I pedaled away
pondering what it meant
to truly believe.

Pockets Full

I collect stones.
Mostly flat and smoothed
on the beaches where they've
been tumbled from
who knows where.

I like to imagine them
drifting from a distant shore
where someone else
stood in a salty breeze
with a pocketful like me,
compelled to pick them up
to study the messages of
time and long-suffering
they carry

and that only we who reach for them
can read.

April is National Poetry Month

About a year ago, I eagerly anticipated hearing back if I won anything from the poetry contest I entered -I was really just hoping to make the top 50 and have the chance to be published.  I entered three poems and then waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Nothing happened.  I couldn't post what I had entered because the contest rules prohibit previously posted work, including what has been shown on a blog.  Alas, I did not stun the judges with my mad writing skills.  But I am grateful to my friend Tasha who pushed me to enter to begin with and then for reminding me through her blog that it is NPM.  I have started teaching my poetry unit to my 9th graders, and am looking around for some inspiration to start writing myself again.  Between Tasha adding poems and commentary to her blog every other day and the endearing - if not sometimes grumblingly labored - writing of my students, I am hopping that I can add to my own arsenal of poetic musings.  While I may not be up to par to be published in Writers Digest magazine, I started writing before I knew about them and I hope I will always take the risk of trying and failing at things I truly love to do.  Here is one of the poems that I submitted.

"Birth"

The nest clung to a rotting board
in a dark corner of the garage
among rusty tools and buckets and drop cloths.

It stuck there like a pimple on the wood,
an intricate orb.
Its density was breached by a tiny hole
out of which hundreds of spiderlings flowed,
like water from a burst dam, that began as a
trickle until the wall of darkness
could contain them no more and out they erupted
into the light -

diminutive in their size, frightening in their numbers
had I not seen them for those few moments
as infants
in the first breaths of life.

Adventures of an Aunt - Claire Edition

Claire came to visit, and I couldn't have been more delighted with the time I spent with her. She is at that fun age where she is learning new words, how to talk, and loves cuddling up with a good book and a person to read it with her! While her mom and dad were away, I got some quality alone time with Claire, and we played and giggled our way to a friendship. She is just so darn cute!!!

Unbeknown to me, this is the first time Claire said either of these words (if I recall correctly). So have I been admitted into the circle of trust? Uh, yes. Yes I have. Will subsequent photo's take me off of that list? Quite possibly yes.

There is always a pose or facial expression that a beloved baby spontaneously picks up, but it is so hard to capture in a photo. Or it finally is captured - after many attempts - and it is blurry. This was one of those. Sigh. But Claire's new way of sitting is too precious to forget!
Name two things that are disgusting on adults but adorable on a baby...
Name one thing that not cute on an adult OR on a baby...

I love you Claire! Thanks for playing!

Adventures of an Aunt - Rori Edition

She is too cute. She knows it. I smell a storm

a-brewin'. The perfect storm.

"More cookie pease" followed by "SunBEAM!" A natural

follow-up to getting what you want. You might

even call it a victory chant.

The master manipulator at work! Using suggestive

body language, she waves her hands as though leading

you to vote in her favor. She says "More cookie?" but what

she means with the addition of the hand motions is "Look

into my eyes...you are getting sleepy...

you have the power to make me very unhappy OR very

pleased...you want me to be happy, don't you?...You know

what to do...do the right thing...give me the cookie..."

It's confusing when there are there are three women

in the room who tell me what to do but they all get

called something different even though they look

like sisters!

The times, they are a-changing.

I was saddened today by the reality of the world we live in. My classes have just recently finished To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee's classic coming-of-age story. For the last few years, I haven't shown the Academy Award winning movie in its entirety because I've had a hard time getting the students to actually watch it. They spend more time complaining about how much they "hate old movies" and gasping, "Oh, you mean it's in black and white?" that I haven't bothered (with how often they beg to see movies in class, and how I haven't shown one all year, you'd think they'd just be excited regardless of what it was!). I could only manage to show the trial scene of Tom Robinson and keep their attention.

Well, with some of my classes, I decided I would show the whole thing because of scheduling issues elsewhere. After the initial complaining, the kids actually started to get into it. I was very pleased. As the movie starts to wrap up, there is a pivotal scene right at the end of the movie (and book) where the neighborhood "phantom" Arther "Boo" Radley, who nobody has scene in over 15 years and has a suburban full of rumors in tow, saves children Scout and Jem from the murderous attack of the villain of the story. Scout, the main character and narrator, is finally face to face with the person who has filled her young head with so many wild imaginings, only to learn that Boo is not at all the scary and twisted character she and so many others imagined, and in fact has saved her and her brother's lives. She spends a few moments alone with him, they stare quietly and with concern at Jem, and she even encourages him to "pet" her unconscious older brother on the head while he is still asleep; she can tell that that is what he wants to do.

The problem? Enter the interpretations of students growing up in our modern world. A world where leaving a child alone with a strange man is dangerous. A world where a man who follows children, as Boo Radley did, is a pedophile. A world where a strange man staring at and petting on the head a child is not to be trusted. A world where a father who leaves his kids alone with a person who is rumored to peek in windows at night and lurks in shadows is irresponsible because of the dangers and what-if's that are rampant. And in this present that exists, my students snickered, gasped, and gaped at the wholly innocent and touching scene that closes the movie.

I hope and pray that To Kill A Mockingbird, arguably one of the best known and loved of American novels, stays relevant but more so that we never get to the point where kindness and tenderness are so unrecognizable that they disappear forever.

