Maybe the "two teenagers" in the name of this blog has morphed into meaning me and my (various) alter personalities.... Yeah, I know it's a stretch, but I don't want to have to make a new one. I don't know how. And I'm in college. And I'm learning too many things I don't know how to do by command to go and learn something for fun. Those days are disappearing in my rear view mirror.
I mostly got on to tell you that I'm OK.
I mean mostly. I got a very concerned (and sweet) text from my cousin Tisha the other day and realized that you might come away from my last post thinking that I was dying.
And I kind of was. Thursday was a day of nightmares. In every possible way. It was my wallowing day. I wallowed. A lot. Yesterday was much better. I made cookies and played Apples to Apples with my cousins Kelsey and Thayne (seriously, my cousins have saved my life this week), explored the grocery store, went to class, talked to my parents on skype (skype is one of those things the gods brought down to us out of pity, like fire), laughed with my roommates, and made Saturday plans.
(my teachers say my sentences are too long, what do you think?)
Anyway, the sum of it is that I'm doing much better. There was only an hour or so yesterday that I felt any hardcore hollowness. The rest of the day was OK. So I'm not dying. I am still planning on transferring back to Hawaii for college after Christmas, but if I do I'm not going to be running away. I'm not going to do it because I can't do this. If I go back home it will be because I've decided that that's a better place for me right now. But this--this college in a desert thing, this being away from my parents and Mei and almost everyone who's ever known me--this I will conquer.
Over.
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Showing posts with label School. Show all posts
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 21, 2011
I'm So (Home) Sick
WARNING: Serious whining ahead. I wasn't even going to post this, but I haven't finished a post since I left Hawaii and I wanted to assure you that I'm still alive. Mostly. Read at your own risk.
I now understand why people live in their parent's basement all their lives.
Why would they leave? Why would you go away from people who love you and walk out into a world that gives you weird looks and treats you like every other person on the street? Why would you leave when you don't have to worry about how to best work things out with your roommates, what you should by at the store, and where your checks were sent? When you were comfortable and happy?
My parents say that they don't really remember saying goodbye to their family or their first couple days at college. I'm putting mine down on record: It stinks. It stinks worse than anything else. Ever since I gave my little sister that last hug I've felt hollowed out inside. I'm constantly fighting back tears. My voice sounds thick and there are these hideous, painful bags under my eyes. And even though I'm sitting here on my bed crying, my mom can't give me a hug. And she isn't going to be able to for another four months and fifteen days. No matter who else gives me a hug, it won't be the same thing at all. I hate this.
I know what my dad would say if he were here. He'd say, "Why aren't you watching that movie with your sociology class? Why aren't you going down and talking to those guys who are blasting music from their truck (as long as they're not return missionaries, because you're not allowed to talk to them)? I told you not to just sit in your room and do homework and watch Korean dramas and Doctor Who."
And he did. He told me. And I probably should have stayed up on campus to watch that movie with my class. But I was hungry, I didn't want to have to pay for food, I didn't know if it would be dark by the time we finished, and I didn't want to walk for forty minutes. And I probably should go talk to the girls who are yelling downstairs, who came in place of the music-blasting guys. I should. And maybe even could.
But I don't feel like I can. My hair isn't washed, I'm in a PE shirt and shorts, and face is all swollen up. That would be OK. I could wash my hair, change into something else and wash my face. But I don't think that I could talk to them without crying. I haven't really been able to talk to anyone today without crying. I don't even want to talk to the people passing under my window. I feel no interest in them. No sense of kindred-spiritness. I'm sure they're nice, but I don't know them. And after growing up in a town where you never have to talk to anyone you don't know, I wouldn't be comfortable with them. And all I want right now is to be comfortable. All I want is to get hugs from my family, to sleep in my bed back home, to run down to Katie's house, and complain to Sister Handcock, and make bread in my oven. And for my mom to hold me and tell me everything is alright, and that she loves me, and that I can do it.
That's it. I'm transferring back to Hawaii. There is no way I can do this for a whole year. I'd live in my parents basement if they had one, but since they don't I'll content myself with sharing Mei's room.
I probably won't. I'll probably end up liking it here, meeting friends, growing up, learning about myself and the world in general. Probably. At some point. But tonight I'm by myself and I can't think of any good solution.
Over.
I now understand why people live in their parent's basement all their lives.
Why would they leave? Why would you go away from people who love you and walk out into a world that gives you weird looks and treats you like every other person on the street? Why would you leave when you don't have to worry about how to best work things out with your roommates, what you should by at the store, and where your checks were sent? When you were comfortable and happy?
My parents say that they don't really remember saying goodbye to their family or their first couple days at college. I'm putting mine down on record: It stinks. It stinks worse than anything else. Ever since I gave my little sister that last hug I've felt hollowed out inside. I'm constantly fighting back tears. My voice sounds thick and there are these hideous, painful bags under my eyes. And even though I'm sitting here on my bed crying, my mom can't give me a hug. And she isn't going to be able to for another four months and fifteen days. No matter who else gives me a hug, it won't be the same thing at all. I hate this.
I know what my dad would say if he were here. He'd say, "Why aren't you watching that movie with your sociology class? Why aren't you going down and talking to those guys who are blasting music from their truck (as long as they're not return missionaries, because you're not allowed to talk to them)? I told you not to just sit in your room and do homework and watch Korean dramas and Doctor Who."
And he did. He told me. And I probably should have stayed up on campus to watch that movie with my class. But I was hungry, I didn't want to have to pay for food, I didn't know if it would be dark by the time we finished, and I didn't want to walk for forty minutes. And I probably should go talk to the girls who are yelling downstairs, who came in place of the music-blasting guys. I should. And maybe even could.
But I don't feel like I can. My hair isn't washed, I'm in a PE shirt and shorts, and face is all swollen up. That would be OK. I could wash my hair, change into something else and wash my face. But I don't think that I could talk to them without crying. I haven't really been able to talk to anyone today without crying. I don't even want to talk to the people passing under my window. I feel no interest in them. No sense of kindred-spiritness. I'm sure they're nice, but I don't know them. And after growing up in a town where you never have to talk to anyone you don't know, I wouldn't be comfortable with them. And all I want right now is to be comfortable. All I want is to get hugs from my family, to sleep in my bed back home, to run down to Katie's house, and complain to Sister Handcock, and make bread in my oven. And for my mom to hold me and tell me everything is alright, and that she loves me, and that I can do it.
That's it. I'm transferring back to Hawaii. There is no way I can do this for a whole year. I'd live in my parents basement if they had one, but since they don't I'll content myself with sharing Mei's room.
I probably won't. I'll probably end up liking it here, meeting friends, growing up, learning about myself and the world in general. Probably. At some point. But tonight I'm by myself and I can't think of any good solution.
Over.
May 27, 2011
Graduation and Such
Victory is mine! Victory is mine... Bring me all the finest muffins and bagels in the land? (Name that show?)
I am now all graduated.
People keep asking me how it feels and I tell them, "Like a long weekend." Remember how I was afraid of crying in the middle of graduation? Didn't happen. I think it's because it didn't hit that I was, you know, graduating. It still hasn't. Or maybe it has and I'm just handling it much better than I though I would. Maybe I really wasn't very attached to high school after all. (attached does not have a "t" in it. just so you know.)
The other question people keep asking is what I've been doing since I graduated. I wish I had a more impressive answer. I mostly say "sleeping," or "eating," or "watching a lot of foreign movies and documentaries and Korean dramas."
We have really got to talk about kdramas one of these days. But, once again, not today.
I've also been cleaning a lot. I'm leaving paradise for a desert in less than a week now. (you know, i always remember the difference between desert's spelling and dessert's because you always want one more dessert (thus the extra "s") but no one wants more desert. except my mom. who thinks they're pretty... we're related, really.) So I've been sorting through my clothes and books and cleaning out kitchen cupboards so that I won't be freaking out next Wednesday any more than is necessary. I still need to clean out the closets and buy some lotion so I don't shrivel up, die, and become mummified in the lack of moisture.
I like wet air. And green vegetation. And rain. These are things I am expecting miss.
I should probably tell you that graduation went nicely. Graduation practices were actually better than bearable. I played angry birds for the first time (so addicting, stupid pigs) and got to hang out with my friends. Graduation itself went fairly smoothly. I don't remember stuttering in my speech more than once (if I did, don't feel obligated to disillusion me). I had two favorite parts. One was right before the ceremony when one of my classmates told me I was just like Emma Thompson.
This was the other one:
After the ceremony, when we were supposed to walk calmly off the left of the stage the boys lept up from the bleachers and started doing the haka. I'm sure this wasn't completely spontaneous. My bet is that during the eternity that they spent passing out diplomas someone employed the trusted and true "pass it on" tactic. But I hadn't heard about it. And it was way awesome.
I'm going to go sleep now. Or eat. Or watch a foreign film, documentary, or kdrama.
Over.
May 17, 2011
What I Don't Understand
There are many things in this world I don't understand. Like calculus. And the internet. And how you estimate how many stars are in the universe. (are all of these things connected somehow? if i learn calculus will i be able to estimate the number of stars in the universe?) And also why, on earth, my school has fourteen hours of graduation practice.
Fourteen hours? What could we possibly do for that long?
That's what I was thinking when I walked into the gym today (after paying seventy-eight dollars of dues, including three dollars from a ID i swear I never had). And then we learned the songs (and motions) to Lean on Me, You Are My Fire (my childhood in note form), It's Hard To Believe (ahh, High School Musical), and two others songs I'd never heard of.
That was six hours of practice. My legs hurt and my respect for Michael Jackson has gone up, because I do not understand how people do that with their body. We have four more hours of practice tomorrow and I'm wondering, what's left? I'm told we have to practice walking and moving our tassels, which is, after all, very complicated.
