Tuesday, September 30, 2008

I Was Strangled in P.E. Class

FACT: P.E. is still around.
FACT: P.E. is required for everyone except those in Marching Band.
FACT: I thought that by the time I was a senior P.E. would no longer be required.
FACT: I was wrong.

Our routine goes like this: Dressing out. TAKES 10 MINUTES. Roll call. TAKES 15 MINUTES. Explanation of the game. TAKES 15 MINUTES. Game. TAKES 5 MINUTES. Dressing back into our original clothing. TAKES 10 MINUTES. I get more of a work-out stepping in and out of my shorts than I do in "Mat Ball." (I'm not even going to bother explaining that one. There's a mat and a ball and really that's all you need to know to get the gist of the game.)

There is a difference between being able to talk about P.E. for days (which I could absolutely do) and being able to BE in P.E. for days (which is turning me into Jack Torrence). P.E. is one thing movies seem to get right. It's the most UNphysically demanding class, it's incredibly sexist, and it's a complete waste of my time. The worst part is, it's required for EVERYONE. (Except Marching Band. Apparently tuba players have a more intense work-out than football players. Didn't you know? Tubas get you jacked. That's why our tuba player weighs about 400 pounds, so of course he definitely does NOT need to be playing Crab Soccer. That's 400 pounds of MUSCLE, man. Crab Soccer is for stupid SOCCER players, man. THEY need an hour work-out before they have their TWO hour work-out AFTER school. MAN.) So since it's required for everyone BESIDES Mr. Tuba, I have to deal with many unique characters that honestly I could go without having to deal with.

"We havin' sex tonight, baby?"


"Shut up, BITCH."

He grabs my throat and squeezes it tightly. No, I'm not joking. I was strangled in P.E. class.


At seven?

"Sorry baby, I'm just bipolar today."

"Don't make me kick your ass."

I probably wouldn't have said this to the boy who just strangled me had he not been a 4 foot tall freshmen.

"What was that BITCH?"

"Are you a freshmen?"

"Yeah baby, I'm a freshmen. Give me some love."

"What middle school are you from?"

"I came from an alternative school. But they kicked me out."

Alternative school. Bad... Getting kicked OUT of your alternative. school. Worse...


...and maybe I shouldn't have told him I was going to kick his ass...

"I love you, baby."

...and why do I attract criminals and perverts only...

"Don't you love me?"

...maybe I should do something about that...


"Maybe later."

"Okay, baby. I can wait for your lovin.'

So along with dealing with these unique strangers/criminals/munchkins, I have to succumb to the "girl version" in every game we play.


It really doesn't get any more humiliating than that.


Annnnd...maybe it does.

At least I don't have to worry about getting hit in the crotch. I've seen more crotch-shots in P.E. than I have in my entire life. Guys seem to think it's funny to watch other guys fall to the floor in agony. I find it sad, and, once again, a waste of my time. I see it enough in Will Ferrell movies.

FACT: I look short and fat in my P.E. uniform.
FACT: Everyone looks short and fat in their P.E. uniform.
FACT: I thought that people would be too busy complaining about P.E. to notice that I haven't shaved my legs in weeks.
FACT: I was wrong.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Not As Cool As Fred Flintstone

My sister and I were not your average children. We didn't play Beanie Babies or Hide and Go Seek. We didn't watch Timmy the Tooth and we didn't want to be princesses when we grew up. (I personally wanted to be a chain-smoker who frequently went to Blockbuster and smoked in the aisles as I chose a new release.) We made up our own games.

"Give me a Scotch on the rocks, Bartender."

"Need a light, as well?"

"Yeah thanks."

"Anytime, mister. Wanna talk about it?"

"My wife left me."

"Pssh. Women."

"Give me another drink in one of those tiny glasses."

We didn't know the "tiny glasses" were shot glasses. And yet we somehow knew exactly what to do with them.

"Which ones?"

"You know, the ones Mommy keeps up there!"

"Oh yeah!"

"I'm drunk."

"Let me call you a taxi."

The game always ended when the customer got drunk. Which happened fastest for us when we had apple juice. (Apple juice always tasted gross. Still does.)

Then we would cast spells in the backyard to summon the fairies.





