Twas Brillig

We’re making progress. Many of you have asked why I don’t just dump WordPress and go back to Blogger or try typepad or movable type or one of the other blog-platforms.  The answer is simple:  I’m in love with WordPress.

The problem isn’t and never was with WordPress–instead, it has been on my server itself (so no matter what platform I hosted here, it would have been screwy).  It took us forever to locate it, but once we did we were able to fix it in a jiffy.  (And when I say “we” I of course mean MY HUBBY, who has spent hours and hours and hours on this project of mine.  So much for doing it all by myself, huh?)

Things are looking a little sad and lonely around here, but soon I’ll have restored all my content and comments and a newly designed (but VERY reminiscent of the old design) look.  In the meantime, you can still visit my archives here.  But I did just want to let you know that the error is fixed and the earth can go back to its rotations (it stopped for me… sweet, eh?)

I have so many people to thank!  So many of you jumped to my rescue during all of this!!!!  But the linky-love will have to wait until tomorrow.  Seriously.  It’s 1:00 a.m. and I’m a zombie.  And I have those kiddlings who seem to think that 6:00 a.m. is a reasonable hour to begin their day (and therefore mine)…

G’night, all.  And thanks again.

If you’re here, it’s because you tried to go to twas-brillig.com and you were automatically redirected here, to this temporary site–like the rental car the insurance company gives you when you’ve totaled your other one. 
My crazy blog issues seem to be widespread, from the server to the host to the installation of wordpress.  So, in the meantime, this site doesn’t look like much, but at least it contains all my content (and my comments!!!)–this is just a temporary site, though, so don’t worry.  I won’t be begging you to change your links again or anything.  Twas-Brillig.com should be up and running again very soon.

Thank you to everyone who has offered me help and support the last few days.  What an interesting experience this has been!

In the meantime, my brain is full of all sorts of blogposts, but they will remain safely locked away in my ever-shrinking brain for now.

Hi, all. We here at Twas Brillig are… broken. You can’t view (or leave) comments. And I just wrote a post (one full of lots of complicated HTML, no less) about how amazing Elizabeth is and it was very heartfelt and grateful, as I was telling about this wonderful good samaritan and how she’s spent HOURS helping me with my site today.

And then, my post was eaten. Lost in cyberlandia, never to be recovered. Hi. Isn’t this why I left Blogger?

And then, in tweaking around trying to fix things, like the ridiculous amateur that I am, I did something that broke. my. site. BROKEN. I have NO idea what.

Anyway, I’m on vacation tomorrow. I’m taking my oldest kids to Lagoon!!!! Yay!!! I’m one of those people who’s insanely in love with amusement parks. My husband is not. Which is why he will be staying home with the littlest two boys while my sister and I take my oldest kids. This is the first time that Fluffy and Bubba will actually be old enough (tall enough) to go on the rides!

Point is, my site is broken, and it will remain so for a couple more days. The timing of this couldn’t be worse, as I’ve been working on some pretty exciting projects. But, what can you do? Maybe on Wednesday I can come back and fix it. Or, more likely, I will start from scratch. Oh well. I didn’t really say anything here in the last month that’s not replaceable, right?

Oh, and you can’t comment, but you CAN email me. Here are some examples of what you can say in your email:

*tell me how much you miss me and how a blog-life without Brillig isn’t worth living and all that stuff

*tell me that you’ve copied every last one of my posts to your hard drive so you can just email them to me and they won’t be eternally lost

*tell me that black hair/green eyes is your all-time favorite combination

*tell me that you’re a famous blog-reviewer and even though my site is broken, you think that I’m the best thing on the internet

*send me pics of your facial expression when you realized that my site was broken

Or whatever. You know. These are just IDEAS. Be creative.

There’s some serious linky-love in store for the people who make me smile. That is, if I ever un-break my site.

(I’ll leave you now, before I break into a fit of “Frickin’ Brackin’)

That’s what my brother screams when he’s pretending to be mad.

And you may have noticed that I’m not much of a cusser (have you noticed? I notice when people ARE, but I don’t always notice when they aren’t. Anyway…) so tonight, I’m adopting Frickin’ Brackin’. But I’m not pretending to be mad. Oh no, there’s no pretending to be mad.

Mad I am.

