High School Revisited (1)

The first memory that pops into my head, of high school that is, is standing up in choir class and trying out for a solo.

I didn’t have amazing self-esteem back then. I had big teeth and a squishy nose, my ACT scores reminded me how smart I wasn’t, and I was the last person to finish the mile in my gym class. There were very few things about myself that I was implicitly sure of, but one thing that I knew I could do reasonably well was singing.

I remember clearing my throat and looking nervously around the room. Everyone was staring at me: Craig, Lindsey, Alex, Shauni, Sarah, Allison… but really, I was singing for one person.

The choir director, Mr. Roberts.

He was fat, and mean, and bald, and old, and Satan, and wore pants that were, frankly, too tight around the crotch area. And he didn’t like me at all.

I know, right? Not liking me? Ludicrous!

But I wanted him to like me so badly. Mr. Robert’s opinion mattered so much because he had power over who got parts in the musical (I tried out every year to no avail), and because he liked all of my friends, but didn’t like me. But the main reason his opinion mattered so much is because I needed him—of all people—to validate my “one and only” talent.

The pianist gave the introduction and I let my voice soar. I sounded good… real good. I held my end note until the piano stopped. The room went quiet and I looked hopefully at Mr. Roberts.

His face turned turnip red before my very eyes. “No, no, no!!!!” he yelled, smacking his pen down on his sheet music over and over again. “You got the count all wrong?! Can’t you do anything right?! Will someone else show Bethany how to sing properly?!”

I bet you think I am exaggerating. Certainly no teacher would ever yell like that, in front of everyone, at a tender girl of 5’2”.

But he did, and I remembered every word.

This was not the first time Mr. Roberts had put me in my place. He had many times before and several of those times I had deserved it. But this time...this time it was not contructive, it was cruel.

I tried not to cry, because crying is not cool, but the tears started to come anyway. I felt like the one thing that made me special … maybe didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t a good singer after all. Maybe I didn’t have anything to offer. I picked up my backpack and removed myself from class—finding an abandoned broom closet in which to cry myself silly.

Now, I don’t believe that I was a victim of Mr. Roberts. No one can take something from you if you don’t let them. But I left a part of me in that choir room that day--the part of me that loved to sing, the part of me that loved to perform. I gave it to Mr. Roberts willingly, selfishly.

Boy, did I show him.

Now that I am all grown up and so wise and stuff, I can see what I let myself do. Sometimes I miss that part of me—while singing softly to my cub as I rock her to sleep or when I hear the ward choir sing and I am not standing there with them.

But sometimes I don’t miss that part of me at all.

Bedroom Makeover Part II

Here's our new bed:


The bedding is a Christmas present from my mom and pop. Isn't it beautiful?! (Man, I could sure use an interrobang right now).

And doesn't it go well with the dresser I refurbished?!


Next stop, a new mirror. I was thinking something black with a more modern feel to it. What do you think?

Cookie Time!

Love sugar cookies, but have yet to find the perfect recipe? Look no further! I have found the BEST Sugar cookie recipe ever and am dying to share it with you. Happy Valentine's Day!

Ingredients

3 c. flour
1 c. sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1 c. butter
1 egg
3 Tbs. cream or milk
1 tsp. vanilla

Frosting

2/3 c. butter
2 ib. powdered sugar
1/2 c. milk
2 tsp. vanilla

First, find yourself a worthy co-baker.



Then, preheat the oven to 350. Sift together the dry ingredients. Cut in the butter and then mix in all the other stuff. Divide dough and roll flat.

Cut into shapes and place on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 8-10 minutes.

While cookies are cooling, whip ingredients for the frosting. Don't forget to lick the beater!!!!



When cookies are cool, frost generously... and I mean GENEROUSLY. Like 50% cookie and 50% frosting. You won't be sorry.



Enjoy!

Do the Crime Together...

Do the time together.

Lesson learned.

You Could go to Pottery Barn...

You could go to Pottery Barn and buy this for $799:

Or this for $1300:

Or...

You could go online and buy this ugly thing for $100:

And then get a bunch of these for $4 each.

Slap a little paint on the dresser, rough it up a little bit, and then ta-daaaaa!

Just as good.

Stay tuned for more bedroom makeover updates...

B.U.S.ted

Good evening friends.

Have you ever been burdened with BUS (Bunchy Undie Syndrome)? Or BGS?

Where, for whatever reason, your under-things have stretched in such a way that they rise above the waistline of your pants or skirt and look… well… bunchy.

Oh, come now—you know it’s happened to you before.

I would like to forward you on to my sister's blog ,where you will be both horrified and thrilled by her public brush with BUS.

And then, after you’ve finished reading, ask yourself if you can imagine the very same thing happening to yours truly.

“isms” run in our family.

Are You Still There?

I leaped up from the computer chair, arms akimbo, and bellowed “I am the best writer in the wooooooorld!”

Okay, so I know that my statement was ridiculous, but it’s quite the sensation finishing one’s first novel. I have been working on this project for three years—laying awake till the wee hours of the morning phrasing the next paragraph in my chapter , neglecting my children as I stared blankly at the computer screen, setting aside my blog (which was a little like giving up crack cocaine), —and now it is done…

ish.

Even though it feels like I’ve climbed Mt. Everest, really, I’ve only made it to base camp. Next, I need to snag myself an agent—which is next to impossible—and then my agent needs to snag me a publisher.

I’ve read countless articles of the probability of getting one’s first novel published. They are similar to the odds of finding a human finger in the all-white meat of your crispy Chicken McNugget.

Perhaps that’s why it took me over a month just to write the last four pages of the book. I am not afraid of the inevitable rejections, just that they will ALL be rejections.

“Courage take, Bethany,” I tell myself. “You have beaten the odds before. Remember last year as the X-ray tech looked at the image of your pelvis and saw that your IUD had wigged its way out of your Uterus, do-sa-doed through your abdominals and tethered itself to your fallopian tube. Remember how she said that you had better go and purchase a lottery ticket because the odds of having and IUD predicament such as yours was even less likely than winning the jackpot.

(I only thought it appropriate, given my absence from my blog, to mention something highly inappropriate and dedicate the inappropriateness to my mother, who is now blushing… and not with pride).

Anyhow, now I will dedicate myself to the task of finding an agent. And while finding an agent requires many inquiries, it also requires lots of waiting. And as I wait, instead playing Bejeweled Blitz for hours (as I have been), I thought it might be a better use of my time to pick up my blog again.

Hello old friend. I have missed you