Category Archives: School


Class Schedule

MW: Accounting 202 12:45

TTH: Business 211 7:45, Textiles 10:15, Fashion Line 3:15

I am more than excited to be back in school. One semester off seems too long…especially in the wintertime when your husband is going to class all day. Business Fundamentals is a class that makes me nervous, but also makes me want to succeed. I sit in the very front because that was the only seat available when I walked in late on the first day of class and have since sat there every day.


The specimen I sit next to is one that smells like a mildew encrusted shower curtain who LOVES dissecting my laptop screen with his wiry glasses. To say the least, he makes me uncomfortable. The class is set up in tables that seats 4…kindergarteners. We are squished together with hardly any elbow room. The class starts at 7:45, and not even 10 minutes into the class, Specimen whips out a bag of Doritos Munchies and chows down. Good thing I’m not pregnant or I would have spewed all over the table.

So what do I do? Do I get to class early on Thursday and steal someone elses seat? Or do I come a little late and find a seat closest to the back (there are a few extra seats in the class). I know for a fact that the teacher is going to call me out after searching for me in the front and say something like, “Hey…you moved! Did you not like your neighbors?” Uhhh…TBD.


I remember the feeling like it was yesterday–playing under those stadium lights, the crowd cheering, the adrenaline pumping. Flag football seemed to be my calling, my destiny, my duty for Centennial High School. Two years I played on the D-line. I was known to blitz like a mad-dog and even break noses. Regrettably, we lost both my Junior and Senior year and this was something I couldn’t live to tell my children. This semester, it was time to relive my dream, to fulfill my dream, to finally win a Championship. And it was up to the Chico Chavettes to do it.

Oh Kadi–the epitome of excellence. She had an arm that would give a shotgun a run for its bullets. She was our star, our MVP, our quarterback. Each game we arrived knowing we could count on her to run, dodge, and juke to the end zone. You probably can imagine our mass disappointment when we heard the following RIGHT before semi-finals…

So…I have a backpacking trip next week for my class…and I can’t miss.

WHAT?! The whole team–including our coaches–let out a overwhelming moan of grief as we realize that we are going to have to do this on our own. GOOD GLORY I’ve never been that nervous for our game–the one that would lead us to the Championship. Since we knew Kadi wouldn’t be there, we all had our hopes to the ground. There was an odd feeling amongst the group, but a humble one. We went out on the field and kept our defense alive (our greatest asset) and we kept them from scoring. By the end of the first half, we were both tied at 12 points, and finally the adrenaline starting pumping.

Second half, and we’re feeling okay. Amanda throws it to Tara right in the center and THERE SHE GOES! Touchdown! We manage to get the extra point and we are feeling good…until they get a dang touchdown. They go for two points for the win. I’m watching my girl like a hawk, no way will they catch this. They go for the throw AND MISS!!!!!!!!!!!!! WE WIN THE GAME!!!! How was it possible? Who knows. On to the Championship.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get to participate in the glory of playing in that Championship game…under the stadium lights. I was excitedly on my way to Texas to visit my boy. As I’m sitting in the humid, Texas heat, I get a call from Amanda and hear the great news–CHICO CHAVETTES WIN! The Championship is ours! I even have a shirt to prove it! The diva finally fulfilled her dream.

Divas Don’t Deal with Dexter

I remember the first day I saw ______ Dexter. The ankle-length skirt and multi-color crochet sweater on her plump body screamed the word homely. Was I really going to be taking a sewing class from this class-less, unfashionable, middle-aged woman? This was no way to start out my career, for this woman and fashion design were exact opposites. My jaw clenched and my upper body cringed while thinking about my forlorn future. This was going to be a disaster of a semester.

I looked at the long list of supplies needed to be eligible for this class. Not only did I have a disgrace of a teacher, but I had to buy $100+ worth of things that the school didn’t pay for. I, rather, my parents, are forking out thousands of dollars for this corrupted university and they still manage to swindle our wealth. After my small temper tantrum with small fists shooting toward the ground and a tense jaw biting together muffling a scream, I trekked on to the fabric store to gather my provisions. “Don’t tell me the total,” I said as I closed my eyes and blindly handed my debit card to the sweet old lady ringing me up.

