"I'm not as pretty as Justin Bieber...

And I don't dance as well as Justin Timberlake.

But I've been around longer than the two of them put together!"

So proclaimed Mr. Jon Bon Jovi, as he rocked the Energy Solutions Arena in Salt Lake City last night. It was pretty much epic.

,

And I was there. Oh yes I was! It all began a few months ago when my friend Lindsey sent me a text: "Do you like Bon Jovi?" Yes. Yes, I do. Why? Her sweet husband, David, had given her tickets to the concert, but it was still uncertain who would go with her. It would have been fun for them to go together, but if that didn't work out, she was inviting me. Well that would be pretty cool. But I didn't really get my hopes up; I thought since David bought the tickets, he should probably go with her if at all possible. In the end, it wasn't. Okay, maybe it wasn't technically impossible, but it was definitely impractical and highly so. The concert was on a Wednesday night here in Salt Lake, and they live in Rexburg, where Emma and Jase had school, both Wednesday and Thursday. Then there are Hanna and Olivia, who also need to be cared for. It would have been a giant hassle for David to come.

Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  :-)  :-)  :-)  :-)  :-)

Lindsey drove down from Rexburg yesterday afternoon, and we left almost immediately for a yummy dinner at Cheesecake Factory. Then we hopped on Trax and headed downtown. It was freezing cold, but nothing could dim our excitement. We found our seats, but it would be quite a long wait for the concert to begin. It was scheduled for 7:30, but increased security slowed down the process. It wouldn't actually start until well after 8:00. We decided to go find some matching t-shirts to memorialize the night. 

That took a long time as well because two ladies in front of us spent 20 minutes (not even exaggerating) to decide what they wanted and in what sizes and then, in the end, they didn't even buy anything! Grrrr. Back in the arena, there was even more pre-concert excitement. To our left, down a few rows, it appeared someone was ill. Several security personnel were gathered around, along with the medical team. But then it looked like two people were sick. How could that be? How could two people become sick at the exact same time, sick enough that they would need six security folks and two medics? I was confused. Soon it became clear that these two weren't really sick, but intoxicated, like really drunk, and security was attempting to remove them from the arena. And they didn't want to go. It took a while, but finally the security staff was able to get them out of their seats and help them stumble (literally) up the stairs.

And once again, I found myself asking the question, "Why do people drink?" I mean what is the point? Can it possibly be worth it? Can it be worth it to lose control of one's judgment and behavior? Can it be worth it to make a scene and then possibly not even remember it the following day? Can it be worth it spend serious cash on Bon Jovi tickets and then not even get to enjoy the concert? I don't get it.

Anyway, all that excitement used up time, and at about 8:10, Bon Jovi took the stage and for the next couple of hours, held the audience captive in the palm of his hand. Many there were die-hard groupies. The band had only to play one note, and they immediately knew the song and were ready to sing along, word for word. It reminded me of me last summer at the Neil Diamond concert. He has like a million songs, and I know every word to all million. I'm not as familiar with Bon Jovi; I mostly know the big hits like "You Give Love a Bad Name" and my favorite "You Want to Make a Memory," which he sang, along with his other ballads, on a catwalk extending into the audience. It was my favorite part of the concert. 

After such an incredible performance, it wouldn't take much effort on my part to become one of the legit groupies. I was totally engaged the entire evening, which is a good thing, considering what he does to audience members who aren't. While he was out on the catwalk, one girl in the front row was texting on her phone. He totally stopped singing and sat down right in front of her:

"Are you texting?" he said. "Really? I'm up here trying to make a living, and you are texting during my concert?" Then he took her phone and starting reading her text messages to the audience. It was beyond hilarious.

Thank you, Lindsey and David, for a fabulous evening, one I won't ever forget. 

"I'm not as pretty as Justin Bieber...." Ahh, I beg to differ. Eye candy doesn't get any better.

If you can change a baby,...

...you can change a tire. Or so they say. I am here to tell you that is a bunch of crap (pun definitely intended). Lindsey, Shulamith, and I are all mothers. I have five children. Lindsey has four. Shulamith has one. Among the three of us, we have changed literally thousands of diapers. We are quite proficient at the process. But none of that prepared us for this:

Yep, that's what we were faced with Saturday, just as we exited the highway on our way to Idaho Falls for a fun-filled girls' night out. David had graciously volunteered to stay home with Lindsey's kids. I had left Seth home in Utah, so we had only Baby Swen with us. Visions of shopping malls, delectable food (particularly chocolate), and copious amounts of Diet Coke danced through our heads. (Okay, yes, Lindsey drinks regular Coke; don't hold it against her.) But only seconds after exiting the highway, we found ourselves stranded by the side of the road with a shredded tire and no idea what to do about it, three girls totally clueless about the art of tire changing.

