All the Ways that I am Famous

If you ever need to get in to an exclusive swanky night club, and can’t, I’d be the one to call.

I know people.

I am connected to so many important celebrities that I am practically famous myself.

“Who, Bethany? Who are you connected to?” you may ask. Well, I’m not one to name-drop or anything… but since you asked…

1.) I waited on Marie Osmond’s table while working at the Spaghetti factory.

2.) Chelsea Hightower is my best friend.

3.) Back in the day, I kissed a boy named Andrew on the “A” at Utah State. I was SHOCKED to see him in a major motion picture several months later (I have photographs to prove that the kiss happened, too. Won't be showing those pictures to my husband. Nope. No way.).

4.) My husband is a blood relative of Butch Cassidy.

5.) I made Tony Gwynn a sandwich while working at Gandolfo’s (and, no, he was not the “stranger from the past.” More on that later…)

6.) John Stockton helped my great grandmother down the stairs at the dentist’s office.

And… the newest celebrity that makes me practically famous:

Lily Scott



You may recognize her from this season of American Idol. She has silver hair, of which I totally disapprove, and a cool indie voice, of which I COMPLETELY approve.

I was her babysitter way back when and, boy oh boy, do I have stories. But just as I find it inappropriate to name-drop, I also think it’s rude to tell stories about other people without their permission. So I won’t tell you about the time six-year-old Lily told my sister about the birds and the bees using graphic anatomical names such as “the boy thingy” and “the girl thingy” or the time she snuck into the pantry and ate a whole box of Chewy Granola Bars. Or there was that time that her brother got his lip stuck inside a K-Swiss pocketknife and after a jar of Vaseline, a tub of Country Crock, and a quart of mayonnaise, his lower lip--free at last--had swelled to the size of a radish.

Nope, I won’t tell you those stories, but I will say that after the pocket-knife fiasco, I refused to babysit for the Scotts again. Or maybe I hadn’t been invited back… hmm… can’t remember.

Anyhow, Lily has grown into an incredibly talented woman and, while I am slightly miffed that now I HAVE to watch American Idol this season, I will definitely vote for her. You should too!

(Do you know anyone famous?)

Bethanyisms (Stranger From the Past... continued)

Let me rewind this story to its true beginning: high school.

But before I begin, I must preface this story, as I do with many of my stories, with the fact that IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.

It was completely the fault of my big brother, Jared. He and his cool friends had a tradition of “freezing out” on the way home from Stake dances. If you are not familiar with the term, freezing out is when one rolls down all the car windows, blasts the AC, and removes all insulating clothing from the upper portion of one’s body. All this is done in the middle of winter and, for a reason that only a teenager can understand, is considered, like, totally fun.

One day, the boys made the mistake of freezing out while I was in the car with them. I, fourteen at the time, was bundled up in the backseat with my coat and a blanket, screaming at the boys to roll up the windows and put their shirts back on over their “pukish bodies.” Inside, however, I was thrilled that the boys would let me witness something so magical, so sacred.

Naturally, as my girlfriends and I came of age, we decided to carry on the tradition. It was done in innocence, I assure you. The freeze outs occurred on the highway in the middle of the night when no passing car could possibly see in. And while we did remove most of our insulating clothing, we did NOT remove our under things; that would be indecent.

So obviously, with so many safeguards in place, my friends and I were blameless for what happened on that cold winter night. Not to blame at all…

(to be continued…)

Bethanyisms (Stranger From the Past)

The line was long, as it usually was at the Gandolfo’s Delicatessen on a weekend night. I, then 21, was stationed at the cash register and my boss, Mr. Gandolfo himself, was next to me working the potato salad scoop.

We had a pretty efficient system and the line was moving smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

“Don’t I know you?” the handsome, scruffy customer asked. He had just ordered the South Hampton with bacon.

Hmmm. “I… don’t… think so?” I replied.

“No, I swear. You look very familiar to me. Do you go to UVSC?”

“Nope.”

The line of customers behind him began to grumble. My boss gave me the move-it-along-woman look so I gestured to the next customer. “Welcome to Gandolfo’s. What can I do for…”

“Now I remember!” the scruffy customer gave his finger a satisfied snap. “You’re that girl! You know, the one without a shirt!”

I felt the blood drain from my face because I knew exactly what he was talking about. All of the thirty customers in line fell silent and gaped at me.

“Bethany?” my boss asked, a concerned furl to his brow. As long as he’d known me, I had always seemed so innocent, so virtuous. And I absolutely was! How on earth was I going to explain myself out of this one?

Especially after what I said next...


(to be continued)

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...