One step at a time

Here is a picture of Highlander. I think I can call him my boyfriend now. The 'l' word has been dropped.

This is the world I live in

I am in the process of applying for jobs and this was on one of the district sites, a newly formed district:

"Our new district is attracting strong interest from talented
teacher candidates, particularly in the middle of a national teacher shortage."

and then

"In addition, with a relatively strong economy here in Utah, our public schools are the beneficiaries of
more difficult economic circumstances in other states – in Los Angeles alone, as many 5,400 teachers and
support staff could be laid off due to budget cuts."

Yeah. So obviously Southern California is NOT the place to be as a teacher. Because apparently, there is a national teacher shortage!! How ironic.

Half Blood Prince

This one is only PG!! That is very exciting to me. Though I wonder how they are doing that considering the content matter.

High School Musical 4

This is just too funny.

Reality Check

This weekend, I went to visit the boy I like, who for the purposes of the blog shall be known as Highlander. No matter how much I like him, he is still a boy. I saw his bedroom and bathroom. They definitely belonged to a boy. And boys are kind of gross. And he eats like a boy. Lots of meat. That sits so heavy in my stomach.

What was I expecting at a bachelor's pad, though, right?

You know you're a BYU Ballroom Dancer if . . .

(Standard)
. . . your head feels more comfortable positioned out and slightly to the left.
. . . you’ve ever heard Betsy say, “reach for the chocolate!”
. . . you have to sleep on your stomach with your head facing right just to make sure you don’t get lopsided.
. . . you’ve ever danced using a Cougar Eat tray as a frame aid.
. . . Kyrstin has made you do at least three different types of sit ups for no apparent reason. (Don't worry, you'll figure out what they're for later)
. . . your angry face is now your “Tango” face
. . . you’ve ever heard the Christmas tree analogy for correct framework in dance position.
. . . it feels weird NOT to have someone attached to your right rib.
. . . you've become very aware of which parts of your feet you use: ball, heel, toe, inside edge of the foot, etc.
. . . people sometimes confuse you for a business student.
. . . you know body flight has nothing to do with hopping and flapping your arms.
. . . it sometimes feels like your shoulders have fused to your torso.
. . . you can rotated you’re upper body to obscene angles and doing so feels completely natural.
. . . you not only know the difference between CBM and CBMP, you know exactly what the acronyms stand for.
. . . you know that you can't just waltz your way into heaven. Viennese is the required dance.
. . . you've spent entire class sessions just on shaping.
. . . You've gotten used to stopping at random and uncomfortable positions so that the professor can check your framework, but you've never really learned how to start back up again without any momentum.
. . . you think Lee is so relaxed he's practically horizontal.
. . . (men) you can't remember the last time you wore a T-shirt on a week day, and you constantly carry a tie in your bag, just in case.
. . . you know there's nothing hotter than a man in a tail suit. (in more ways than one)

(American)
. . . straightening your legs completely is heresy.
. . . your angry face is now your “Tango” face.
. . . slouching is now uncomfortable under most circumstances.
. . . the word “routine” is almost completely foreign to you.
. . . you’ve seriously considered seeing your doctor for whiplash after dancing a particularly energetic tango.
. . . people are convinced your legs and hips are made out of rubber when you dance the Cha Cha.
. . . you show 180 students how to do cuban action by pointing to the calluses on your feet.
. . . you’ve stolen at least three or four elements from standard or latin dancing and incorporated it into your dancing style.
. . . you know how to do body rolls and you’re not afraid to use them!
. . . you can’t remember the last time you did a box step in anything.
. . . you know about sway but you never really use it.
. . . the level of coolness for a variation is directly proportional to how insane you have to be in order to attempt it.
. . . the term MAC is not just a reference to an awesome computer.
. . . you either avoid blues swing like the plague or it has become one of your guilty pleasures.
. . . you are obsessed with West Coast Swing or Lindy Hop.
. . . you have no discernible sense of shame.

(Latin)
. . . you point your toes at the slightest provocation.
. . . you feet bend in ways they were never meant to bend in originally.
. . . your Rumba walk and your normal walk are practically indistinguishable.
. . . the junk in your trunk has a mind of its own.
. . . everything comes out sultry even when you don’t mean it to be.
. . . your angry face is now your “Paso” face.
. . . you’ve become accustomed to hearing Brent shout “Go Cougars!” at random intervals.
. . . you associate a cell phone ringing with the phrases “chocolate chip, extra salt, under baked."
. . . you know that the Rumba is the dance of love, and sometimes love hurts.
. . . you count to four by starting on two and ending on one.
. . . you consistently get more action on the dance floor than the rest of your private life combined.
. . . (ladies) you’re absolutely horrified that Brent can dance your part better than you can.
. . . (ladies) your convinces that the dresses some professionals wear are held up solely by super glue and fate.
. . . (ladies) you go through heel caps like candy.
. . . (ladies) you know Brent's exact procedure for slicking your bun so that other dancers could use it as a mirror.
. . . (men) you constantly have to imagine that you’re not a white guy.
. . . (men) you can move your hips better than most non-dancer ladies.
. . . (men) you know that according to Brent, Slavik is the quintessential example of how Latin men should move.
. . . (men) you've ever participated in a competition where ties are absolutely forbidden and the first three buttons on your shirt are considered optional.
. . . (men) you can wear pastels, spangles, sequins, and rhinestones AND still feel like a man.
. . . (men) you not only empathize with but in fact share some women's feelings and experiences regarding high heels.
. . . sickling your feet is punishable by death.