"Mello Yello?"


"String of hair?"

"Ouch. Check."

"Pair of Dad's underwear?"

"Check. AND mom's."

Spells always consisted of whatever we could find and get away with taking. Our neighbor once brought a taped VHS of '90210' to throw into the cauldron. (The cauldron actually WAS a cauldron. We had bizarre things in our garage...)


When every other kid on the block had one of those electric mini-convertibles that drove like REAL cars (with the speed limit of a tricycle going UPhill), we had a janky mini-van that ran on our own two feet. (picture Fred Flintstone's car without the cool zebra print. The day you realize you're not as cool as Fred Flintstone is a sad, sad day.) So, being too embarrassed to "drive" the thing, we invented a game to play on TOP of the thing. Basically you danced and danced until someone got sick of watching you and yelled, "JUMP JIVE AN' WAIL!" in which you must immediately echo, "JUMP, JIVE, AN' WAIL!" and then leap off so they could climb up and dance like Snoopy. (The title of the game came from a CD my dad played of old jazz hits, like Danke Schoen and Nat King Cole's L.O.V.E. For some reason Jump Jive An' Wail seemed to be most appropriate for mini-van-dancing.)

"FINE. I'll just play with ROSE."

We only had imaginary friends when we got into fights. We used the concept to make each other jealous. Poor Rose. I didn't even play with her, I just said I was going to in hopes that my sister would immediately regret her decision to quit the game and bite me in the back. (that's not a phrase by the way, she really did BITE me. my parents would only react when she "broke the skin," which happened quite frequently)

"This is my boyfriend, Stud Man Lee."

Stud Man Lee was a pillow in a floral pillowcase. (It's called using your resources.)

"This is MY boyfriend, Charlie."

Charlie was a giant raggedy-
ann doll. (It's called pretending your doll doesn't have cascading locks and rosy cheeks and what WOULD be a va-jay-jay and instead naming her Charlie and drawing a goatee on her face.)

"I'm sick of these games. Let's get into pillowcases and sled down the stairs."

Ahhh...screw dating and parties. There are times you just gotta sled down some stairs.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

I Can't Get Enough of You, Newbie

We have a newbie in my first period. Hey, I'm not complaining; I'm all for the newbs. Can't get enough of them, really. I wish we always had them. Newb after newb after newb...but this one?

"You look like Hannah Montana."

I don't like this newb.

"I do not look like Hannah Montana."

"Yes you do."

"No I really don't."

"Yeah you do."

That was Day One. Annoyed, but not angry. Hannah Montana cracks, I can deal with. What I can't deal with is someone sticking a tack into my leg.


"You felt that?!"

"YEAH, I felt that! You stuck a tack in my THIGH."


"Not funny, man. Noootttt funnnyyyyy."

"Lemme do it again."


"Why not?"

"Because it hurts. AND because---OUCH!"

"Shut up that don't hurt!"

"YEAH it does!"

"Lemme do it on your arm."


"It's not like you ain't used to it."


"You cut yourself, don't ya?"


"Ahhh, really?"

"Yes, REALLY."

"I thought you was emo."


"You always be wearin' long sleeves and shit. I thought you cut yourself."

He does the motions. And the sound effects.

"Eee! Eee! Eee! EMO."

"Nope. Sorry. I like my veins how they are."

"Your what?"

"My veins."

"What yo veins got to do with it?"

"Never mind."

Then there was the time he really needed a cigarette. BAD.

"You got a cigarette?"


"Give me a cigarette."

"I don't have one."

"You want me to stab you?"

"NO, I don't want you to STAB me."

"Then give me a cigarette."

"I don't smoke."

"That's it I'm jackin' your car."

"You're...jackin...my car."

"That's what I said, bitch!"

"It's already been jacked, sorry."

"Someone jacked your car?"


Not really.

"HaHA! Dude that shit funny as hell!"

"I'm glad you're amused."

"I'm stickin' a pumpkin in your muffler after school. Just gonna stick that pumpkin right up in that black Volvo of yours."

It didn't matter that a pumpkin could never fit in a muffler, that was still the day I was officially creeped out. He knew what car I drove. I don't know how. But it was creepy. That was also the day someone told me he was from a correctional facility for juvenile delinquents. AWESOME.