Lindsey called David, who immediately began to seek a solution, but keep in mind he was in Rexburg with four kids and not even a car seat for Baby Olivia because it was in the van with us. I texted Gerald, who told me Shulamith should know how to change a tire because she had to do it to pass Drivers Ed. Nope. Pretty sure I signed off on that requirement without making her do it. I had the same requirement when I took Drivers Ed, and I didn't do it either. Note to self: Make sure Seth actually learns to change a tire when he is old enough for Drivers Ed. 

After a time of sitting in the van not sure what to do, Shulamith and Lindsey decided to get out and try to locate the tire-changing equipment, while I stayed inside with Swen. Have I mentioned it was bitter cold outside? Yeah, that part of the country is seriously F-R-E-E-Z-I-N-G! And windy? Oh my goodness! They were brave and valiant as they faced the elements, but after several minutes, they still couldn't figure out how to remove the jack. I'm pretty sure just about anyone could figure out how to remove a messy diaper from a baby. Stupidest analogy ever! After not too long, however, a couple stopped to help us. The guy seemed to have a little better idea what to do than we did, though in reality, not a lot. Still, how nice of them to stop. We felt blessed. He and his girlfriend (wife?) tried to help us for about a half hour. He managed to remove the jack, and we got as far as lowering the spare tire, no small task, from under the car. Here is Lindsey turning the jack handle:

 Shulamith and I sat in the car feeling pretty helpless.

About then, another Good Samaritan pulled up and stopped. I believe in karma. Gerald always stops to help people in need. Always. I don't. Aside from being female, which sadly brings certain safety concerns, I would have absolutely no idea how to help anyone with any car-related issue. Now if you ever find yourself stranded by the side of the road, and your baby needs a new diaper...  Never mind. This particular Samaritan just happened to be employed by Big O Tire. Within minutes, he had the van jacked up, the tire changed, and everything put back in place. Bless you, dear stranger, whom we will likely never meet again.

And we were off. It was clearly more adventure than we anticipated, but it was over. No one was hurt. Imagine if it had happened while we were still on the freeway. We never made it to the mall, but we did enjoy a fabulous dinner at Texas Roadhouse, complete with plenty of Diet Coke. Good times.

If you can change a baby, you can change a tire. TOTAL CRAP.

Confessions of an Adjunct English Instructor

Yesterday was the final day of my semester. Another one down. Here at LDS Business College, we don't have spring break, so we finish before practically everyone else. It's a long haul between President's Day and now with no breaks, but I think my students would agree that finishing this early makes that all worth it. I woke up early yesterday morning and started baking cupcakes. I know, right? Me... baking? But yeah, I did. I have around 75 students, so I needed a lot. They have worked hard, many of them very hard. My class is not easy because writing is not easy. I tell them this on the first day; most don't believe me. By now, they do. Those who are still standing have put forth tremendous effort in the past 14 weeks. The deserve a cupcake.

As this semester ends, I find myself reflecting. If I'm counting correctly, this semester completes my 20th year teaching as a part-time adjunct instructor at the college level.There are some wonderful advantages to being an adjunct:

1. I get to be home raising my children while still, on the side, do something I also love. Some semesters I teach only one class, sometimes two. Last fall I had four (way too many essays...ouch!), and this semester I had three. I've taken entire semesters off, here and there, when I've had a new baby or another commitment that made working impractical. This flexibility is not possible in most jobs.

2.  As an adjunct, I'm not expected to attend boring meetings or serve on meaningless (or even meaningful) committees. The full time folks get to do all that; I simply arrive, teach my classes, and leave.Yep!

3.  Because I'm not burdened down with administrative duties (see #2 above), I can devote more time to teaching, to my students, to helping them develop their writing skills.

4.  I earn a bit of money, not a lot, but a bit, so I can support my two favorite hobbies: shopping and eating in restaurants.

Of course there are also some downsides:

1.  Job security. Yeah, there's none. Adjunct faculty are hired semester by semester; we are always considered temporary employees. The number of classes (if any) that we are offered each semester depends entirely on enrollment. Enrollment varies. It especially varies at colleges connected with the Church, which just lowered the age requirements for missionaries. Ha! I'm teaching just one 3-credit class this summer, which is totally fine with me. Good thing Gerald supports the family. In a couple years, when all these hundreds of brand new missionaries come home, they will need to get educated, and our enrollment will likely sky-rocket. Meanwhile, not so much.