I guess. Maybe?
But it can't possibly be four hours worth of complicated. Right?
Over.
Fourteen hours? What could we possibly do for that long?
That's what I was thinking when I walked into the gym today (after paying seventy-eight dollars of dues, including three dollars from a ID i swear I never had). And then we learned the songs (and motions) to Lean on Me, You Are My Fire (my childhood in note form), It's Hard To Believe (ahh, High School Musical), and two others songs I'd never heard of.
That was six hours of practice. My legs hurt and my respect for Michael Jackson has gone up, because I do not understand how people do that with their body. We have four more hours of practice tomorrow and I'm wondering, what's left? I'm told we have to practice walking and moving our tassels, which is, after all, very complicated.
I guess. Maybe?
But it can't possibly be four hours worth of complicated. Right?
Over.
May 8, 2011
Graduation BeMoanings
FUN FACT: This is my last week of high school and my last week of seminary.
This fun fact? Has not clicked at all. I have no real feelings about it. I don't really believe in it. I've told myself that it was coming for so long that, now that it's here and fun facts like the above are bouncing in my ear until my skull rings, I find myself brushing them off and saying Uh huh. Yeah. I'm sure.
I wonder when reality will hit. When I'll suddenly realize that this is where the sidewalk ends and high school is moments a way from become the good old days and I am going to have to wash my own socks from now on and ever after.
I hope it doesn't happen in the middle of one of my graduation speeches. (yes, plural. not only was i unsuccessful in passing my high school graduation speech off to Vita, i am now talking in seminary graduation too... Brother Oleole told me i'm representing all the girls in our graduating class, but no pressure or anything.)
I hope it doesn't happen in the middle of one of my graduation speeches. (yes, plural. not only was i unsuccessful in passing my high school graduation speech off to Vita, i am now talking in seminary graduation too... Brother Oleole told me i'm representing all the girls in our graduating class, but no pressure or anything.)
I'm the crying sort. Have I mentioned that? I cry. A lot. Often and hard. None of this single streak stuff for me; that's for amateurs. I do full-on, red-faced, mouth-creasing, eyes-burning, lungs-searing sob fests. (When we watched Titanic in school I was the first girl to break down. Ila was next to me and it started this chain reaction until our entire row was crying into kleenexs we made Taylor fetch for us.)
Books, movies, long days and particularly cuddly looking bear cubs send me over the edge. Coming to the Great and Grave Realization in one of my graduation speeches is thus potential humiliating. And it's totally the kind of thing that would happen to me.
I can just see myself, the poster-girl for one of those high school cliches I've been avoiding for the past four years, standing up and talking to all my school-mates, their friends, families, and dogs and sobbing, "I'm going to miss you all so, so (sob) much."
No. No no no. I refuse.
What I am tempted to do is quote Bilbo Baggins: "I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."
It's perfect! Half of the people up there I haven't talked to since sixth grade and most of them think my name is Melissa. (you know my name, right?... right?)
Anyway, I might be spared the humiliation of sobbing in front of everyone, or the awkward displeasure of my school councilor when I half-insult everyone I'm graduating with, because last time I checked my cap and gown were yet to materialize. I just might not walk at all. Which would be OK by me, but I'm pretty sure my mom, school councilor, and various English teachers wouldn't be happy.
You know they're making us all wear white shoes for graduation? How lame is that? I don't even own white shoes. Do you think that they'd give my graduation speech away if I showed up in yellow wedges? Because that's a risk I'm willing to take.
Over.
Books, movies, long days and particularly cuddly looking bear cubs send me over the edge. Coming to the Great and Grave Realization in one of my graduation speeches is thus potential humiliating. And it's totally the kind of thing that would happen to me.
I can just see myself, the poster-girl for one of those high school cliches I've been avoiding for the past four years, standing up and talking to all my school-mates, their friends, families, and dogs and sobbing, "I'm going to miss you all so, so (sob) much."
No. No no no. I refuse.
What I am tempted to do is quote Bilbo Baggins: "I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."
It's perfect! Half of the people up there I haven't talked to since sixth grade and most of them think my name is Melissa. (you know my name, right?... right?)
Anyway, I might be spared the humiliation of sobbing in front of everyone, or the awkward displeasure of my school councilor when I half-insult everyone I'm graduating with, because last time I checked my cap and gown were yet to materialize. I just might not walk at all. Which would be OK by me, but I'm pretty sure my mom, school councilor, and various English teachers wouldn't be happy.
You know they're making us all wear white shoes for graduation? How lame is that? I don't even own white shoes. Do you think that they'd give my graduation speech away if I showed up in yellow wedges? Because that's a risk I'm willing to take.
Over.
Mar 4, 2011
I (Kinda) Drove
I started learning how to drive tonight. Like, in an actual car. With no strange flimsy manual letting me know that it is darker at night than it is during the day. There was actual gas involved. And you know... strange lights were flashing on my dashboard. I kept feeling like they were trying to tell me something.
Anyway. I have emerged unscathed (at least physically) and have concluded that I have not played enough video games in my life. The whole steering thing? Totally foreign.
I did kind of sort of get the hang of it. About half way through my dad suggested that I start driving on the right side of the road. I thought about telling him about my secret dream to be James Bond, but I already told him about my secret dream of being a street performer with an electric violin in NYC. I'm mindful of his feelings and I try to only drop one secret dream a week.
The good news is I didn't crash into anything. But when I'm in the car there are two categories of things: The ones that don't move, so I have to try hard to miss them. Then there are the ones that do move, so I can have some hope of them diving out of the way.
...What?
My dad told me that I was the best first time driver he'd ever seen. But the only other first time driver he'd ever seen was himself... so I'm not sure how encouraged I am by that.
I'm going to completely switch gears (ha... get it? fine... never mind) here and mention a few random things now.
1. Prom is coming up and I'm going to be happy when it's over. As fun as it is to watch everyone primp and prepare I'm tired of everyone ragging on me for my lack of school/senior spirit in not going. I have no school/senior spirit. I thought this was blatantly obvious. Since, like, sixth grade or something. I'm not sure why anyone is surprised anymore. The only one who hasn't bugged me about it is the guy who is also not going because he broke up with his girlfriend.
2. My mom is sanding/recoloring (I know there is a technical term for that, but I don't care) the kitchen counters. She wears this funny looking gas mask when she does it (I love you mom. You are very cute in your funny looking gas mask). As ridiculous looking as the gas mask is, it's also very useful. The wood dust and thick brown goop she applies to the wood makes my head spin when I'm in the same room with it. It's really sad how useful things are ridiculous looking. Someone should declare thick tennis shoes, sweat pants, and ridiculous looking gas masks attractive, instead of high heels, skirts and two inches of makeup. Talk about ridiculous. It's too bad I love high heels.
3. We made cupcakes in culinary today. Well, no, we didn't actually make them. We decorated them, though, with chocolate curls and chocolate drizzles. They were chocolate cupcakes. Any class with that much chocolate in it automatically gets bumped to my favorite. It might have more competition if we were reading The Importance of Being Earnest instead of Heart of Darkness in Lit.
It is later than it should be and I have a grueling day of cutting out pictures of garnishes and talking about Saussure. I am a very diverse person, my friends. My talents are few and far between.
Over.
Anyway. I have emerged unscathed (at least physically) and have concluded that I have not played enough video games in my life. The whole steering thing? Totally foreign.
I did kind of sort of get the hang of it. About half way through my dad suggested that I start driving on the right side of the road. I thought about telling him about my secret dream to be James Bond, but I already told him about my secret dream of being a street performer with an electric violin in NYC. I'm mindful of his feelings and I try to only drop one secret dream a week.
The good news is I didn't crash into anything. But when I'm in the car there are two categories of things: The ones that don't move, so I have to try hard to miss them. Then there are the ones that do move, so I can have some hope of them diving out of the way.
...What?
My dad told me that I was the best first time driver he'd ever seen. But the only other first time driver he'd ever seen was himself... so I'm not sure how encouraged I am by that.
I'm going to completely switch gears (ha... get it? fine... never mind) here and mention a few random things now.
1. Prom is coming up and I'm going to be happy when it's over. As fun as it is to watch everyone primp and prepare I'm tired of everyone ragging on me for my lack of school/senior spirit in not going. I have no school/senior spirit. I thought this was blatantly obvious. Since, like, sixth grade or something. I'm not sure why anyone is surprised anymore. The only one who hasn't bugged me about it is the guy who is also not going because he broke up with his girlfriend.
2. My mom is sanding/recoloring (I know there is a technical term for that, but I don't care) the kitchen counters. She wears this funny looking gas mask when she does it (I love you mom. You are very cute in your funny looking gas mask). As ridiculous looking as the gas mask is, it's also very useful. The wood dust and thick brown goop she applies to the wood makes my head spin when I'm in the same room with it. It's really sad how useful things are ridiculous looking. Someone should declare thick tennis shoes, sweat pants, and ridiculous looking gas masks attractive, instead of high heels, skirts and two inches of makeup. Talk about ridiculous. It's too bad I love high heels.
3. We made cupcakes in culinary today. Well, no, we didn't actually make them. We decorated them, though, with chocolate curls and chocolate drizzles. They were chocolate cupcakes. Any class with that much chocolate in it automatically gets bumped to my favorite. It might have more competition if we were reading The Importance of Being Earnest instead of Heart of Darkness in Lit.
It is later than it should be and I have a grueling day of cutting out pictures of garnishes and talking about Saussure. I am a very diverse person, my friends. My talents are few and far between.
Over.
Feb 17, 2011
A Pointless Post Concerning Valentines Day and Belly Dancers
On Valentines day a boy gave me a flower...