Well, frustrated anyway. I can’t get my blog to do certain things. No, I’m not talking about world domination–I recognize that that won’t come until a bit later. Next month maybe. Right now I’m just trying to use basic widgets. You know, like Blogrolling stuff. There are various groups of which I would like to be a member and they use blogrolling widgets which, in order to join, you have to use their widgets, but I can’t. get. them. to. work. (Brace yourselves, here comes another one.)

FRICKIN’ BRACKIN’!!!!!!!!!!!!

But it’s not just blogrolling. Oh no. I can’t even get MyBlogLog widgets to work. I CAN’T EVEN GET GOOGLE ANALYTICS to work. It all gives me the same frickin’ brackin’ ERROR CODE!!! (Error 404) I would blame it on Wordpress, but since I seem to be the only person on the wordpress planet having these issues (since I can’t find any info on others struggling with this stuff in any support forums or anything–plus, there are tons of wordpress blogs out there that I see successfully using this stuff) I AM APPARENTLY THE ONLY FRICKIN’ BRACKIN’ BLOGGER WITH THIS FRICKIN’ BRACKIN’ PROBLEM!!!

And I’m frickin’ brackin’ frustrated.

(But at least my blog’s still rated PG. )

So, um, should you happen to be fluent in this error code of death or any of the rest of this fun stuff, I beg you to help me. Please. From the bottom of my bloggy heart.

I think this is my Soap Opera Sunday. I know. It’s disappointing. No former boyfriends or boy-toys or anything. Do you see why I need urgent help? Who knew I could feel so much drama from javascript, php, and HTML. Sigh.

(But, you know, speaking of Soap Opera Sunday, we have big news coming up this week! Woohoo! Stay tuned!!!)

Flashback Friday, friends!

I’ve mentioned before that I was a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was 19 (yes, that’s not a typo. I was 19). I was assigned to the Argentina Buenos Aires North mission, which included much of Capital Federal (downtown Buenos Aires) along with some of the northern suburbs and even into some rural area (what we called the barro–the mud). Upon arriving in Buenos Aires, I was assigned a companion (another female missionary, and in this mission most were American, Argentine, or Chilean) and an area. We would stay with one companion, who we were required to be with constantly, until one of us was reassigned to a different area, at which time a new companion would arrive to take the place of the departing one. So, after a year and a half, I had traveled all over the mission and had had many companions (usually about two months with each companion).

I loved my mission. I had so many wonderful experiences. But due to the nature of this forum, I will not share the more tender or spiritual ones. But just because I don’t talk about it doesn’t mean that there wasn’t a lot of that.

No, instead I’ll share some of my social adventures. Or, in today’s case, adventures in socialism.

I was assigned to the barro with my sweet companion Hermana F. And yes, you always called your companion by Hermana (sister) and her last name. So, Hermana F and I worked in the barro. We met lots of people, taught people, served people. The barro was always interesting–it was called the “mud” because you were literally walking in mud that was several inches deep all day long. No paved roads, no sidewalks, nothin’ but mud. And since we were required to wear skirts or dresses at all times, you can only imagine how lovely we were!

Hermana Brillig, in authentic “sister missionary” garb (meaning, the ugliest dresses at the ugliest possible length, my crooked name tag–whoops– and big black bag* full of scriptures, food, water, and anything else I might need during the day because we didn’t want to waste time by going home during the day–not even for lunch) in the barro on a blessedly dry day (otherwise, there would be giant rubber boots on my feet… which went GREAT with my ugly dresses and skirts)

(and… hi. Is that the crappiest scanned picture you’ve ever seen? oooops)

*in other missions, they use backpacks instead of the black bags, but in Argentina we were required to carry the black bag and only carry it on one shoulder–that way, when we were robbed, which we were constantly, we could hand over the bag without a struggle. Many a missionary had been shot or beat to a pulp in the past because they hadn’t handed over their backpacks fast enough, so they had to make a rule about the easy-to-give-away black bags. But that’s a different story for another day. Still, though, how disappointed do you think the thieves are when they find that the bags are full of Books of Mormon?

(Here I am with Hermana F, wishing some friends a Happy Birthday via photo)

Hermana F was from Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost part of Argentina (practically Antarctica) and she was… delicate. I loved her dearly. However, the kind of work that we did was exhausting and grueling and you had to be strong to do it every day all day long. But she wasn’t. She was sickly. And so we spent a lot of time getting to know the Rural-Argentine health care system.