2.  Money. Adjunct faculty members are paid only for the hours they teach, not for preparation or grading. For us writing teachers, this is bad news. Way bad. In writing classes, students need to write. There's just no other way. I've watched my friend and colleague who teaches nutrition running her tests and assignments though a scan tron machine. It takes her literally less than a minute to grade assignments from an entire class. In my world, if I can get through one essay in 20 minutes, I'm doing great. More often they take 30 - 45 minutes each.

Still, adjunct teaching has been a great opportunity for me. Once Luke was born, I really only wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I'm not very career minded. That said, I do love to teach, especially college students. I love helping them develop their writing. I love showing them it's possible to do things they never thought they could. Admittedly, I do better with the good students, the ones who care, the ones who work, the ones who take responsibility. They are the ones who see the incredible growth.

As we celebrated the completion of a successful semester yesterday, one of those excellent students come up to me to say goodbye. In the middle of cupcake eating and conversation, he relayed the following story:

"Just today, everyone was talking about registering for next semester's classes and what to take. When the subject of English 101 came up, people started discussing what teacher to take it from. Someone asked me who I had for 101, and I said that I have you. Then someone else said, 'I've heard she's really hard.' I spoke up right away and told everyone the truth: 'If you want to take the easy way out and just slide by, writing the same way you've always written, just getting through, you might want to take someone else. But if you want to really learn something, if you want to see change, if you want your writing to be better when you leave than when you came in, then I recommend you take Sister Webster."'

And that's exactly why I keep doing this.

It's not just clean; it's General Conference clean!

I grew up in a spotless home. I'm not exaggerating even a little. My mother spent hours every single day cleaning our house (well, more precisely, our apartment); we moved around constantly, so all but two of our 21 residences were apartments. Nevertheless, my mother saw to it that every one of those homes, whether large or small, was in pristine condition at all times. There was never so much as a popcorn seed beneath a couch cushion or a crumb behind the refrigerator. The only person I've ever known who could rival her cleaning ability was my dad. Nope, I'm not kidding. He was equally meticulous. So between the two of them, plus my mom's natural decorating abilities, all 365 days a year, 24 hours a day, our home looked like a picture from. Better Homes and Gardens.

As a wife and mom myself now, I face a bit of a quandary. Whether the result of growing up in such a clean house or my inborn tendency toward OCD, I really love my house to be clean. But no, I would never spend as much time cleaning as my mother did (and still does). I have few memories from my childhood that don't include her with a dust cloth in one hand and a can of Pledge in the other. I am not she. I don't scrub my bathrooms daily. I don't move all my furniture (even the piano!) to the center of the room in order to vacuum behind it, and then put it back in a totally different arrangement at least once a week. She does. I don't. Still, I like my house to be clean. All the time.

In that desire I am a lone soul. I am an army of one, fighting against a much larger and more powerful force (aka my family). I live with a group of people who do not share my desire for a clean, orderly home. I'm not sure it's accurate to say they "like" clutter, dirt, and chaos, but they certainly don't dislike it enough to do anything about it. Therein lies much personal frustration. I couldn't possibly keep up with their constant mess-making unless I made housework a full-time, 40+ hours/week career, and even then I might not be able to do it.

So I've had to learn to compromise my standards. Big time. I don't like that, but I can't change it. I can't change them. Rare are the occasions that I feel fully comfortable in my house; most days I tolerate much more dirt and clutter than I like. I clean what I can and try to ignore the rest. It's far from ideal, but I haven't come up with any better solution. However, there are some days when I muster the energy to clean under all their mess and restore that glorious order that calms even my worst anxiety. It's a beautiful thing. Then, to maintain that clean, I'm forced to be on continuous hyper-drive, either reminding (nagging?) people to pick up after themselves or doing the work myself. I probably do a little of each.

When are those occasional days? Major holidays mostly. I will have a clean house for Christmas. And Thanksgiving. I would normally add Easter to this list, except last week I was up to my eyeballs in essays and simply couldn't do it. Then there are two additional weekends, besides holidays, when I insist on having a clean house. Those are the first weekends of April and October, when my church holds its semi-annual General Conference. I am a self-professed "General Conference junkie." During those weekends, I spend 8 full hours in my house, in front of my TV, and you better believe I'm gonna do that in a clean, orderly house. No compromise.

So this past week, I've been working daily to achieve the standard of clean necessary for me to enjoy conference, and I've been nagging people along to make certain there was no regression. It's been tough but worth it. My only mistake was saving the bathrooms for this morning, before the 10:00 a.m. session. You see, I really don't like to feel resentment when I'm watching General Conference. And I really resent cleaning gross bathrooms that are only gross because various people (none of whom are young children, by the way) do not clean up after themselves. I'd like to be able to tell you that I manged to clean both our bathrooms this morning without any resentment, but I'd be lying. Fortunately, I finished around 9:00 and had a full hour to recover.