"Hey hemorrhoid."

"Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah, haHA! I called you a hemorrhoid!"

"Yes, that IS what you called me."

"You know what a hemorrhoid is?"

"It's bad."

"Yeah, but you know what it is?

"I would rather not have this conversation."

I really just didn't know what it was.

"Hey, Teach! Tell her what a hemorrhoid is!"

God that's embarrassing. For me and for him.

"It's an inflammation of the butthole."

Thank you, teaaaaacher! Now let's talk about anal sex! In full detail! With pictures!

"HaHA! See, you a hemorrhoid!"

"You're right. I AM a hemorrhoid."

"HaHAAA you a dirty butt hole!"

He yells this as the rest of the class is taking a test. Now the whole class know I am a "dirty butt hole." Well then.

"Hey hemorrhoid, you got a boyfriend?"

You've GOT to be kidding me.



Let's look on the bright side, shall we? I only have EIGHT WHOLE MONTHS with this guy until I never have to fear him and his tacks again. EIGHT. WHOLE. MONTHS. What a newb.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

It's Not Over 'Til The Crackhead Streaks!




I was at my first party as a senior and the first person who came and talked to me was a shirtless stranger telling me to 'shhh.' I decided to just go along with it.

"Yeah, I KNOW. People don't realize this is a PARTY? We all need to shut up and stand here in silence. It's what party people DO."

He shakes his head.


So this could mean many things. 'Shhh' Boy is calling me a crackhead, telling me he's a crackhead, or has some form of turrets.


Sometimes it's best to just repeat weird things slowly and steadily while squinting your eyes.

"There's a crackhead here."

"There's a crackhead here?"

He nods his head.

"Running around."

"There's a crackhead running around here?"

He nods his head.


"There's a naked crackhead running around here?"

He nods his head.


And he slinks off into the shadows. I am NOT leaving this party until I see that. As my momma always told me, "It's not over 'til the crackhead streaks!"

"I'm sssssooooooo tiredddddd..."

At first I felt bad for the stranger who was oddly drenched from head to toe with hair down to her knees. I know what it's like to be tired. We all do. Until she decided to lie down. On my lap.


NO, I wasn't sitting in this chair. NO, I wasn't in the middle of a conversation with a cute boy who has now left because he probably thinks we're lovers. NO, your knee-length hair is NOT immune to water. It, too, is SOPPING WET. NO, my dress is not of a thinnish material and now that it is soaked as well it might possibly stick to every curve of my body making me feel self-conscious the rest of the night. NO, it is not awkward for me to ask you to get the hell off of me.

"Get the hell off of me."

I wish I said that.

"Ummm euhhhh blahhhh."

I think what I said was more like that.

"Euhhhh blahhhh..."

That was actually her that time, not me. I sit, soaking up every last dew from her mop of a head. I see someone I know. No, they aren't a good friend, or a friend, or even an acquaintance, I just know of them.


I jump up, waving. (It was less of a 'jump' and more of a 'slow rising', like an old woman with back problems and a great deal of patience.) The girl awkwardly shrivels into a ball into the corner of the giant armchair, keeping her eyes closed the entire time. I decide she is really out of it and do not hold a grudge. I should not judge her. I should hand her a towel, but not judge. So she likes to swim? So she gets ridiculously tired? So she likes to take acid? To each his own.


Now this is what separates the men from the boys. Okay, not really. This is just what separates the sober from the intoxicated.


A few people jump the fence, one group off to the side hurriedly finish what they were passing, THEN jump the fence, some people who I noticed were ALSO drenched from head to toe stay right where they are staring into space, and I and the couple people I went with walk to car. (Just because we were in ship-shape to drive doesn't mean we weren't aware of the idiots parked all around us who were NOT in ship-shape to drive, therefore we waited until THEY left, which took forever, and by that time someone had told us the cops had NOT actually been called and that it had just been a scheme to minimize the size of the party. Good things come to those who wait. And apparently, good things come to those who trip. Because they too got to stay at the party. How interesting.)