We’d been in and out of various (terrifying) free clinics, never once really helped, but often “reassured.”

“Oh, you have a fever, a cold, the chills, vomiting, racing pulse, and seizures? Here’s some penicillin. Just take two tonight and you’ll be fine by tomorrow. And then just save the rest of the package for the next time you feel sick.” Um….

Very late one night, she just stopped breathing. Understand, there were no telephones in this part of the Argentina. Basically I just had to grab her and haul her to the Emergency Room which was, thankfully, about a block away. At the ER, they took her in immediately and left me out in the waiting area, which was outside in the freezing cold. Again, I’d been a missionary for over a year at this point and I’d never been by myself, except while bathing and potty-ing, so it felt very strange to be companionless in this large waiting area full of people. (With socialized medicine, everyone ends up at the ER for the slightest twinge of a sore throat, doncha know. Waiting “rooms” are always packed.) It wasn’t just the being alone that was awkward–it was the staring and the gawking and the exclamations–exclamations that the exclaimers assumed I wouldn’t understand, since my looks were clearly foreign. I was, of course, completely fluent in Spanish so I understood every word that was being said. And I was feeling a bit threatened. Being female, American (and therefore presumably “rich”), and green-eyed in a place where people have only seen brown eyes makes one a target in certain parts of the world–especially in the middle of the night and all alone. Of course, it wasn’t really my style to be a shrinking violet, so I march up to some hospital personnel and said, loud and clear and in perfect Spanish (so that all those who’d been talking about me could hear that they’d just made complete fools of themselves) that I would like to be able to be with Hermana F now. Obviously I’d asked this before, but had been told that I couldn’t be back there with her. This time, it wasn’t really a request so much as a command, and I was taken right to her.

I was brought into a teeny tiny room, where I found her (conscious, thank goodness) hooked up to an oxygen tank. Again, no one had any idea what was wrong with her–nor did they seem to care very much–but she was receiving oxygen and thriving on it–well, surviving, anyway. Because of the oxygen mask, she wasn’t able to talk to me. Instead, we played “count the cockroaches.” She would point to the cockroaches, I would count them out loud for us. We reached over forty before she was discharged.

Good times.

Hermana F. ended her mission early–I think it broke her heart, but she clearly wasn’t physically able to keep up and she knew it. So she went home to Tierra del Fuego and I haven’t heard from her since. I hope some doctor somewhere figured out what was wrong with her and how to help her…. but I doubt it.

Oh, so many fun mission stories. We’ll have to revisit this topic again sometime. I mean, I KNOW you want to hear about how I bathed out of a bucket for two months because we didn’t have running water. Or that time that someone brought me a drink of water that turned out to be white vinegar. Or… well, let’s save it for another Flashback Friday, shall we?

All right, Gentle Readers, we’ve all had a great time discussing double standards and over/under generalizing and sometimes agreeing, but mostly disagreeing. It’s been a raging party here at Twas Brillig. Thanks for all of your comments. While there were some vehement disagreements, I think in the end we all still like each other. At least, I still like all of you!

So, good crap. Let’s not talk about it anymore. (Okay, if you must, you’re welcome to continue the conversation below… I just mean that I won’t be POSTING about it anymore.)

Moving on…

I’m the youngest child in my family. I have three older sisters and two older brothers. My siblings are good people and I admire them all. (Though, of course, only ONE of them actually has the link to this blog. The others are blissfully unaware of its existence!)

Being the youngest had its perks. I got to travel a lot more than some of my siblings did, and by the time I was a teenager my parents had real money, instead of doing that “barely scraping by” thing that they’d done with my siblings. My parents began spoiling themselves, and I suppose I was “spoiled” (according to my siblings) somewhere along the way.

Of course, it also had its downfalls. My oldest siblings were each given cars as teenagers. Thanks to their total recklessness and irresponsibility, I wasn’t even allowed to touch the family cars. Plus, all those years of being alone with good ol’ mom and dad after my siblings had left home were… tricky. What my siblings call “spoiled” I would call something more like demanded, scrutinized, attacked, and constantly berated for not being quite perfect enough… There was no one to distract them from the magnifying glass they had centered right above me–and it was frying me alive.