(General)
. . . you're easily identified at great distances by the little black bag.
. . . you address all ballroom professors by their first name and know exactly what their preferred dance style is.
. . . you know there is a HUGE difference between an 89 and a 90 on test scores.
. . . you have absolutely no issues with personal space.
. . . the only way someone could invade your personal bubble is if they stabbed your with something.
. . . you have at least one or two scars from incidents where you and a woman in heels disagreed on certain subtle points of floor craft.
. . . ballroom dance IS your social life, and non dancers have a difficult time grasping this concept.
. . . the first day of class you know the difference between a standard shoe and a latin shoe.
. . . you’ve gone through your entire iTunes library looking for danceable music.
. . . you know what dance would fit to a song before you even know the name of the song.
. . . your feet have molded to fit your dance shoes.
. . . you physically cringe at the prospect of searching for a new competition partner.
. . . you know that dance labs are for practicing floor craft, not traveling.
. . . you wish the slow pokes would stay on the inside like they're supposed to.
. . . you can beat most cars in your commute from the RB to the Wilk.
. . . you schedule coaching sessions or practice times when any sane individual would be asleep.
. . . you've lost track of the number of times you've taken your pants off in public. Usually you either had latin pants underneath or a dance skirt over the top, but that's beside the point.
. . . (ladies) you’ve purchased five bottles of hair spray just for Dancesport.
. . . round is not a shape and heat has nothing to do with temperature.
. . . (ladies) you own at least 15 pairs of beige, toast, or caramel fishnets.
. . . (ladies) walking around campus with your hair in a bun, wearing a latin or standard skirt, sandals, and a jacket is a perfectly acceptable fashion statement.
. . . (men) at a dance you select partners based on the type of shoes they're wearing. Sandals / open heeled shoes = No thank you. Standard shoes / Latin Sandals = Yes, please. Worn character shoes = Oh baby, oh baby!!!
. . . you gauge the amount of fun you had at a dance by the number of sore muscle groups or numb toes you have the next day.
. . . you have two performance wardrobes: one thats completely devoid of sequins, rhinestones, feathers, or shear fabric; and the real one.
. . . you idolize people with really weird and outlandish names.
. . . you go through at least three bottles of home tanner before a competition.
. . . unlike people who gain their knowledge of dancing from reality TV, you actually know the differences between Standard, Latin, and American.
. . . the last time you did something incredibly damaging to your personal reputation your explanation included the phrase, "I'm a ballroom dancer!"
. . . you own at least one pair of shoes that look like they've been at the dangerous end of a firing range.
. . . you don't do your laundry as much as normal people, because you have to wear the same pants/skirt tomorrow anyway.
. . . you've ever used your shoe bag as a makeshift towel.
. . . you practically live in the RB. That includes everything from shaving, showering, and brushing your teeth to doing makeup and hair with the full length mirrors on the ballroom walls (if you happen to be a lady). The only thing you haven't done is stashed a bed somewhere.
. . . you honestly can't name a public area of the RB or Wilk you haven't taken a nap in. (excluding the rest rooms, because that's just nasty)
. . . you eat more food from the RB vending machines than at home.
. . . you only watch "dancing with the stars" or "So you think you can dance" because you're hoping to come across a few interesting variations you might be able to steal.
. . . everything you own smells like feet. EVERYTHING!
. . . you've had a sudden and disconcerting realization that thinking only gets you into trouble.
. . . the rest of the world is dead to you during the weekend of Dance Sport.
. . . you associate the term "medals" with long hours of practice, sweat, blood, tears, and a feeling of unnamed dread.
. . . it hurts to watch the 100 level students.





No matter how many times I read this, it still makes me laugh.

Twitterpated

So a couple weeks ago, I told my good friend Scully that I liked a boy. She asked me if I was twitterpated. Not wanting to reveal too much, I asked what her definition of twitterpated was. She asked if I was smiling for no reason and a couple other things. Well, I wasn't really at the time, but I thought I was probably twitterpated anyway.

Now, I am smiling for no reason, so it must be official. I catch myself doing it randomly throughout the day, which then makes me smile more. I just feel warm and fuzzy inside, and it makes me smile.

Ok. I'm a little cheesy. Sorry.

Not much else is going on. In the middle of spring break, but not doing much.