He was four (or five? possibly six? what, I barely know how old I am) but, personally, I think that makes it cuter. I also got Valentines from my entire Lit class. Among the notable well wishes and compliments (50% of them told me I was smart... which would have been flattering if I wasn't sure that they said that because they couldn't remember anything else about me), I was told that I was smarter than Glenn Beck... Thanks, Kiana. I think.
Be warned: This post has no point. I just wrote an essay about Beloved that was dripping with points, and I've run out. So this will be throughly pointless.
I've been studying for my drivers test (finally) and have spent most of the time wondering who wrote the manual. Whoever it was delighted in obvious truths such as: "No one can see as well at night as they can during during the day."
Um... Yes. Thank you for that. I was unsure before.
I really like some of their hypothetical questions too, one of which involved jaywalkers and asked how a mature driver would engage in such a situation. Among suggested answers was "give them a little nudge to show them who's road it is." I guess can't really begrudge them that one. If I wrote a driving manual I'd probably work in as many incredibly stupid answers as I could.
I hope I never write a driving manual. Ever. I do wonder how you'd go about getting that job, though. Kind of like being a tattoo-artist. Do you have to be licenced or read a manual? Who do you practice on? And belly dancers too. How do you learn to belly dance and when does it stop becoming a slightly strange hobby/exercise regime and start being a profession? I'm not sure. And I don't think I care enough to google it.
One of the problems of living in a small college town is that it really isn't part of The Real World. Most people here go to school or work for the school. We don't have any driving manual writers, tattoo-artists, or belly dancers that I'm aware of. And while that's OK we're not chock-full of chefs, engineers, interior decorators or farmers either. The result being that when I sat down to write out my possible future occupations (for a school thing--I'm am neither cool nor nerdy enough to diagram my future without my grade being involved) I could only think of four. Four occupations total, not occupations I wanted. They were: teacher, plumber, and beautician. And tattoo-artist
Help.
I am going to finish these posts and leave these thoughts and go study for my theory midterm. Hegel and Gramsci are calling, folks. I'm going to go answer them so that I'll maybe have some occupational options later in life. I don't think I'd be a really good tattoo-artist.
Over.
He was four (or five? possibly six? what, I barely know how old I am) but, personally, I think that makes it cuter. I also got Valentines from my entire Lit class. Among the notable well wishes and compliments (50% of them told me I was smart... which would have been flattering if I wasn't sure that they said that because they couldn't remember anything else about me), I was told that I was smarter than Glenn Beck... Thanks, Kiana. I think.
Be warned: This post has no point. I just wrote an essay about Beloved that was dripping with points, and I've run out. So this will be throughly pointless.
I've been studying for my drivers test (finally) and have spent most of the time wondering who wrote the manual. Whoever it was delighted in obvious truths such as: "No one can see as well at night as they can during during the day."
Um... Yes. Thank you for that. I was unsure before.
I really like some of their hypothetical questions too, one of which involved jaywalkers and asked how a mature driver would engage in such a situation. Among suggested answers was "give them a little nudge to show them who's road it is." I guess can't really begrudge them that one. If I wrote a driving manual I'd probably work in as many incredibly stupid answers as I could.
I hope I never write a driving manual. Ever. I do wonder how you'd go about getting that job, though. Kind of like being a tattoo-artist. Do you have to be licenced or read a manual? Who do you practice on? And belly dancers too. How do you learn to belly dance and when does it stop becoming a slightly strange hobby/exercise regime and start being a profession? I'm not sure. And I don't think I care enough to google it.
One of the problems of living in a small college town is that it really isn't part of The Real World. Most people here go to school or work for the school. We don't have any driving manual writers, tattoo-artists, or belly dancers that I'm aware of. And while that's OK we're not chock-full of chefs, engineers, interior decorators or farmers either. The result being that when I sat down to write out my possible future occupations (for a school thing--I'm am neither cool nor nerdy enough to diagram my future without my grade being involved) I could only think of four. Four occupations total, not occupations I wanted. They were: teacher, plumber, and beautician. And tattoo-artist
Help.
I am going to finish these posts and leave these thoughts and go study for my theory midterm. Hegel and Gramsci are calling, folks. I'm going to go answer them so that I'll maybe have some occupational options later in life. I don't think I'd be a really good tattoo-artist.
Over.
Jan 13, 2011
Evil in Various Forms
A while back my dad came up with this brilliant idea. He needed his students to read... they weren't reading... he would make them get online and record videos of themselves teaching the reading! And he would make it a fourth of their grade! Brilliant!
Brilliant.
I told him at the time it was an evil idea. People shouldn't have to video tape themselves. They shouldn't have to summarize and analyze a complex reading a few minutes. It's just... wrong. Somehow. I told him so and told myself that I had done my duty as a student.
He didn't listen to me and continued with his evil plan (though, in all fairness, not quite as evil as Starbuck and Google's plot to take over the world). And that's alright. I'd washed my hands of it. Except now I'm in Brother McArthur's Cultural Theory class and guess what is a fourth of my grade? Gee, how did you know?
So I find myself trying to summarize Hegel's theories on divine self-alienation, history, thought and reality, and the two parts of his dialect. In two and a half minutes... Head meet desk. I sound like an idiot. And I have to record myself. I stutter and say "um" every few words. I try to stare vaguely over my computer screen so that I don't have to see... um, well, me. I hate pictures of myself. Videos are even more disconcerting. And no matter how many times I do it, they don't come off right.
The Starbucks/Google plot to take over the world is sounding less and less evil.
Other than that, though, I really love cultural theory. Thinking about thinking is mind-warping, but in a good way. Mostly.
Over.
Brilliant.
I told him at the time it was an evil idea. People shouldn't have to video tape themselves. They shouldn't have to summarize and analyze a complex reading a few minutes. It's just... wrong. Somehow. I told him so and told myself that I had done my duty as a student.
He didn't listen to me and continued with his evil plan (though, in all fairness, not quite as evil as Starbuck and Google's plot to take over the world). And that's alright. I'd washed my hands of it. Except now I'm in Brother McArthur's Cultural Theory class and guess what is a fourth of my grade? Gee, how did you know?
So I find myself trying to summarize Hegel's theories on divine self-alienation, history, thought and reality, and the two parts of his dialect. In two and a half minutes... Head meet desk. I sound like an idiot. And I have to record myself. I stutter and say "um" every few words. I try to stare vaguely over my computer screen so that I don't have to see... um, well, me. I hate pictures of myself. Videos are even more disconcerting. And no matter how many times I do it, they don't come off right.
The Starbucks/Google plot to take over the world is sounding less and less evil.
Other than that, though, I really love cultural theory. Thinking about thinking is mind-warping, but in a good way. Mostly.
Over.
Dec 5, 2010
Dear Santa
Dear Santa,
It's December and, because I'm a thoroughly considerate, non-procrastinating person, I thought I'd get a letter out to you now so that you'd have time to locate anything you might need to put under my Christmas tree.
1. I'd like to be accepted to college, please. A scholarship or two would be nice too, if you have the time. I just turned in my application in on Wednesday and didn't (!) weep or fall over with relief. (You would think that I would, and you haven't even heard about the unforgettable 2010 transcript drama. Suffice it to say: two hours, seven offices, all visited several times... But, you know all about this, don't you, because you see me even when I'm sleeping, which has always creeped me out a little bit, but the creepiness has increased since Twilight came out... I'm off topic again, aren't I?)
2. I would like a drivers license and to know how to drive. If you could put a green bow around this one, that'd be fantastic. I like green.
3. I would like a scarf. Because even though my aunt, who lives by the college I'm probably going to, says that I won't starve (which is a little too bad, because I was thinking I might take the opportunity to be a starving artist), she also told me it's almost impossible to get a job at that college. So I'm thinking that I might be homeless, and it's cold there too, so I'm going to need a scarf. Please.
4. I would like to know where I should go to graduate school. Actually, my dad would like me to know, so could you address this gift to him? He asked me a few minutes ago. I told him I was going to Brown. "Hmmm... Where is that, anyway?" he asked. I said I wasn't sure, but I heard Emma Watson really likes it there.
5. Can I stop being sick now too? Please? My stomach kind of feels like it's eating itself which, besides being traitorous, is also a little bit cannibalistic. And I really don't feel good about having a cannibalistic stomach. So can I have a new one? Or maybe a new immune system, I think mine's been broken for a while now.
6. An A in IPB. I've worked hard in that class (cross my heart) and it'd be nice to get a sense of that on my report card. This is pretty high on the priority list. Like, before the scarf and the new immune system.
So that's all for now. I'm attaching a list of books/music/movies that I'd also like. Oh! And a laptop, please? I've been really-kinda-pretty good this year.
We have eggnog in the fridge and the Christmas tree is up, in all it's shining and somewhat tacky glory. (Mom has this thing about tacky Christmas ornaments. I don't get it, but I have developed some fondness for our pig angel/ballerina. And the sparkley, glorified fire hydrant with tassels is... No, yeah, I don't really have any defense for the fire hydrant.) Anyway, that means it's Christmas, so I know this is your rush time. Thanks for reading my letter--I figured that it would get it quickest to you over the internet, and since I don't know you're email I put it up on my blog. Hope that's OK.
Merry Christmas,
Marissa
Nov 7, 2010
A Thought For Admissions People
(Marissa)
There are a lot of things that I kind-of, sort-of, really hate about applying for college. (I know, I complain a lot on here. It's where I come when I'm irritated. You should be honored. You're the cyber shoulder I come to cry on. What, other people read this blog? Nuh-uh. Who are you kidding. It's just you and me here.)
One of the things hate is that it makes me feel stupid. I think, Why didn't I just get an A in that class? It wouldn't have been that hard. If I'd knocked a few hours of sleeping out I could have still done it and everything else. Who needs to sleep? (Totally not true, there are some classes that the only reason I didn't get an A in them is because I refused to respect them or do the work. Am I proud of it? Erm... no. Would I do it again?... Don't ask me hard questions!)