The other big downfall of being the youngest, of course, is that by the time you come along, your parents are bored with taking pictures. You can kind of understand this. I mean, I was the fourth daughter, sixth child. They’d wasted all their film on my oldest siblings. When I came along, I was nothing new. So while there are hundreds, nay, THOUSANDS of pictures of my sister Laura, I can’t seem to find any of me.

Too bad, cuz I bet I was one gorgeous baby. I weep for a world that doesn’t have pictures of me readily available.

So, how can I make it up to the universe? Well, I can start by not repeating the sins of the fathers. And so, I present to you MY youngest–who from this day forward, I solemnly vow to feature prominently in photographs!

Here he is–my 10-month-old Fuzzles, helping me with the dishes last night. SUCH a helper…

He looks a lot more like his dad than like me–they all do. In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to find any of me in any of them. (And yet, I distinctly remember squeezing them forth from my loins.) I’m okay with that, though. I mean, their dad’s hot, so how lucky for the kids that they all look like him!

Other memorable photos of Fuzzles include this one, where he was having his chest x-rayed when he was hospitalized for RSV. Have you ever seen how they do x-rays on teeny babies? They shoved him into a little tiny plastic tube and strapped his arms straight up. Let’s just say that he wasn’t thrilled with this arrangement. Brace yourselves…

He had a pretty nasty case of RSV and was in the hospital for a week. Here he is towards the end of his stay (clearly the end, because he’s no longer attached to IV’s and oxygen tanks and monitors–I have pictures of that stuff too, but it’s still a bit too horrifying to me) in his hospital gown. I still can’t get over his little baby hospital gown!

Obviously we can’t forget his first Halloween, right? He wasn’t quite 2 months old at this point.

And, okay. Just one more. Here he is when I was setting him up to be the new monarch of the family (as explained here). He’d really make a lovely monarch, don’t you think?

And there he is, Gentle Readers. The most gorgeous baby that ever crawled the planet. And I can say that because, naturally, I’m completely unbiased.

Now, of course, I won’t be ignoring the other kids. But I can’t feature them all today–I mean, the brain can only process so much gorgeousness before it becomes overwhelmed and begins causing twitching and seizures.

Really, I’m only looking out for your well-being, Gentle Readers.

Yup.  This again.  I’m writing the promised “follow-up” post to this.  I was amazed by the response I got, and I appreciate all of the comments.  It’s a hot topic, and it seems like everyone has strong opinions and feelings on the subject.  Hubby and I sat down and read all of the responses together–we laughed at some of your answers, we were intrigued by some of your answers, and we were impressed by all of your answers.  We learned a lot–not just about ourselves but about how other people’s relationships work!

I do, however, need to explain that Hubby and I were not fighting over this.  We weren’t even debating.  Some of you said that you were siding with me, or that you were siding with Hubby.  Well, there were no sides.  I should have made this more clear.  There were no hurt feelings.  This is important, because I am of the very strong opinion that if there were hurt feelings, it doesn’t matter what the possible explanation is, it has to stop.  Because it’s not okay to hurt the person you love.

Many of you responded by saying that women have had to go through a lot–things that men don’t have to go through–salaries, menstruation,the way we give birth, and the objectification of women and the double standards that we’ve been subjected to throughout history–so that means that we can pretty much say whatever we want to say.  I know that most of you who said things like that were kidding, but let’s address it anyway:

Women do go through a lot.  I have been through everything listed above, just like many of you have.  But how is this Hubby’s fault?  He is not the kind of man who does these things.  When I have gone through things like that (from childbirth to rotten bosses), Hubby has always been my champion.  He supports me, sustains me.  Saying hurtful things to my sweet, respectful, loving husband in order to get back at all of mankind and whoever designed my body seems, well, completely and totally unfair.

But let’s say it was his fault.  So let’s say I blame him.  I get even.  He says hurtful things, so I say hurtful things.  Wow.  What a happy marriage/life that makes for.  Surely there’s a higher road…

And, taking that even further, how does MY treating someone badly make up for having been treated badly?  I mean, if someone burns my house down, do I get to go burn a house down too?  Some would say, yes, and that it evens the playing field.  I say, it makes you BOTH arsonists, and you’ll BOTH go to jail. You’ve sold your liberty in order to get even, and now you’re every bit as lousy of a person as the person who wronged you was.