I grew up in a spotless home. And though my own home may never look like my mother's, today it met my standard of clean. So if you would like to drop by tomorrow, please feel free. You don't even have to call first. Because my house is clean.

It's not just clean; it's General Conference clean!

So Very Human

We are so very human. As such, we love our opinions. We love them, and even more, we love to express them. My students were complaining today that I don't let them write persuasive essays, you know, the ones where they get to rant and rave about their own opinions and then (hopefully) back up what they say with scholarly academic research? Nope, I sure don't include those in my curricula. Why not? Mostly because those types of essays are too easy. The cognitive requirement of such assignments is mediocre at best. Higher-level thinking skills are better developed through assignments that challenge students to analyze and synthesize the ideas of others and then reflect on those ideas in the context of what they, themselves, know or believe.

But I digress.

I was thinking about how much our beloved opinions relate to our feelings about agency, or the gift of free choice. Let me first say that I understand the critical importance of agency in our journey here on earth. Without the ability to choose, we could never learn what we need to learn or progress intellectually beyond the mentality of a young child. Part of our "schooling" here is to practice making choices and then to experience the consequences of those choices, positive or negative. I get it. I do. As a mom, though, there have been times when I've questioned it. "Is this agency deal all it's cracked up to be?" Or "Maybe these kids could wait to receive the gift of free agency when they're about 25 and have full cognitive maturity." It's true. The human brain doesn't reach full maturity until the mid-20s. Yikes! Just imagine all the life-altering decisions most of us make long before then. Many of us choose our education paths and careers. Often, we choose a partner and marry. Some of us even have children of our own. I did. I did all those things before I even had full use of my brain!

But again, I digress. There is a point here. I promise.

It occurs to me just how much our cherished personal opinions govern how much free agency we want everyone to enjoy. Because face it: All laws limit agency. That's what laws do. Even minor traffic laws limit my agency, dictating how fast I may drive, when and where I must stop, and even what I must do in order to register my vehicle. Still, I think most would agree that laws are necessary to protect people and to give society some sort of sane structure. Without them, anarchy would almost certainly result. We are, after all, so very human.

What I've found most intriguing is the way our opinions affect our feelings about agency. We are more than happy to limit someone's agency through a law, if doing so coincides with our own personal view on the issue. But if it doesn't, we rise up and shout "Don't take away my free agency!" We are so very human. For the record, I use the pronoun "we" intentionally. I am perhaps the most opinionated person I know. And my views on what should be law and what shouldn't (i.e. where we should limit agency and where we shouldn't) lie squarely and poignantly in my own personal and dearly beloved opinions.

Indeed, we are so very human. Thankfully, we are so very human together. We have the strength of each other, differing opinions and all, as we travel through this earthly probation. And fortunately for us, the One who gave us the amazing gift of agency also provided us with a back-up plan for those times when that very agency would be our downfall. As we celebrate His infinite atonement and resurrection this weekend, may we be ever mindful of that glorious gift and the growth it allows us.

"Hit It Again," and Don't Eat After 5:00 p.m.

"Hit it again," Lisa says in her strong British (Australian?) accent. And we do. Though we are already lying on the floor in puddles, we get up and do the workout once again. And then again. For the past two weeks, Shulamith and I have been doing a program called the Daily HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training), which we learned about last summer from our friend Tia. Tia and Shulamith were best friends in Mt. Vernon pretty much the whole time we lived there. Now Tia lives in California with her husband Tod, and we got to see them last summer during our Disney vacation. Tia is way fit. Like amazing. So we asked her about her workout routine, and she told us about the Daily HIIT. It took us this long to actually try it, but now that we have, we really really like it.

This program has two excellent advantages: variety and brevity. Three or so years ago, I did a workout program called P90X. It was the year before Shulamith's wedding, and I was determined to tone up, in order to wear a sweet little black dress (modest, yes but not mother-of-the-bride-ish).... right?! P90X is a series of videos, in which trainer Tony Horton leads participants through rigorous workouts, each day focusing on a different muscle group. It's a good program, and it's effective, but each workout takes a full hour (yoga, 90 minutes!), and once you go through the week-long cycle a few times, it can get fairly tedious. I had all Tony's lame jokes memorized. Yeah, yeah, Dreya is gorgeous and Pam the Blam is hot and Adam tumbles on the push-up side reaches.