I also don't like that I have to sit for multiple four hour exams which boil down eighteen years of learning into a number unfortunately distant from 36 or 800. I am not a number! I am smart! Sometimes...
It is possible, though, that what I hate most are their essays. I don't like when they're bad questions that plead for stereotypical answers (What does the world need right now? World Peace (and harsher punishment for parole violators... Name that movie)). But it might be even worse when they ask good questions and then expect you to answer it in less than 500 characters. What? They want me to talk about something I'm passionate about and how I pursued it in 500 characters? They're kidding, right? This post is already 1,192 characters. And I haven't mentioned a single thing that I'm passionate about. Well, unless you count world peace.
It does get to the point where I want to sit all admissions people down and explain to them that even if I spent the next century trying to communicate the whole of my person in 500 characters, all they would know about me is that I get frustrated easily. And then I'm tempted to just submit a list of words. Carefully chosen ones! Words like chandelier, gazebo, goulashes, sleet and flamboyant. Or write them a short fairy tale where the prince gets chewed up by a dragon. But that might be a bit too morbid.
Don't you think the admissions people must get bored? After reading countless essays about world peace and student's dedication to __________. Wouldn't they rather read about what I think clouds taste like? Raise your hand if you would rather read what I think clouds taste like.
OK. I feel better now. Thanks for sticking around and listening to me vent. Anytime you need a shoulder to cry on, you know where to find me.
Clouds taste like cotton candy, but only at sunset.
Over.
P.S. This post is now 2,187 characters.
There are a lot of things that I kind-of, sort-of, really hate about applying for college. (I know, I complain a lot on here. It's where I come when I'm irritated. You should be honored. You're the cyber shoulder I come to cry on. What, other people read this blog? Nuh-uh. Who are you kidding. It's just you and me here.)
One of the things hate is that it makes me feel stupid. I think, Why didn't I just get an A in that class? It wouldn't have been that hard. If I'd knocked a few hours of sleeping out I could have still done it and everything else. Who needs to sleep? (Totally not true, there are some classes that the only reason I didn't get an A in them is because I refused to respect them or do the work. Am I proud of it? Erm... no. Would I do it again?... Don't ask me hard questions!)
I also don't like that I have to sit for multiple four hour exams which boil down eighteen years of learning into a number unfortunately distant from 36 or 800. I am not a number! I am smart! Sometimes...
It is possible, though, that what I hate most are their essays. I don't like when they're bad questions that plead for stereotypical answers (What does the world need right now? World Peace (and harsher punishment for parole violators... Name that movie)). But it might be even worse when they ask good questions and then expect you to answer it in less than 500 characters. What? They want me to talk about something I'm passionate about and how I pursued it in 500 characters? They're kidding, right? This post is already 1,192 characters. And I haven't mentioned a single thing that I'm passionate about. Well, unless you count world peace.
It does get to the point where I want to sit all admissions people down and explain to them that even if I spent the next century trying to communicate the whole of my person in 500 characters, all they would know about me is that I get frustrated easily. And then I'm tempted to just submit a list of words. Carefully chosen ones! Words like chandelier, gazebo, goulashes, sleet and flamboyant. Or write them a short fairy tale where the prince gets chewed up by a dragon. But that might be a bit too morbid.
Don't you think the admissions people must get bored? After reading countless essays about world peace and student's dedication to __________. Wouldn't they rather read about what I think clouds taste like? Raise your hand if you would rather read what I think clouds taste like.
OK. I feel better now. Thanks for sticking around and listening to me vent. Anytime you need a shoulder to cry on, you know where to find me.
Clouds taste like cotton candy, but only at sunset.
Over.
P.S. This post is now 2,187 characters.
Nov 3, 2010
Yeah, This Is What I Think About
(Marissa)
Hey guys, guess what?
It rained today. And I just had a bowl of the worlds best pineapple. And now I'm smiling inside. (And not failing Gov.) It's the little things, you know.
Today my completely amazing Lit teacher tried to convince me to apply to Stanford... Until today I thought it was spelled "Standford." Stanford, in terms of an actual place, is a little bit little bit like the moon, or maybe Wonderland in my head. You know, Alice and Neil Armstrong get to go there and I... I go to Utah, probably. (Nothing against Utah, guys. I like Utah, even if it's mountains aren't as pretty as mine.)
So I thought about it for a while. And then, when I was at the bus stop, I remembered that I have B's and I would have to take the SAT or ACT again and subject tests. And that it is extremely likely that when I go to college I will have a major meltdown. I will turn into a pathetic puddle of pathos and poor roommates will have to walk around me or, if they are extremely kind they'll throw me tissues from a safe distance. The bus stop is a place of crushed cigarettes and crushed dreams, I guess.
In California (or Washington, Rhode Island or Vermont) a major meltdown would be a complete disaster. In Utah I have family an hour from campus and they're much more likely to throw me tissues than I imagine roommates would be.
I actually had no intention of writing a post on this. I was going to tell you about how the jack-o-lanterns around my town are starting to mold over and cave in and how I ate breakfast this morning to White Christmas. "You know," I told my dad, "ethically you're not allowed to listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving dinner."
"I thought of that," he said, "but then I remembered how thankful I am for Christmas."
I was going to tell you my dad got back from Boston on Sunday night and brought us back red and gold leaves and holiday-ish aprons. Which was a big improvement on the snickers bar he brought me from the New York airport and the shampoo bottles he brought back from California.
I was going to tell you about how cute my little sister was as a flower on Halloween, how I helped her glue-gun petal-shaped material onto the brim of a witch's hat, which she'd cut away from the point and put her face through, and the amazing green scarf she used for her stem.
I was going to tell you about how I made a total fool of myself in Peace Building again. No surprise but surprisingly disappointing. Obviously I can't be a mediator because I get irritated with how difficult people in conflict are and I can't keep a straight face. Brother Ford quoted What About Bob and I've had the misfortune of seeing that movie many times. How are you supposed to not laugh when your professor explains that there are two kind of people in this world, the ones who like Neil Diamond and the ones who don't?
I was going to, and I guess I already did. That's good, because I have homework, and I should be exercising right now.
Over.
Hey guys, guess what?
It rained today. And I just had a bowl of the worlds best pineapple. And now I'm smiling inside. (And not failing Gov.) It's the little things, you know.
Today my completely amazing Lit teacher tried to convince me to apply to Stanford... Until today I thought it was spelled "Standford." Stanford, in terms of an actual place, is a little bit little bit like the moon, or maybe Wonderland in my head. You know, Alice and Neil Armstrong get to go there and I... I go to Utah, probably. (Nothing against Utah, guys. I like Utah, even if it's mountains aren't as pretty as mine.)
So I thought about it for a while. And then, when I was at the bus stop, I remembered that I have B's and I would have to take the SAT or ACT again and subject tests. And that it is extremely likely that when I go to college I will have a major meltdown. I will turn into a pathetic puddle of pathos and poor roommates will have to walk around me or, if they are extremely kind they'll throw me tissues from a safe distance. The bus stop is a place of crushed cigarettes and crushed dreams, I guess.
In California (or Washington, Rhode Island or Vermont) a major meltdown would be a complete disaster. In Utah I have family an hour from campus and they're much more likely to throw me tissues than I imagine roommates would be.
I actually had no intention of writing a post on this. I was going to tell you about how the jack-o-lanterns around my town are starting to mold over and cave in and how I ate breakfast this morning to White Christmas. "You know," I told my dad, "ethically you're not allowed to listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving dinner."
"I thought of that," he said, "but then I remembered how thankful I am for Christmas."
I was going to tell you my dad got back from Boston on Sunday night and brought us back red and gold leaves and holiday-ish aprons. Which was a big improvement on the snickers bar he brought me from the New York airport and the shampoo bottles he brought back from California.
I was going to tell you about how cute my little sister was as a flower on Halloween, how I helped her glue-gun petal-shaped material onto the brim of a witch's hat, which she'd cut away from the point and put her face through, and the amazing green scarf she used for her stem.
I was going to tell you about how I made a total fool of myself in Peace Building again. No surprise but surprisingly disappointing. Obviously I can't be a mediator because I get irritated with how difficult people in conflict are and I can't keep a straight face. Brother Ford quoted What About Bob and I've had the misfortune of seeing that movie many times. How are you supposed to not laugh when your professor explains that there are two kind of people in this world, the ones who like Neil Diamond and the ones who don't?
I was going to, and I guess I already did. That's good, because I have homework, and I should be exercising right now.
Over.
Oct 29, 2010
Happy Halloween
(Marissa)
Let's face facts. We all have stupid ideas from time to time. It does seem to me that I have more than my fair share (see Adam Popcorn), but we're not going to get in to Fate's slighted hand again. In any case, I have placed wearing my beautiful pure white dress to school on what happened to be a rainy day (have we talked about my school's mud? it's red) firmly into that not-such-good-idea folder.
Let's rewind a year. Last year Katie called me on my totally lame Halloween-ness. (Again.) It's true. I'm a complete party-pooper. I'm trying really hard right now to think of a Halloween when I wasn't either an angel or a witch, but nothing is coming... Oh! I was a Gypsy once. Anything more than that would have taken more creativity than I felt like giving to the holiday. So we decided last year that this year I would not lame with Katie. The plan was that Katie would be Elphaba
(Wicked. If you don't know about it, google it. and then help me convince my dad that he has to take our family to see it) and I would be Galinda.
(I'd like to think that's because I'm blond and not because I bear any resemblance to her in the personality district. Right, Katie? Right?)