So, I guess that brings us to an important word:  the word “hurtful.”  As I’ve said, it’s never okay for me to say something hurtful, and it’s never okay for him to say something hurtful to me.  (Of course, from time to time we DO say hurtful things–generally on accident–and they need to be worked out.)

So I guess the big “double standard” question was really, WHY is it hurtful if a man says that and NOT hurtful if a woman does?  (And, of course, this is a huge generalization, because I suspect that very often women DO hurt their men with these very things without realizing how stupid they’re being.)

Carla brought up the word “lust” and I think it’s an important one.  If I say that a guy’s good looking, there’s no lust involved.  I wouldn’t say it if there were–I’d be way too uncomfortable.  But, in our case, if Hubby were to say that someone is “hot” there would be a definite sexual undertone.  Lust.  Objectification.  And that’s just not a line that we’re going to cross around here.

Crossing that sexual line is where, in our house, it would become hurtful.  Obviously women are VERY capable of lust too, but in general, if we say a guy’s good looking, there’s no lust there.  It’s just simply a statement about a guy being good looking.  We’re not all hot and bothered.  (If you are, again, I think a line’s been crossed.)  Since men seem to get to that “hot and bothered” point a little more… quickly… easily, and so for them to say, “oooh, she’s hot,” the wife gets the immediate impression that the “hot and bothered” line has already been crossed.

Again, generalizations, generalizations.  Women are very capable of lust.  Men are capable of acknowledging someone’s beauty without it being lust.  Still, because of history and society, we tend to think that a man is a pig and a woman is an innocent observer.  Fair?  Perhaps not.  But true.

The important thing here is that Hubby knows me.  He knows that if I say that a guy’s hot, I’m not saying it because I’m… um… aroused.

Many of you have said that in your relationships, you’re both okay with the drooling and the flirting and the… well… the lusting.  This boggles my brain.  You say that it’s because of a certain level of trust in your relationship.  This boggles my brain even more.  I don’t want to say too much, because I don’t want to say that you’re “wrong” and that you don’t really feel the way you claim to feel.  Suffice it to say, I don’t understand it.  There’s not one single soul on this planet that I trust more than I trust my husband.  There’s not one single soul I feel (or have ever felt) closer to.  Even so, or perhaps because, it would HURT me if he were to be drooling over anyone, watching porn, or even flirting at work.  He’s a good man, he has self control.  I value his self control.  I’m not saying that everyone who allows himself to lust after someone else is going to become unfaithful.  But I AM saying that someone who doesn’t allow himself to fall prey to lust will NEVER be unfaithful.  (That’s not to say that a marriage won’t disintegrate for other reasons, but it won’t disintegrate for THAT reason.)  Why skirt the line?  Why drive close to the edge of the cliff and hope not to fall off?  I prefer to drive far from the cliff, so that falling off isn’t an issue.  Anyway, point is, the mutual drooling is something I just. don’t. get.

I guess the important question is, again, am I being hurtful?  Or, am I being hurt?  Really, dig deep in your soul and find out.  Because that’s what matters.

Obviously, if he says that someone’s pretty, or attractive, or whatever, that’s different.  Of course he’s going to notice if a woman’s beautiful!  His eyes work.  And I like it when he says it.  I can also see when a woman’s beautiful!  I know that I’m not about to sleep with her, nor is he.  It’s just, again, when it become sexual or objectifying that it becomes hurtful.

Um, I think I’m saying the same thing over and over again, so I guess I’ll stop.  hahaha.   Also, for the record, I do not claim to be any sort of expert in this arena!  I’m just stating my own observations!

I’m very interested to see what you all have to say.  So, have at it, bloodhounds.  Rip me to shreds.
(Oh, and remember the “PG” rule, okay?)

Go read Kate’s site today. (You really should be reading Kate’s site EVERY day…) She has what have to be the most embarrassing pictures of us from high school up and a very sweet (WAY too sweet) tribute to me for my birthday. I’m not sure whether to laugh, cry, or murder her for posting what have to be the worst pictures ever taken of me. Gosh, I hope they’re the worst… It’s very scary to think that there might be worse ones than that somewhere…

Seriously, though.  There’s a picture in there that looks like the Quasimoto version of me.  Please know that I don’t really look like that.  I don’t!  I promise!!!!

So go see her, and join her in praise of ME. (Hey, it’s my birthday. I get to say stuff like that, okay?)

(But don’t forget to scroll down and read MY post today!!)

