One day freshmen year (of high school) my dear friend Elly came into the theater before school sobbing. Splotchy cries, streaming tears, suffocating breaths. Everyone in the theater leapt to our feet, ready for damage control. We were pretty sure that a cruise-liner full of her closest family members had sunk or something–such was the decibel of her sadness.
As a self-proclaimed Drew Barrymore non-fan, I still have to admit that Never Been Kissed is, in my opinion, the greatest chick flick of all time.
No really, I am. Certifiably. On a studied and measured personality test (Myers Briggs Mom? Help me out.) I scored one petite little baby step over the dividing line between Introverted and Extroverted. And I scored Extroverted, but just barely, which I guess I believe because I like performing, and getting attention pretty much rocks my world.
As I learn them, I like to share The Secrets to Marriage that accumulate in my marriage arsenal. Most recently I have discovered that whenever Spouse A comes up with a crazy idea, Spouse B’s job is to enthusiastically validate said “crazy idea” while secretly hoping that Spouse A will forget about it in time.
Jeremy does it to me too. Several weeks ago I told him I wanted to be an animal trainer for the movies. I know he was secretly hoping I’d forget that dream and move on. Either that, or he came up with a different solution for me to train “animals,” and his newest crazy idea has all been part of a plot to secretly and inadvertantly make my dreams come true.
Jeremy’s latest dream?
Excuse me, I know this is sooo Utah of me, but if I could dip the world in Ranch dressing, I would. I love Ranch Dressing.
I wasn’t raised on the stuff. Ranch, like Lucky Charms or Hamburger Helper, never made it into our family grocery cart when I was growing up. In fact, I grew up snubbing Ranch.
Nose upturned, I would order at restaurants in my “Daughters of the American Revolution” voice. “I’ll have It-ah-lian, please.”
Artless Foreshadowing: I have a vertical second degree burn–currently blistering–in an unspeakable location.
My sister and I? We’re spillers. We spill things. We spill a lot of things.
Believe it or not, my job doesn’t consist of a bunch of students standing on our desks and yawping barbarically all the time–like I wish it did (and if you don’t get the reference, repent immediately by renting Dead Poets Society). My job doesn’t consist of every student waiving their Hermione Hands all around until I call them so they can express some longwinded thought. Believe it or not, my classroom is not all love notes all the time.