Katie reminded me occasionally throughout the year (and this week), but it wasn't until this morning at when Katie walked in fully decked out in costume that I actually remembered. It was an awesome costume. Especially the shoes. I love your shoes Katie! Anyway, after that kind of shaming I had to go home and rifle through my closet. I came out with my white dress. And the hat Andrea brought me back from Finland. I looked at the clock and thought, "Oh, gosh, I don't have time to curl my hair," then I looked at the mirror and thought, "Oh, good, I don't have to." First time in a long time that my hair and I have gotten on together.
It was raining at school. My heels kicked up mud. It was hard concentrating in Gov--er, GOPO. Not that it isn't always, but especially so today. Anyway. Bad idea. The good news is that my dress is still white. The bad news is that it is possible that half the school has seen my slip. I don't know because there are too many layers to that dress to keep track of them all. And slips are, you know, slippery.
I went straight home and (after humming a few bars of Loathing) and put on the roomiest pants I could find and a sweat shirt. I've finally realized why I wasn't born a princess. I don't think princesses get to wear big ugly sweat shirts or painted up pants. They have to wear beautiful dresses with many layers and stiff, gorgeous fabric all the time. Poor them. They can't spill milk all over themselves or run through rain and kick up red dirt onto the back of their legs. I'm grateful for my jeans and my oversized sweaters. Bless them.
My weekend has now begun. Tonight I have a party (what? you thought I had no social life? just because you're right doesn't mean that you need to rub it in), tomorrow there's a hike (if it isn't pouring) and I'm making caramel apples with Katie and watching Sherlock. (It's a modern remake of Sherlock Holmes from BBC and it's so much better than it sounds. The plot holes are gaping but the cleverness of the lines is more than enough to make up for that. It's on PBS's website.) Monday and Tuesday are days off. I love long weekends. They're gifts from God and a reluctant DOE.
I'm supposed to be cleaning right now so that my poor mother (husbandless while my father is enjoying the fall weather in Boston) doesn't have to. You notice I always blog when I'm supposed to be doing things? Anyone else seeing a pattern?
Happy Halloween.
Let's face facts. We all have stupid ideas from time to time. It does seem to me that I have more than my fair share (see Adam Popcorn), but we're not going to get in to Fate's slighted hand again. In any case, I have placed wearing my beautiful pure white dress to school on what happened to be a rainy day (have we talked about my school's mud? it's red) firmly into that not-such-good-idea folder.
Let's rewind a year. Last year Katie called me on my totally lame Halloween-ness. (Again.) It's true. I'm a complete party-pooper. I'm trying really hard right now to think of a Halloween when I wasn't either an angel or a witch, but nothing is coming... Oh! I was a Gypsy once. Anything more than that would have taken more creativity than I felt like giving to the holiday. So we decided last year that this year I would not lame with Katie. The plan was that Katie would be Elphaba
(Wicked. If you don't know about it, google it. and then help me convince my dad that he has to take our family to see it) and I would be Galinda.
(I'd like to think that's because I'm blond and not because I bear any resemblance to her in the personality district. Right, Katie? Right?)
Katie reminded me occasionally throughout the year (and this week), but it wasn't until this morning at when Katie walked in fully decked out in costume that I actually remembered. It was an awesome costume. Especially the shoes. I love your shoes Katie! Anyway, after that kind of shaming I had to go home and rifle through my closet. I came out with my white dress. And the hat Andrea brought me back from Finland. I looked at the clock and thought, "Oh, gosh, I don't have time to curl my hair," then I looked at the mirror and thought, "Oh, good, I don't have to." First time in a long time that my hair and I have gotten on together.
It was raining at school. My heels kicked up mud. It was hard concentrating in Gov--er, GOPO. Not that it isn't always, but especially so today. Anyway. Bad idea. The good news is that my dress is still white. The bad news is that it is possible that half the school has seen my slip. I don't know because there are too many layers to that dress to keep track of them all. And slips are, you know, slippery.
I went straight home and (after humming a few bars of Loathing) and put on the roomiest pants I could find and a sweat shirt. I've finally realized why I wasn't born a princess. I don't think princesses get to wear big ugly sweat shirts or painted up pants. They have to wear beautiful dresses with many layers and stiff, gorgeous fabric all the time. Poor them. They can't spill milk all over themselves or run through rain and kick up red dirt onto the back of their legs. I'm grateful for my jeans and my oversized sweaters. Bless them.
My weekend has now begun. Tonight I have a party (what? you thought I had no social life? just because you're right doesn't mean that you need to rub it in), tomorrow there's a hike (if it isn't pouring) and I'm making caramel apples with Katie and watching Sherlock. (It's a modern remake of Sherlock Holmes from BBC and it's so much better than it sounds. The plot holes are gaping but the cleverness of the lines is more than enough to make up for that. It's on PBS's website.) Monday and Tuesday are days off. I love long weekends. They're gifts from God and a reluctant DOE.
I'm supposed to be cleaning right now so that my poor mother (husbandless while my father is enjoying the fall weather in Boston) doesn't have to. You notice I always blog when I'm supposed to be doing things? Anyone else seeing a pattern?
Happy Halloween.
Oct 3, 2010
Once Upon A Time
(Marissa)
Homecoming was this week. And because I have absolutely no school spirit I went on a walk with Katie and and watched The Pelican Brief with my family rather than sit in the football stands and let a scream of the truly devoted tear at my throat. Despite my lack of school spirit, I do hope we won. And that our field lights didn't go out this time. The excuse this is all leading up to, though, is now I am on fall break and I have no inclination to do anything even remotely productive. And writing a blog post is kind of productive.
So I've been procrastinating. But the biggest reason I haven't written is I don't have very much to say. Which, believe me, is unusual. Usually I can go on and on. I drone with the best of them. If talking was an Olympic sport, I might actually have a chance at meeting Kim Yu Na
and telling her how amazingly awesome she is. The point being, I usually don't struggle with posting.
This weekend, however, all ideas have deserted and left me high and dry with a soggy handful of words.
So...
I'm going to make fun of early Disney fairytales! That seems pretty foolproof. If you are one of those people who holds Disney sacred then now might be a good time to stop reading.
I did not grow up with Disney. In fact, my mom did almost everything in her power to make sure that I did not identify with Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. (She also dressed me in the scratchiest pink overalls in all of history from which I'm still recovering, but that's besides the point.) I couldn't tell you what exactly went against her grain about the Disney Princesses, but I can tell you about mine:
1. Their voices. Think
"Some day my prince will come..." Shivers, people, and not the good kind.
2. General motivation. Let's consider Ariel. She has everything. She's beautiful. Her hair is red. She can sing (much, much better than Snow White), everyone loves her and her best friend is a fish (which might not technically be a good thing, but it seems to work for her). This is not enough, though, and after one fated encounter she has to be with
And apparently karma doesn't apply to princesses, so despite all of this she still gets her happily ever after...
This is obviously the kind of show that we want our young children to find morals in. (Like Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Run that song through your head. You know what the main idea is? If you're popular everything is good.)
3. The prince charmings are generic. For a while I thought they were clones, but then I went to see Into the Woods and I figured it out. In Into the Woods you get two princes who are brothers. In the first act one of them marries Cinderella and one of them marries Rapunzel. In the second act both of them, in the midst of marital problems that they blame on their hormonal wives, they wander away from the castle... and stumble upon Sleeping Beauty and Snow White and begin to occupy themselves with them.
I was extremely angry. The feminist in me was throwing rotton fruit. And then I realized that all the princes from the fairy tales seemed the same because they were all the same. It explains everything. Except
4. Love at first sight. It bothers me. A lot. It's like the storyteller couldn't think of any reason why someone would fall in love with their character so they passed it off to Cupid. Argh.
Homecoming was this week. And because I have absolutely no school spirit I went on a walk with Katie and and watched The Pelican Brief with my family rather than sit in the football stands and let a scream of the truly devoted tear at my throat. Despite my lack of school spirit, I do hope we won. And that our field lights didn't go out this time. The excuse this is all leading up to, though, is now I am on fall break and I have no inclination to do anything even remotely productive. And writing a blog post is kind of productive.
So I've been procrastinating. But the biggest reason I haven't written is I don't have very much to say. Which, believe me, is unusual. Usually I can go on and on. I drone with the best of them. If talking was an Olympic sport, I might actually have a chance at meeting Kim Yu Na
This weekend, however, all ideas have deserted and left me high and dry with a soggy handful of words.
So...
I'm going to make fun of early Disney fairytales! That seems pretty foolproof. If you are one of those people who holds Disney sacred then now might be a good time to stop reading.
I did not grow up with Disney. In fact, my mom did almost everything in her power to make sure that I did not identify with Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. (She also dressed me in the scratchiest pink overalls in all of history from which I'm still recovering, but that's besides the point.) I couldn't tell you what exactly went against her grain about the Disney Princesses, but I can tell you about mine:
1. Their voices. Think
"Some day my prince will come..." Shivers, people, and not the good kind.
2. General motivation. Let's consider Ariel. She has everything. She's beautiful. Her hair is red. She can sing (much, much better than Snow White), everyone loves her and her best friend is a fish (which might not technically be a good thing, but it seems to work for her). This is not enough, though, and after one fated encounter she has to be with
our prince charming (oh, believe me, we'll talk about him in a minute). And now the only thing in the whole wide world that she wants is to have legs. So she puts at risk not only everything she owns, but also pretty much everything under the sea so that she can go hang out with her buddy on land for a bit.
And apparently karma doesn't apply to princesses, so despite all of this she still gets her happily ever after...
This is obviously the kind of show that we want our young children to find morals in. (Like Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Run that song through your head. You know what the main idea is? If you're popular everything is good.)
3. The prince charmings are generic. For a while I thought they were clones, but then I went to see Into the Woods and I figured it out. In Into the Woods you get two princes who are brothers. In the first act one of them marries Cinderella and one of them marries Rapunzel. In the second act both of them, in the midst of marital problems that they blame on their hormonal wives, they wander away from the castle... and stumble upon Sleeping Beauty and Snow White and begin to occupy themselves with them.