Yo. It’s kinda like Flashback Friday or Soap Opera Sunday, except that it’s a Tuesday. Just bear with me, okay?

About seven and a half years ago, I went up to Park City (I was living in Southern Utah at the time) to visit my older brother, J. He was going to be meeting up with some friends there–friends I didn’t know, but I was always eager to meet any new group of young men.
When we met up with his friends, I naturally checked each one out. I found them to be lacking… But all of a sudden, an incredibly handsome chap emerged from behind the others and I. Was. Smitten.

We hung out with this group of friends for a few hours, during which time I did my darndest to get to know the one hot guy. I was outgoing and friendly and ridiculously self-confident. He was a little more quiet, but radiated kindness and a great sense of humor. And he seemed interested enough…

That afternoon, we all went our separate ways. My brother J and I hung out for the rest of the weekend, during which time I plagued him constantly with questions about that friend. Who is he? Where is he from? How do you know him? What does he like? Do you think he likes me? And so on, until I think my poor brother was ready to strangle me.

Anyway, the weekend ended and I headed “home” to my school and my… um… boyfriend. (Oooops, did I leave that part out?) But I couldn’t get that guy out of my head.

As it turned out, J’s friend had been bugging J with all those same questions about me. And, as it turned out, J was ready to strangle us BOTH. But he kept our mutual interest in each other a secret, the little stinker. (J had recently been in a relationship with a friend of mine, and we both learned that being in the middle of your sibling and friend’s relationship can be very sticky–especially when things turn south. So I get why he wanted to stay out of it. Still, he could have let me know that his friend was interested, right? Instead of tormenting me…)

A few months went by, and I still couldn’t get him out of my head. I was coming into town for a friend’s wedding, and so J arranged a big group date and I was set up with the cute Park City boy (who wasn’t actually from Park City, but that’s where I met him. Confusing?) It was very clear right off the bat that this guy and I were extremely different people. He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever dated or ever expected to date. But he was so darling. And so sweet. And I was completely infatuated. But, again, the weekend ended and I had to go back to my job, my apartment, and yet another boyfriend.

But I was constantly haunted by Park City boy.  His eyes, his smile, his sense of humor, his attitude, his whole aura.  Everything about him intrigued, fascinated, and excited me.

So, I did what any lovesick responsible girl would do. I followed my gut and moved back north. After all, I’d hated my job and my apartment (and my boyfriend) and it was time to start over somewhere else (and being closer to Park City boy was just a perk, right?). Everything about this move went so smoothly, as though it had all been orchestrated to work out. Kate, who had been my dear friend for many years already, had an opening in her apartment for a roommate, so I took it and moved in with her. I got a great job. I was near my friends and family… and Park City boy.

Almost an entire nano-second passed after I’d relocated before Park City boy and I were dating. Very seriously. Again, we were SO different, but we were so perfect together.  That’s not to say that it was always rosy–sometimes we disagreed, sometimes we downright fought, and once we even broke up. Now, I’d broken up with plenty of guys by this time, but I’d never cared. I’d never missed them when they were gone. EVER! But this… this was different. About ten seconds after I “dumped him” I realized my huge mistake. I held out for about a week but finally I couldn’t bear it anymore. I caved in and I called him–and it became clear that he was missing me as much as I was missing him.

Breaking up was probably the best thing that ever happened to us, because it made me realize that the idea of my life without him in it was unbearable.

So, we got back together. And I never once questioned if it was the right choice. It just was. Every part of my soul knew that I was meant to be with him.

Exactly 7 years ago today (on my 22nd birthday!) he knelt down before me and asked me to marry him. I said yes.
And that, Gentle Readers, is how Park City boy became Mr. Brillig.
And yes, those of you astute enough to pick up on it, today’s my birthday. My 29th birthday. But we shall refrain from talking about that, because 29 sounds eerily close to 30, which sounds downright geriatric. And I’m MUCH too young and frivolous and silly to be geriatric…

Still, it’s my day! So I’m off to celebrate. Hope you’re all enjoying it as much as I am.

Soap Opera Sunday, friends!

Because many of you know where I went to High School, I have to tread lightly here…

As I was registering for High School just before my freshman year, I looked over possible electives. One of them on the list was simply not an option, it was a must. The subject was a passion for me, and I was good at it. I signed right up.