It vitiates every organ inside of my body to have to see Dexter twice a week for an hour and a half each time. I find myself staring at her contorted smile, each tooth awry. There are two spaces where her fangs should be, and when she laughs at one of her pitiful jokes, you can see plaque encrusted nubs she calls teeth. I look at her fluffy, shoulder-length hair; it’s gray to the tops of her ears and brown to the split-end bottoms. She never escaped the early nineties, for her curled bangs are teased to the point of looking like pom-poms on her forehead. The skin under her chin flaps as she gives misguiding instruction to the class, yet gives no time to the students to sew a thing. Each day, I slouch in my seat and unabashedly turn into that unmotivated, pretentious student that every teacher loathes.

One of our projects was to make a pair of pajama pants. I bought red sweatshirt fabric and was so excited to start this new feat. As I laid out my pattern, Dexter sneaks up behind me and says, “Excuse me. Are you really planning on using that fabric?” I replied as innocently as I could, “Why yes, I am. I just love the color.” She stared me down as though I was her 16-year-old daughter who was just caught with marijuana tucked between my mattress and bed frame. I was taken aback when I heard her raise her voice,


I couldn’t control my plummeting jaw as I stared at her in disbelief. My thoughts raced with retorts. This was no way to speak to a student. I could get her fired for this! I tried to think of various ways in which I could get her in trouble, but with no conclusion coming to me, I sheepishly asked, “Well what do you expect me to do? I already bought the fabric…It’s not like I can just take it back.” She haughtily replied, “You’ll have to buy different fabric and it must be a woven. By the way, you’ll receive a zero today for preparation.”

If there were any such time to pray for composure, this was it. I looked over at my sewing friend, Kelci, and she gave an empathetic shrug. Two deep breaths later, I fidgeted with my belongings, straightening out anything askew. Just then, Miss Homemaking Education Expert of the class, Rebecca, appeared beside me.

You know, the teacher’s right. Knits are hard to work with, and there is no way you’re advanced enough to handle it.

I had always wondered what the Incredible Hulk felt like when he transformed. My curiosity was explicated at that very moment, and I muffled an indecent retaliation. I could see a flash into the future as I gawked at this overweight, audacious teacher’s pet. Say hello to the new Dexter.

Divas don’t deal with these kinds of people.

Divas Don’t Worry…

The restlessness of my mind often forbids me sleep on many occasions. For instance, on April 19th, I had just moved into my new apartment. After spilling a half gallon of laundry detergent on my white shirt, jeans, and new boots purchased at the D.I., I finally had all of my belongings sprawled over my teeny bedroom floor. It is no surprise to see that I have far too many commodities, and only half of my clothes fit in my closet, for they bulge out of the doors like a lion waiting on its prey. The night of the move-in, I lay in my anything-but-comfortable, twin-size bed, with my mind racing. I had boxes piled high in the bedroom, nothing on the walls, and my shoes were waiting to be put in their shoe-rack, not to mention, I hadn’t even registered for all of my classes. It’s moments like these where I wish I could push all of my thoughts to the “ignore” compartment and get some much needed rest. But no. Leave it to Maddi to get up and start unpacking those boxes and even start practicing for her choir audition the next day. Finally, my mind was subdued as my body collapsed on my bed, but it wasn’t long until 9 a.m. came around and I needed to get up and at ’em. I got my audition piece ready, hopped in my car, and drove 5 miles away from my apartment so that I could warm up my vocalizers in privacy. The last thing I wanted was my new roommates to hear my opera voice resounding through the paper thin walls as our first encounter.

Time to audition:

that’s what divas do best.