4. Love at first sight. It bothers me. A lot. It's like the storyteller couldn't think of any reason why someone would fall in love with their character so they passed it off to Cupid. Argh.
Sleeping Beauty should have punched the prince. That would have made so much more sense. Plus it would have been much more funny.
5. Lastly, the girl never saves herself. They whither away combing their hair, entombed in a glass casket, sleeping in the highest tower, etc. It is the most obnoxious thing ever. They're not even smart. They don't follow basic sense. Like Snow White. Did she miss the part of Stranger Danger when they said not to take food from people you don't know? Why didn't Repunzel cut off her own hair and climb down it herself? And why, in heaven's name, was Cinderella wearing glass slippers? High heels have enough potential pain without putting glass into the equation.
I like strong female leads. I'll take Elizabeth Bennet, CJ Cregg, or Olivia Dunham any day. They're witty and smart or save the world from alternate universes on a daily basis. And they don't go for love at first sight. And you know what? I bet if Olivia woke up to someone kissing her she would punch him.
Over.
Sep 17, 2010
My Corner of the Universe
(Marissa)
Today I exercised, had sweet potato fries, did my homework, registered for all my college classes and paid for them. My corner of the universe is tidy, how about yours?
I'm just going to give you the list of things I know I should tell you but don't want to spend a blog post on:
1. I took the ACT. I don't want to talk about it.
2. Alright, fine. It was bad. I was sick. I'm taking it again next month. We should send science and math to a never to be found desert island where it can rot until the end of time. Forever and ever, amen.
3. I get nine hours of sleep and I'm still exhausted. Does anyone know why this is? If you're going to tell me it's because I get too much sleep, I have mono or I eat too much ice cream, then don't. I have already explored the first two possibilities, and if it's the last one I have no intention of it exploring it. There is a reason I eat the amount of ice cream I do.
Sometimes sugar and sanity are synonyms.
4. We are still not cooking in culinary. And I found out that there are two culinary classes and I'm not in Jackson's. Cue the tragic music. (Hi Jackson! You found us! Yes, Mark Bittman rocks and I did know that you were married. When are you coming back to school? Can you adopt my culinary class?)
5. Today in West Wing Danny still wasn't back and they killed my favorite secret service guy. Keep the tragic music rolling, fellas.
6. You can thank Teenager Number One for the beautiful Flickr highlight. She is currently drowning in AP classes (including calculus), so I'm not sure when (if?) we'll be hearing from her. Because calculus is a time, energy and happiness eating monster that only engineers ever use. We can send it to a desert island too.
7. People keep bringing me sugar. I've had three cookies today. And ice cream. And doughnut holes. I'm not complaining, I just don't know what's going on. Either heaven is being particularly attentive or someone is trying to ensure that I won't be running any marathons soon. If you're reading this, person-who-is-trying-to-prevent-me-from-running-marathons, you don't have anything to worry about. But keep the cookies coming.
Alright, my list is complete. I'll get on with my post.
I am now officially signed up for Creative Writing and International(cultural?) Peace Building. My professors did their best to scare me away with multiple textbooks, foreboding syllabuses that start out with quotes from MK Ghandi ("We must be the change we wish to see in the world") and big words I don't know, but I am nothing if not persistent. I am going to soldier through these classes, darn it, even if I have to get eight hours of sleep a night instead of nine.
Actually, everyone was very nice. My professors signed me in with good grace and did not announce to the class that I am still in high school. In fact, Brother Ford was extremely slick about it and (very deliberately) did not look at me when he mentioned my mom. Last week he offered to give me a fake last name too, just so that no one would know who's daughter I was. At the time I just stuttered no, but I went to bed wishing I told him to put me on the roll as "Bond, Marissa Bond," though it doesn't have quite the ring to it that James does.
I am extremely excited about both my classes, though slightly nervous about IPB (peace building) in which Brother Ford took rather too much delight in explaining how he was going to force us out of our comfort zones and 40% of my grade depends on one group project (in... out... in....... out).
My Creative Writing class messes with my breathing too, but in a different way. A class all about creative writing? I can go? Really? Is it Christmas? I've been doing creative writing on my own since fourth grade. I've written poems, essasys, short stories, one full-length story. I've spent hours on the computer or in a notebook and I obsess over nice pens. Please let me write! Please don't completely crush my self-respect. I might be practiced in being humiliated, but it isn't something I excel at. Please...
OK. Whining done. Basically I'm excited about college. No, wait! I have one more complaint. And a teenage girl moment: Why are there no cute guys in my classes? I know, your respect for me has fallen flat on it's face but, really, I'm a hormonally healthy teenage girl, and I would appreciate one or two cute guys. There are plenty up on campus, couldn't just one of them have signed up for creative writing?
No? OK, then. Never mind. I'm going to go eat my cookies now.
Over.
Today I exercised, had sweet potato fries, did my homework, registered for all my college classes and paid for them. My corner of the universe is tidy, how about yours?
I'm just going to give you the list of things I know I should tell you but don't want to spend a blog post on:
1. I took the ACT. I don't want to talk about it.
2. Alright, fine. It was bad. I was sick. I'm taking it again next month. We should send science and math to a never to be found desert island where it can rot until the end of time. Forever and ever, amen.
3. I get nine hours of sleep and I'm still exhausted. Does anyone know why this is? If you're going to tell me it's because I get too much sleep, I have mono or I eat too much ice cream, then don't. I have already explored the first two possibilities, and if it's the last one I have no intention of it exploring it. There is a reason I eat the amount of ice cream I do.
Sometimes sugar and sanity are synonyms.
4. We are still not cooking in culinary. And I found out that there are two culinary classes and I'm not in Jackson's. Cue the tragic music. (Hi Jackson! You found us! Yes, Mark Bittman rocks and I did know that you were married. When are you coming back to school? Can you adopt my culinary class?)
5. Today in West Wing Danny still wasn't back and they killed my favorite secret service guy. Keep the tragic music rolling, fellas.
6. You can thank Teenager Number One for the beautiful Flickr highlight. She is currently drowning in AP classes (including calculus), so I'm not sure when (if?) we'll be hearing from her. Because calculus is a time, energy and happiness eating monster that only engineers ever use. We can send it to a desert island too.
7. People keep bringing me sugar. I've had three cookies today. And ice cream. And doughnut holes. I'm not complaining, I just don't know what's going on. Either heaven is being particularly attentive or someone is trying to ensure that I won't be running any marathons soon. If you're reading this, person-who-is-trying-to-prevent-me-from-running-marathons, you don't have anything to worry about. But keep the cookies coming.
Alright, my list is complete. I'll get on with my post.
I am now officially signed up for Creative Writing and International(cultural?) Peace Building. My professors did their best to scare me away with multiple textbooks, foreboding syllabuses that start out with quotes from MK Ghandi ("We must be the change we wish to see in the world") and big words I don't know, but I am nothing if not persistent. I am going to soldier through these classes, darn it, even if I have to get eight hours of sleep a night instead of nine.
Actually, everyone was very nice. My professors signed me in with good grace and did not announce to the class that I am still in high school. In fact, Brother Ford was extremely slick about it and (very deliberately) did not look at me when he mentioned my mom. Last week he offered to give me a fake last name too, just so that no one would know who's daughter I was. At the time I just stuttered no, but I went to bed wishing I told him to put me on the roll as "Bond, Marissa Bond," though it doesn't have quite the ring to it that James does.
I am extremely excited about both my classes, though slightly nervous about IPB (peace building) in which Brother Ford took rather too much delight in explaining how he was going to force us out of our comfort zones and 40% of my grade depends on one group project (in... out... in....... out).
My Creative Writing class messes with my breathing too, but in a different way. A class all about creative writing? I can go? Really? Is it Christmas? I've been doing creative writing on my own since fourth grade. I've written poems, essasys, short stories, one full-length story. I've spent hours on the computer or in a notebook and I obsess over nice pens. Please let me write! Please don't completely crush my self-respect. I might be practiced in being humiliated, but it isn't something I excel at. Please...
OK. Whining done. Basically I'm excited about college. No, wait! I have one more complaint. And a teenage girl moment: Why are there no cute guys in my classes? I know, your respect for me has fallen flat on it's face but, really, I'm a hormonally healthy teenage girl, and I would appreciate one or two cute guys. There are plenty up on campus, couldn't just one of them have signed up for creative writing?
No? OK, then. Never mind. I'm going to go eat my cookies now.
Over.
Sep 9, 2010
And You Thought Jiminy Cricket Was Making It Up
(Marissa)
A while back we were all lining up in heaven, getting our paperwork straightened out.
"No, I'm being born on the fourteenth. No, the fourteenth. Not in Bolivia! The United States! I'm supposed to live in the United States!" I picture the scene looking a bit like my first day of tenth grade.
Anyway, at some point we bounded over clouds up to a desk with several baskets on it labeled things like, "knowledge," "beauty," and "car fixing abilities (only for those living from the late 1800s up)." Behind the desk was a council of stars.
They said, "We will grant you certain gifts for your time on earth. What is your wish?"
Mei got there early, stepped right up and said, "Give me all the faith you've got." The stars liked her so much, they threw a nice handful of intelligence, kindness, curiosity and a bunch of other stuff into the bargain.
My dad stepped up and surveyed the table, looking over each one. "Hmmm..." he said. "Hmmmm..." He stood there for a while, but finally he picked out analytical thinking, courage, gratitude and mad juggling skills, among others.
My mom chose wisdom, humility, and empathy in great measures and added that to the skills she already gained in pre-earth life.
I'm not sure what I got, but I'll tell you what wasn't in my shopping basket when I walked away: Math skills.