Why I Do It

Today I was reminded why I became a teacher. I saw a defeated student transform into a smiling victor as I sat and helped him make corrections to a pretty iffy persuasive essay - an essay that he had written and turned in himself and on time. I had my doubts if he even would because he's an at-risk student, complete with the list of stereotypes that go along with his situation, so even though I've spent a lot of time working with this kid for the past few months, I am used to students like him bailing out on me. He didn't let me down. He did the original assignment even though I'm pretty sure he knew it wouldn't be very good when he did it to begin with. I was pretty tough on his paper, evident by all of the red corrections and comments that even the strongest of heart would find daunting. The students were given an all-or-nothing 100 point assignment to correct their mistakes. I figured that he would probably take one look at those red marks and decide then and there that he would never be able to complete what was asked, or at best that he would do a half hearted job two weeks after it was due and after I would bug him about it for days. Instead, he asked for help when we went to the lab today instead of waiting for me to come to him (often naggingly) like he has in the past. The bell signaling the end of the day rang and he stayed 40 minutes behind and we finished it together. I am so proud of him. So very very proud. He may not pass any other quarter. He may not write another essay for me or anyone else ever again, but today he did not fall through the cracks. Today, he was a writer.

My profession may not be for everyone, but it sure is for me. Today was a good day.

Curling Up on a Snowy Morning

In my readiness for spring, tempted especially by the pre-spring 40's and 50's we've been experiencing in southern Utah, I was humbled by both the weather forecasts and this morning's fresh layer of snow. I am restless for a new niece, long awaited news, skirts and sandals weather, planned and tentative trips, change, the spring poetry unit, and seeing the fruits of fall bulb planting. But, as usually, my lessons in patience must be reinforced and tested. So while I still linger in my pj's, sitting by the window avoiding the cold, I am posting these (hopefully) last remnants of winter - back from my Christmas in Wisconsin - with the hopes that if I acknowledge it's presence and, dare I say it, majesty, that winter will concede to spring.

The Remedy

I was mad at my students today. And yesterday. And the day before. And before that too. We are working on an essay. I teach it step by step. I show them examples of what I expect. I give them forms to fill in that make it very clear. I give them class time to work on it after I model the proper outcomes. And they don't do it. And then on the day they should be typing, they are starting at step one of 6. Class period after class period after class period. And then they all need help at the same time doing those steps I taught them about a week or two before. But are they patient? NO. Do they roll their eyes when I help another student before them? YES. Do they walk up and just start asking me their questions while I am sitting next to another student, mid sentence, trying to answer another's questions? YOU BETTER BELIEVE IT.

This happens every time I teach writing. I am usually OK the first few class periods, but by 4th period on the second day (B day) I am DONE. It doesn't help that 4th period on B day (essentially 8th period for those not familiar with a block schedule) is my naughtiest class. Naughtiest = lowest average grades of all my classes. Naughtiest = rambunctious, disorganized, unprepared, most immature of all my classes.

But just when I think I will explode with frustration, Heavenly Father has somehow blessed me with the ability to make myself laugh unexpectedly. He uses my own words against me. And laughter, as most of us have come to know, is the best medicine. Let me paint a picture for you:

It is Tuesday. 2:20 pm. Cedar High School Writing Lab. There are about 20 minutes left of the school day. Three boys - Dillan, AJ and Kirby - are still working on their outlines though they should be typing. They are not allowed to type until all of their pre-writing is done. AJ has barely gotten past picking his topic after being gone for a week. Of course I have chided them more than once as they continue to waste time. In fact, I chided the whole class before we even got to the computer lab in an effort to prepare them for my wrath at this point in the day. So I am livid when I see them essentially playing keep-away with a stapler. My mouth opens. I am about to smite them to the ground with my quick and biting remarks. And then I see it. While AJ prepares his usual "it's his fault" excuse, his partner in crime Kirby will not make eye contact. This is just the fodder I need for my verbal lashing. "Really?" I say - after all, I have already been nagging them for the last hour. "You're not doing anything wrong? You were just GIVING Dillan the stapler?" (Insert here a weak assortment of excuses from three nervous 14 year olds)
"You know how I know that that is not the case? Kirby won't even look at me. He knows all the fires of Hades are beaming out of my eyeballs right now, burning him to the core of his soul."

And that's when it happened. I start to crack a smile. At the words. And then all of the 'oohs' and that followed my storming gate to the boys on the other side of the room turn to chuckles. And then, as I realize I'm in trouble and breaking my formidable facade, I have to say that I am only laughing because otherwise I would be crying. But mostly I know I've pretty much lost any hope of being the bad guy. I still "banish" Kirby and AJ to the "netherworld" of the classroom and nurses office to finish their already-late assignments in isolation, but I instantly feel better somehow. And the next kids I help don't get such harsh responses from me. And the kids after that come to give me high fives because they figured out for themselves what they were supposed to do next when I wouldn't tell them what to write when they got stuck (because they didn't do it a week ago when it was assigned and I was angry). Where those words came from I don't know - fires of Hades? core of soul? - or at least, I don't know for sure. But if you're like me and believe in tender mercies, the kind that keep you from damaging someone else's day or the ones that keep you from quitting your job when sometimes it stinks but it's really your calling in life, then hopefully you believe in a Father in Heaven who isn't too great to know that sometimes the best remedy for a bad day is the laughing kind.

My 2.3 Seconds of Not-So Much-Fame

Two summers ago I was in an SUU recruitment commercial. It was kinda fun and mostly embarassing. I'd only seen it once, and I just remembered I had done it - I couldn't even remember what it was called! But I found it, so here it is.

If you have children -

- and I EVER catch you doing this to your child, in all seriousness I will reach through this computer screen and slap you upside yo' head!


The mother, who so proudly buys lacefront wigs for her baby girl, is quoted as saying, “It’s never too early for my baby to start looking glamorous like Beyonce!”

I'm warning you...