I sang Vedrai Carino with ease and gumption, portrayed my sight reading capabilities, and showed the range of my voice to my choir judge. She nodded, smiled, referred me to try out for a role in the Opera Workshop class, and told me that she would see me at call-backs in two days. My relief was overly apparent for the time being; it was time to relax.

Two days came quickly.

I arrived at callbacks and was put into the Soprano I group, where we had to sing a four-bar excerpt one-by-one. Of course my voice wasn’t in its prime because of my lack of sleep, but I felt solid about my 5.5 second solo. We weren’t told if we had made the choir afterward, so I assumed I would find out when I showed up for Women’s Choir class the next Monday at 3:15.

As I took my seat that Monday afternoon, Eda Ashby proclaims,

Congratulations on making it into Women’s Choir this semester. I’m assuming you all checked the list outside my office, saw that you made it, and are excited for what is ahead of us!

THERE WAS A LIST?! Cold sweat beads formed on my temples and I could feel my cheeks turning their notorious, nearly purple hue. I looked around awkwardly to see if anyone was in the same predicament as I, but I guess it isn’t the norm to have your emotions as apparent on your face as mine always are. I was officially embarrassed. What if I didn’t make it? What if my tired, raspy voice was the cause of my failure? A role sheet wasn’t passed that day so I still had no idea if I was even permitted and it was the longest hour of my life. 4:15 finally came around, and I booked it to her office. I could see the white list fluttering under the A/C as if to say, “Giirrrl, you think you’re a diva but you’re not.” I jabbed my index finger onto it to shut it up and slid it down the rows, quickly scanning each name. Why do I have to have a W last name?! Impatience is one of my greatest attributes, but I held it together as I reared the W’s. Fourth to last on that list read Walker, Madison and I let out a sigh of relief loud enough to frighten a small child. I brushed off my shoulders, (yes I actually did the Jay-Z gesture) and exited the building. I had nothing to worry about and I felt slightly stupid for making such a big deal of it in my head and on my face…but then I saw the outfits we have to wear.

Eek. I have nothing more to say.

Divas Don’t Do Finals.

I’m currently sitting on the floor in a secluded study room on the second floor of the library. My eyes are drooping to a close and my brain is on overload. The only thing saving me is Iron & Wine and my leopard print pillow that is cushioning my tailbone. I am only enrolled in two classes; how can finals week be this brutal? Probably because there are two exams for each class that I am in; I’m halfway done but of course I saved my most difficult ones for last. I may just be the very best at procrastinating schoolwork, which is why I am doing anything but studying. While I was making my way to the library this morning, I received numerous looks of bewilderment. The reason being: I was carrying a pillow, a half gallon of milk, a box of organic cereal, and my Bratz Doll packpack. In a world of divas, this would be an absolute normal sighting, occurring every morning. But here at BYU-Idaho, I was belittled and scorned. Oh, the brutalities of finals week.

During the middle of this semester, I changed my major. Intentionally, I was going to end up being in the nursing program, have a set career, go on to medical school, become a dermatologist, and become the Walker Family’s most successful woman-doctor. Around February 18th, I changed my life plan. I am now majoring in Business Management, emphasis in Marketing, and minoring in Clothing Construction. Point-blank:

I love clothes.

If there is one thing that I love more than food, it is clothing. My small closet in my apartment looks as though it is puking blouses, scarves, jeans, and dresses. How did I accumulate so many things? Oh yeah…I don’t know how to say no to cute clothes! I truly am sorry, Mom and Dad, but now that I am not working at a clothing store I have less temptation. Anyway…as I think about my new major and the classes that I will be taking next semester, I am filled with excitement and satisfaction that finally I know what best fits me and what I’ll be the happiest doing. After I graduate, I will go on to FIDM for one year and get my Fashion Merchandising degree, resulting in the start of my own line. With my new switch, it has made me most unmotivated for my Anat & Phys class [the hardest class I have ever taken in my life]. It makes my father disappointed that I will not be the doctor in the family. Sorry Dad, but you saw this coming. Who do you think I got my creative brain from?

Well, it’s time to take one of my tests. Wish me luck.