Numbers just don't stick in my head. I quote all of Pride and Prejudice, The Importance of Being Earnest and all three Lord of the Rings, but sine? Cosine? Um... are there x's involved? No? Oh.
Graphs?
Probability?
Third grade addition?
Please! No! Don't make me suffer this way. I'm really a pretty good person. I do my chores. And yes, I'm putting off writing an essay right now. And practicing the piano. And applying for college. And memorizing what cosine and sine are. But I'm fairly responsible. And I made my little sister a tart for her birthday. Surely this counts for something.
....
I can read Shakespeare, the scriptures and Chinese. I really feel like this should be enough.
Over.
A while back we were all lining up in heaven, getting our paperwork straightened out.
"No, I'm being born on the fourteenth. No, the fourteenth. Not in Bolivia! The United States! I'm supposed to live in the United States!" I picture the scene looking a bit like my first day of tenth grade.
Anyway, at some point we bounded over clouds up to a desk with several baskets on it labeled things like, "knowledge," "beauty," and "car fixing abilities (only for those living from the late 1800s up)." Behind the desk was a council of stars.
They said, "We will grant you certain gifts for your time on earth. What is your wish?"
Mei got there early, stepped right up and said, "Give me all the faith you've got." The stars liked her so much, they threw a nice handful of intelligence, kindness, curiosity and a bunch of other stuff into the bargain.
My dad stepped up and surveyed the table, looking over each one. "Hmmm..." he said. "Hmmmm..." He stood there for a while, but finally he picked out analytical thinking, courage, gratitude and mad juggling skills, among others.
My mom chose wisdom, humility, and empathy in great measures and added that to the skills she already gained in pre-earth life.
I'm not sure what I got, but I'll tell you what wasn't in my shopping basket when I walked away: Math skills.
Numbers just don't stick in my head. I quote all of Pride and Prejudice, The Importance of Being Earnest and all three Lord of the Rings, but sine? Cosine? Um... are there x's involved? No? Oh.
Graphs?
Probability?
Third grade addition?
Please! No! Don't make me suffer this way. I'm really a pretty good person. I do my chores. And yes, I'm putting off writing an essay right now. And practicing the piano. And applying for college. And memorizing what cosine and sine are. But I'm fairly responsible. And I made my little sister a tart for her birthday. Surely this counts for something.
....
I can read Shakespeare, the scriptures and Chinese. I really feel like this should be enough.
Over.
Aug 12, 2010
Prank Calling (It Wasn't Me) and Other Adventures (That Weren't Mine)
(Marissa)
How are you?
Uh huh.
Really.
Really?
That's great.
Me? Oh, you know. Same old, same old.
Flickr is being mean to me. It won't let me change our highlight (to the right there? right, the watermelon) and, really, if it was going to get stuck, it should have had the decency to get stuck two weeks ago when we had that awesome picture of the girl with flour in hair... you don't remember. No worries. I'd show you, but Flickr doesn't feel like sharing. Don't worry, though, you won't be stuck with watermelon forever. I'll figure it out. Or Katie will. Or a good fairy, maybe. I believe in them.
In more depressing photo new, Nadia sent me the pictures of my last first day of school, but somehow they weren't in the email and... Sorry. No pictures for you.
Totally shifting gears here, my completely genius English teacher (she doesn't read this, so I can say that without being a teacher's pet or any of that phrase's less attractive synonyms) gave as an assignment: write and share a song essay. What is a song essay? I'm so glad you asked.
(Side note: One of the things I love about blogging is that the conversation goes exactly the way I want it to. You ask all the right questions, respond at the right times and offer no criticism. Like right now, for example, you aren't telling me that this side note is getting way too long.)
A song essay is where you bring a song and an essay to class. The song evokes a memory of a person, place event or time. I've heard two days worth of these so far and there are a few stories I feel like sharing (because I'm more generous than flickr).
Maia and Kiana (more about her later), were sitting in the middle of a basketball court at night, alone in the darkness with a phone, a phonebook and an ipod. They were prank calling. They had decided that they would pick song and play it for the stranger at the other end, the owner of the the number they punched into their phone. They wanted to give that stranger an opportunity to reflect on his/her life through the power of music. The song they hit upon was I Am A Vampire. I've provided some of the lyrics for you:
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
Vampire
I am a vampire
I have lost my fangs
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I have lost my fangs
So I'm sad and I feel lonely so I cry and I'm very angry and I hate some garlic
So I'm so no more sad and
Ache yeah yeah
"Dave listened to the whole thing," Maia told us. "Weirdo." They called up four more people and preformed the same ritual.
Sya, who sits a few seats to my right said, "Wait, that was you guys?"
Kiana, Maia's calling buddy, got up and played My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion--you know, Titanic. She listened to the song with a morose expression on her face and then started her essay. "I was in the dentist's office," she began.
She went on to detail the day her braces were put on, her anxiety about them, her mental preparation for names she might have to put up with-- brace face, metal mouth, etc. As she sank into the dentist's chair My Heart Will Go On started playing above her. The deep throb of the music sank into her. She shut her eyes and envisioned the two doomed Titanic lovers going down with the boat and saw her social life sinking with it.
Woe.
Marissa (not me, a different Marissa) had a more cheerful story (though Kiana's made me laugh more). I don't know Marissa well at all. She's been in my class since seventh grade and all I know about her is that her name is Marissa and she has pretty hair. Marissa's song was The Rocky Racoon by the Beatles. She told that, growing up, her dad would come in every night just when she was going to bed and strum his guitar while he sang her this song. Now he plays it for her little sisters as they go to sleep. Sometimes, when he is away, Marissa sings it for them.
Here is the thing that I love about these essays: they give me a chance to see my classmates as people. So often they walk out the door of AP Lit and disappear. Poof. Gone. In my head they all hang up their coats and hang out in the cosmos, possibly in a gaseous form, until class is once again in session and they solidify. They don't have dads, little sisters, friends, they don't prank call and they don't agonize over what a row of silver lining their teeth might do to their social life. In my head they're actors in my life, and not main characters either. They're extras.
Obviously I don't really think that. I know my classmates have parents. And TV sets and favorite books and goldfish (they probably don't kill their's within days) and hobbies. I know they have them. I just don't think about it. It's easy to not think about it, isn't it? Isn't it. Please say yes so that I fell less bratty.
The essays remind me that my classmates are always solid. Christina went to Canada, Holly makes friends through Disney music, Penn's friends tried to kidnap her on her seventeenth birthday. Tried being the operating word.
The best of these essays are not the ones that are well written but the ones that make the twenty people the author's been going to school with for five years sit there and think: I'd like to see the movie that is your life.
Over.
How are you?
Uh huh.
Really.
Really?
That's great.
Me? Oh, you know. Same old, same old.
Flickr is being mean to me. It won't let me change our highlight (to the right there? right, the watermelon) and, really, if it was going to get stuck, it should have had the decency to get stuck two weeks ago when we had that awesome picture of the girl with flour in hair... you don't remember. No worries. I'd show you, but Flickr doesn't feel like sharing. Don't worry, though, you won't be stuck with watermelon forever. I'll figure it out. Or Katie will. Or a good fairy, maybe. I believe in them.
In more depressing photo new, Nadia sent me the pictures of my last first day of school, but somehow they weren't in the email and... Sorry. No pictures for you.
Totally shifting gears here, my completely genius English teacher (she doesn't read this, so I can say that without being a teacher's pet or any of that phrase's less attractive synonyms) gave as an assignment: write and share a song essay. What is a song essay? I'm so glad you asked.
(Side note: One of the things I love about blogging is that the conversation goes exactly the way I want it to. You ask all the right questions, respond at the right times and offer no criticism. Like right now, for example, you aren't telling me that this side note is getting way too long.)
A song essay is where you bring a song and an essay to class. The song evokes a memory of a person, place event or time. I've heard two days worth of these so far and there are a few stories I feel like sharing (because I'm more generous than flickr).
Maia and Kiana (more about her later), were sitting in the middle of a basketball court at night, alone in the darkness with a phone, a phonebook and an ipod. They were prank calling. They had decided that they would pick song and play it for the stranger at the other end, the owner of the the number they punched into their phone. They wanted to give that stranger an opportunity to reflect on his/her life through the power of music. The song they hit upon was I Am A Vampire. I've provided some of the lyrics for you:
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
Vampire
I am a vampire
I have lost my fangs
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I am a vampire
I have lost my fangs
So I'm sad and I feel lonely so I cry and I'm very angry and I hate some garlic
So I'm so no more sad and
Ache yeah yeah
"Dave listened to the whole thing," Maia told us. "Weirdo." They called up four more people and preformed the same ritual.
Sya, who sits a few seats to my right said, "Wait, that was you guys?"
Kiana, Maia's calling buddy, got up and played My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion--you know, Titanic. She listened to the song with a morose expression on her face and then started her essay. "I was in the dentist's office," she began.
She went on to detail the day her braces were put on, her anxiety about them, her mental preparation for names she might have to put up with-- brace face, metal mouth, etc. As she sank into the dentist's chair My Heart Will Go On started playing above her. The deep throb of the music sank into her. She shut her eyes and envisioned the two doomed Titanic lovers going down with the boat and saw her social life sinking with it.
Woe.
Marissa (not me, a different Marissa) had a more cheerful story (though Kiana's made me laugh more). I don't know Marissa well at all. She's been in my class since seventh grade and all I know about her is that her name is Marissa and she has pretty hair. Marissa's song was The Rocky Racoon by the Beatles. She told that, growing up, her dad would come in every night just when she was going to bed and strum his guitar while he sang her this song. Now he plays it for her little sisters as they go to sleep. Sometimes, when he is away, Marissa sings it for them.