The first day of class, I strutted my stuff. I WAS good at this, notably the BEST in the class, right off the bat. The teacher was impressed. It was important to me to impress him.

He was fascinating and… handsome for an old man. And by old, I mean about forty, I guess. Still, since I was 14, forty was OLD!

I excelled in his class and received a lot of special attention from him. I was his star student. He began insisting that I call him by his first name. It didn’t seem all that weird, because there were several others who did that too, male and female.

The next year, I decided to take his more advanced class. He was thrilled, as was I. We were really becoming great friends. He offered me a position as his Teacher’s Assistant and I accepted. This would mean a guaranteed “A” for that class period, along with allowing me to delve even deeper into my understanding and knowledge of this particular subject, while still being his student during another class period. Two hours with him! It also meant that he and I would be alone in his office quite often. Again, we were becoming great friends, and this wouldn’t be uncomfortable at all.

Throughout my extended alone time with him, I learned all about his marriage–and how it was falling apart. He painted his wife as the ultimate wench. I felt so bad for him. It never occurred to me that it was totally inappropriate for him to be telling me these things. We were just really good friends, and it seemed like something that would naturally come up in conversation between friends.

Soon he started making jokes–that if his wife were more like me, they’d get along so much better. Everything would be better, if she were just a little more like me. That eventually evolved into him making jokes about leaving her for me. It was so silly. I was only 15. It was just a joke, but part of me kinda hoped he meant it.

To clarify, I wasn’t completely unaware of his attachment to me. I wasn’t so very naive. But I also didn’t see it as any big deal. And I was extremely flattered. I admired him, for sure. I was intrigued by his knowledge and delighted by his humor. I knew he was a popular teacher and I enjoyed being the center of his attention. I don’t think I returned the sentiment, the bizarre infatuation, but my ego loved the game, so I allowed it. I even had some romantic dreams involving him that got my brain all messed up. I really wasn’t quite sure how I felt about him. But whatever it was, it was just a silly little thing. And probably all in my head. I knew that no one else would understand how harmless it was, so I never mentioned it to anyone.

One day, he’d had a nasty tiff with his wife, and he sat down with me and told me about it, as he always had. And then, suddenly very serious, he told me that he really would leave her for me, if I would have him. I caught my breath and felt the crazy tension in the air.

I don’t remember what happened or who interrupted us, but I never had the chance to respond. Just as well. I had no idea what to say, but I was finally starting to feel a little creeped out.

I began to be a little more distant. He knew it, I knew it. I still considered him a great friend, but I knew we were crossing into dangerous territory and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I just avoided him.

The next semester, he gave me an “A-”.

I was… um… FURIOUS.

I stormed into his classroom and grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into the office. This was witnessed by many students. I wonder what went through their heads! They had already probably realized there was something “weird” going on with us. I never really stopped to think about how it all looked to everyone else.

I yelled at him. I was clearly his very best student –I had never once gotten a question wrong on a test!–and I was given an A-. WHY??? He just laughed at me. He wouldn’t answer me me, or even pretend to take me seriously. He just laughed.

I should have done something, tattled on him to someone, but I was embarrassed and never quite sure of what had actually happened between us emotionally and wondered if it had all been in my head, etc. I decided that I couldn’t possibly tell anyone about it. So the A- remained as it was.

My mom was so ticked off at me when she saw my grades. She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t “living up to my potential.” How could I get less than a perfect grade in this subject? I had no answers for her, of course. I just let her believe that I was lazy and frivolous–she was prone to believe that about me anyway–so after listening to her familiar speech until its bitter end, I went to my room and bawled, feeling so completely helpless.

He and I grew apart, and never talked like that again. I finished his whole series of classes and just moved on. A few years later, all grown up now, I had to stop in at the school to pick up a transcript and I ran into him there. He couldn’t remember my name (hello?) but he said, “what I remember about you was that one time that you were unhappy with your grade and so you made a huge scene and screamed at me.” Laughing, again.

Ick.

I know that this whole situation certainly wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but still, such a relationship was completely out of place. Sadly, this wasn’t my only “inappropriate friendship” with a teacher. There was one other, which we will reserve for another story at another time. And, looking back, it seemed like there were other teachers who had “special friends” who were students that, from appearances, bordered on the inappropriate too.

What would you have done if you’d been 15 years old and in a similar situation? Did you see/experience this stuff in your school too?