In contrast, The Daily HIIT is different every day. Literally. Lisa and her associates make up a new workout every single day and upload each one fresh. I love this! I'm never bored because I never know what is coming next. Even better, each workout cycle is usually between 4 and 8 minutes long, and you repeat it 3 times, so the longest this whole thing ever takes is 25 minutes, and often it's shorter. Today, for example, the workout was 6 minutes, so we did three cycles and in 18 minutes we were done. Well, if you don't count the time we lay on the floor afterward unable to move, that is. It is intense, and it gets intense fast. Heart rate increases almost immediately as the intervals always include plenty of cardio alternating with weight training.

We like this. With P90X, I used to dread it all day, right up until I did it. I think that was mostly because it took so long. With this, I actually look forward to doing it although I generally start whining by the second or third exercise. They are hard. Most of them we cannot do exactly the way Lisa does. We have to modify somewhat. But I can tell already that I'm getting stronger.

Along with this new workout plan, I've been trying a slightly new eating routine. I was complaining about not losing weight, etc., blah, blah, blah, and Mathew suggested that I switch up my diet since I've been doing the same old thing (low fat) for so long. He said I should eat a big breakfast, a medium lunch, and a small dinner, and then not eat anything after 5:00 p.m. That is not easy. Both Gerald and I prefer to eat a later dinner, say around 7:30. Still, I decided it was worth a try. This is the second week. Ahhh, it's not that fun. Five o'clock is so early. I am pretty hungry by 9:00 or 10:00 p.m.; I often wake in the middle of the night, my stomach begging for food; and by morning? Can you say  "STARVING!" I actually get up earlier than I would ordinarily just so I can eat. I'm determined, though, to follow through with this for two full weeks right up until Easter and see if there is a good result. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, if you want a good workout program that is new each day and only takes around 20 minutes, turn on your computer, go to dailyhiit.com, and "Hit it again!"

Advice from a Cop: "Try to Avoid Cops!"

I have mentioned before that I'm not too fond of cops. I realize how that sounds, and if there's anyone reading whose career is law enforcement, I do apologize. But my limited experience with police officers has not been good. There was this time. And this time. However, I may need to rethink my stereotype just a bit after yesterday. Clearly, stereotypes are unfair and judgmental.

To backtrack, for the past few weeks, I've been driving around in our mini-van with expired tabs. Why, you may ask, would I do this? Well you see, here in Utah, in order to register a vehicle, one must first go though a process called "emissions and inspection." They test cars to insure that they are both environmentally friendly and safe. This is a good thing. It is. However, our van has a couple of issues that would most certainly cause it to fail the inspection part of the test: a large crack across the windshield and a malfunctioning tail light (maybe two?). So yeah, all this stuff is expensive, not to  mention the cost of the emissions and inspection test itself and then the actual fee to register the car. I don't just happen to have an extra $500 sitting around to do all this, so I've been driving around with expired tabs. Yes, I have. Guilty.

Up until yesterday, that was working just fine, but alas, my luck ran out. As Seth and I sat at a light on 80th, just a couple blocks from our house, in my rear view mirror, I saw him. A cop! Immediately, I felt my natural bias against cops surface, and sure enough, as soon as I turned the corner, I saw his lights behind me. I pulled over and waited. I never do anything for these people until they ask. I don't scurry around pulling out my license or searching the glove box for the registration or proof of insurance. That's how passive/aggressive I am.

I sat quietly and made him ask for what he wanted. Then I took my time retrieving it. No way would I let him fluster me. No way would I let him think he was causing me even the slightest stress. But this particular cop didn't seem interested in any of that. His mission, surprisingly, was not to make me feel uncomfortable or to exert his authority in order to intimidate me. Not at all. This one was different. He quietly explained that my tabs were expired, and he wondered when I might be able to register my car. I told him about my broken windshield and tail lights and the cost of getting all this stuff fixed, and I said I hoped to register the van very soon (which is the truth).

And then our conversation went from polite to ridiculous and from ridiculous to absurd. He began to explain that I should probably try to avoid cops.

"Wait, you are a cop telling me to avoid cops?" I asked.

"Well, if you're gonna drive around with expired tabs and an outdated insurance card, yes, you should definitely try to avoid them." he replied. "Because if you don't, one of them might give you a ticket."

By this point, I felt like I was in "The Twilight Zone." He went on to suggest ways to avoid cops, like keeping my eyes open and then quickly turning down side streets if I happen to see one. Okay, by now I'm laughing hysterically because I truly can't figure this guy out. Was this a set-up? Were there hidden cameras somewhere? Would I be on TV?

Nope. It was real. He told me to "Have a great evening," and he left.

Seth spoke first: "That was the coolest cop ever!"

Seriously.

I will never allow stereotypes to inform my judgment again. Not ever.