Here is the thing that I love about these essays: they give me a chance to see my classmates as people. So often they walk out the door of AP Lit and disappear. Poof. Gone. In my head they all hang up their coats and hang out in the cosmos, possibly in a gaseous form, until class is once again in session and they solidify. They don't have dads, little sisters, friends, they don't prank call and they don't agonize over what a row of silver lining their teeth might do to their social life. In my head they're actors in my life, and not main characters either. They're extras.
Obviously I don't really think that. I know my classmates have parents. And TV sets and favorite books and goldfish (they probably don't kill their's within days) and hobbies. I know they have them. I just don't think about it. It's easy to not think about it, isn't it? Isn't it. Please say yes so that I fell less bratty.
The essays remind me that my classmates are always solid. Christina went to Canada, Holly makes friends through Disney music, Penn's friends tried to kidnap her on her seventeenth birthday. Tried being the operating word.
The best of these essays are not the ones that are well written but the ones that make the twenty people the author's been going to school with for five years sit there and think: I'd like to see the movie that is your life.
Over.
Aug 3, 2010
Last First Day of School
(Marissa)
I got back from school a hour ago.
It is now 12:15.
I just ate pasta salad with my parents. In my lanai. With my feet up. Not in a cafeteria. Or at school.
I love the being at home when most people are in school. It makes me feel special.
When I walked into my English teacher, Mrs. Palmer's, class today, my friend Nadia snapped a picture of me with her beautiful camera.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I'm documenting you," she told me.
"Terrific. Why?"
"Because you just walked into my life."
When I asked her if it was a project she told me no, she just felt like it. And then she turned to get a picture of Von. I'm going to ask her if she can send me some of those to put on here, but for now, you'll just have to take my word for everything.
Last year everyone, including my high school, was unsure about whether we going to have block schedule or not. It would appear that that is still the case. Half of the teachers/parents/students/administrators wanted block, the other half didn't. So we've gone for a compromise, which, of course, makes no one happy. Tuesdays and Wednesdays operate under block schedule, the rest of the week is normal.
I think this is weird and typical at the same time, which disturbs me a little bit. I like keeping my adjectives in order. I think my school board might be a little insane. But I mean that in the most respectful way possible.
In any case, this bizarre schedule combined with my half day means that this was my schedule for today:
CULINARY 1 8:00-9:23
RECESS 9:23-9:38
AP GOVT/POLITICS US 9:43-11:01
Guys, I get out at 11:01. On Tuesdays, that is. On Mondays and Thursdays and Fridays I get out at 10:36. And Wednesdays I get out on 9:23.
Wednesdays are now officially my favorite day of the week.
I was very excited when I found out that I was taking culinary arts because, as you know I've kind of gotten on board with the food movement. In fact, I think I was born on board because, my mom has never been offboard. That excitement mixed together with first-day-back-to-school-hope-my-teacher-likes-me-don't-tell-me-I-didn't-bring-any-pencils jitters made me hyper. I was bounding on heels when I entered. Then my heels stopped bounding.
I didn't know any of them. They were all chatting and talking. All these people knew each other and I didn't know any of them. I hate feeling alone in a full room, don't you?
However, I am willing to see this class as an opportunity to make new friends and find out why my lemon tart cracks in the middle, so I'm reserving judgment. My culinary class is pending.
I had a paragraph here about several reasons why this class might be difficult. It had to do with complexities in my community, school and state in general. I hope, at some point, that I'll be able to tell you about them, but right now it won't come out. I'm not a good enough writer yet. Give me a few years and I'll astound you. I'll write about this--maybe even this class--and not only will you know what I mean you'll understand.
But not now.
At recess I got to see everybody and hang out in Palmer's room. I got to hug people and ask them how their summer was and try really hard not to brag about my AP exam scores (mostly unsuccessfully, but the point was to try, not be successful). I also asked about twenty people how much it costs to take the city bus, because I had to take it to get home and was concerned that three dollars might not be enough. The answers varied from $87,000 (thanks, Jess) to a dollar. Obviously everyone I know needs to go back to fourth grade and learn about either counting or rounding. Personally, I need to go back to third grade for mental health, nap time and help on my ACT math. Or any math. Ever.
My teacher started out our AP Government class by informing us that it was not to be referred to as AP Gov as it was, in fact AP Government and Politics so we were going to call it AP GOPO. I'm not sure if this is going to catch on or not, but either way, I thought it was a weird way to start.
Gov--uh, I mean, GOPO--is a comfortable class, especially after culinary arts because I could go down the rows of chairs and name everyone there.
I'd been in classes with them since seventh grade. We all had our little friend groups, unhealthy cliques, private jokes, and longterm grudges. They're the people who I will run to give hugs to at high school reunions, who I'll tell my kids stories about, and who I'll cry with on graduation night, but I try not to get too sentimental about that.
Possibly the worst thing about first days of school is that all the teachers feel the need to tell you their rules--which generally are the same as all the other teacher's. I understand the impulse. These people have over twenty teenagers on their hands. The compulsion to establish order must be irresistible. But really?
Don't chew gum. Respect me. Respect yourself. Respect others. Don't wear hats. Don't eat food. Stop poking her. Name, date, period in the right hand corner.
Check.
I think that everyone should just agree that the first period teacher does rules and nobody else. But nobody asked me.
Thus ends my post. I'm going to go watch West Wing now (thanks for getting me addicted, Katie, I hope you're happy now). Anyway, I hope you feel enlightened, enthralled, refreshed and re-energized, but I'll settle for mildly informed and amused.
Over.
I got back from school a hour ago.
It is now 12:15.
I just ate pasta salad with my parents. In my lanai. With my feet up. Not in a cafeteria. Or at school.
I love the being at home when most people are in school. It makes me feel special.
When I walked into my English teacher, Mrs. Palmer's, class today, my friend Nadia snapped a picture of me with her beautiful camera.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I'm documenting you," she told me.
"Terrific. Why?"
"Because you just walked into my life."
When I asked her if it was a project she told me no, she just felt like it. And then she turned to get a picture of Von. I'm going to ask her if she can send me some of those to put on here, but for now, you'll just have to take my word for everything.
Last year everyone, including my high school, was unsure about whether we going to have block schedule or not. It would appear that that is still the case. Half of the teachers/parents/students/administrators wanted block, the other half didn't. So we've gone for a compromise, which, of course, makes no one happy. Tuesdays and Wednesdays operate under block schedule, the rest of the week is normal.
I think this is weird and typical at the same time, which disturbs me a little bit. I like keeping my adjectives in order. I think my school board might be a little insane. But I mean that in the most respectful way possible.
In any case, this bizarre schedule combined with my half day means that this was my schedule for today:
CULINARY 1 8:00-9:23
RECESS 9:23-9:38
AP GOVT/POLITICS US 9:43-11:01
Guys, I get out at 11:01. On Tuesdays, that is. On Mondays and Thursdays and Fridays I get out at 10:36. And Wednesdays I get out on 9:23.
Wednesdays are now officially my favorite day of the week.
I was very excited when I found out that I was taking culinary arts because, as you know I've kind of gotten on board with the food movement. In fact, I think I was born on board because, my mom has never been offboard. That excitement mixed together with first-day-back-to-school-hope-my-teacher-likes-me-don't-tell-me-I-didn't-bring-any-pencils jitters made me hyper. I was bounding on heels when I entered. Then my heels stopped bounding.
I didn't know any of them. They were all chatting and talking. All these people knew each other and I didn't know any of them. I hate feeling alone in a full room, don't you?
However, I am willing to see this class as an opportunity to make new friends and find out why my lemon tart cracks in the middle, so I'm reserving judgment. My culinary class is pending.
I had a paragraph here about several reasons why this class might be difficult. It had to do with complexities in my community, school and state in general. I hope, at some point, that I'll be able to tell you about them, but right now it won't come out. I'm not a good enough writer yet. Give me a few years and I'll astound you. I'll write about this--maybe even this class--and not only will you know what I mean you'll understand.
But not now.
At recess I got to see everybody and hang out in Palmer's room. I got to hug people and ask them how their summer was and try really hard not to brag about my AP exam scores (mostly unsuccessfully, but the point was to try, not be successful). I also asked about twenty people how much it costs to take the city bus, because I had to take it to get home and was concerned that three dollars might not be enough. The answers varied from $87,000 (thanks, Jess) to a dollar. Obviously everyone I know needs to go back to fourth grade and learn about either counting or rounding. Personally, I need to go back to third grade for mental health, nap time and help on my ACT math. Or any math. Ever.
My teacher started out our AP Government class by informing us that it was not to be referred to as AP Gov as it was, in fact AP Government and Politics so we were going to call it AP GOPO. I'm not sure if this is going to catch on or not, but either way, I thought it was a weird way to start.
Gov--uh, I mean, GOPO--is a comfortable class, especially after culinary arts because I could go down the rows of chairs and name everyone there.
I'd been in classes with them since seventh grade. We all had our little friend groups, unhealthy cliques, private jokes, and longterm grudges. They're the people who I will run to give hugs to at high school reunions, who I'll tell my kids stories about, and who I'll cry with on graduation night, but I try not to get too sentimental about that.
Possibly the worst thing about first days of school is that all the teachers feel the need to tell you their rules--which generally are the same as all the other teacher's. I understand the impulse. These people have over twenty teenagers on their hands. The compulsion to establish order must be irresistible. But really?
Don't chew gum. Respect me. Respect yourself. Respect others. Don't wear hats. Don't eat food. Stop poking her. Name, date, period in the right hand corner.
Check.
I think that everyone should just agree that the first period teacher does rules and nobody else. But nobody asked me.
Thus ends my post. I'm going to go watch West Wing now (thanks for getting me addicted, Katie, I hope you're happy now). Anyway, I hope you feel enlightened, enthralled, refreshed and re-energized, but I'll settle for mildly informed and amused.
Over.
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