Some people then began to jam out. I wanted to join in but all I play is the tambourine, which some people don't find "cool." The PARTRIDGE FAMILY found it cool! ESMERELDA found it cool! Bass guitar my ass, tambourines are where it's at.

At midnight everyone pulled a Cinderella, (though Cinderella doesn't roll doobies), and booked it out of there. Everything must come to an end, even parties. (Though it had come to a false end earlier, leaving us wondering if the party really WAS ending...but it was.) We took one last glance around for the naked crackhead, and left with our heads hanging low. (From disappointment. It's not everyday you get the chance to see a naked crackhead. Or even a naked person, for that matter.) (OR a crackhead. I wasn't going to keep on going with that, but I didn't want you to infer that I see observe crackheads on a regular basis.)


Naked crackhead.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

The Hot Pink Paperbacks from Hell

"Are you waiting to have your I.D. made?"

"No actually, I'd like to check out a book."

"OH! Really? Well then come over here please!"

By the sparkle in her eyes and the flailing of her arms as she literally RUNS to her desk (causing it to dawn on me that the woman is a carbon copy of Olive Oyl), I can tell that students rarely go to the library to actually check out books.

"Do you read a lot?"


A group has now formed around us waiting to have their I.D.'s made. It's a small group, but still large enough for my cheeks to flush and my responses to become brief. Gotta get outta here, gotta get outta here...

"Because this book is HEAVY."

It's a paperback with only 200 pages. The woman needs to eat more eggs.

"I'm surprised you're reading such a heavy book. War...death...it's gruesome."

Oh okay I get it. Library lingo. "Heavy." So wait, is she implying I'm dumb? I look behind me. The small group is now a medium-sized group, with a couple people moaning, "Mayynneee, dis chick TAkin too looong!" Ugh.

"So, you're in Reading Club then."

It'd be bad enough if she had asked me. Asked me in front of the now medium-to-large antsy group behind me. But no, she just automatically assumed. Automatically assumed I was in Reading Club. It's not even like, "Only NERDS are in Reading Club!" It's like, "NO ONE is in Reading Club." It's like, "Reading WHAT?" because no one even KNOWS about Reading Club.


Keep 'em brief, keep 'em brief.

"I didn't even know we had a Reading Club."


"You'll have to go to Ms. Andrews and she'll give you details."

No no no!

"Here, you choose two or three books from this box to read, and THEN, you blog about them."

Her smile is gone. She's gone into All Business Mode. Reel in a Reading Club candidate and keep them in an ice-box. Trapped. And reading.

"So I go to Ms. Andrews and sign up?"

So I can leave now and never come back again?

"You can start now; you don't even need to sign up. Look through these here..."

She dives in head-first to the gigantic cardboard box. Her right arm shoots up from underneath her head with a book in hand. She holds her arm up without lifting her head from the box. Am I supposed to take it? She shakes her hand. I take it. The cover is hot pink with a girl on the cover, hip pushed out to the side and both hands strategically formed together to make the letter, 'W.' "GIRL VIBES" it says. I look on the cover for a "Reading Level: K-5" sticker. I'm shocked to only find a description. I don't really remember exactly what it said, considering the fact that I threw it back in the box when the woman finally emerged from it to gasp for air, but I'm sure it went along these lines: "Kelly is a senior at a new school with new friends, friends who may not be so "friendly" after all. When Samantha, the most popular girl at
Sisquo High, decides to steal Kelly's boyfriend, Kelly knows she will have to play the game to keep him. Will Samantha win her boyfriend, be the Valedictorian, AND win Prom Queen? Kelly will have to do whatever it takes to bring Samantha down, which includes sending out her...GIRL VIBES."

"Keep looking."

She walks over to the now MOB of people behind me and tries to calm them down, turning back to me every few seconds to see if I'd found anything. I realize there's no getting out of this. Just grab a book and get gone. I look for the shortest one. "Fashionista" is my best bet: 60 pages.---

"Found one?"

"Not yet!"

But I just can't do it. Reading "
Fashionista" would be a waste of my life, I'm sure of it. I close my eyes and grab one. Another pink one. NO.

"Found one?"

"Not yet!"

People keep pouring into the library (who would have thought? the one day I go to check out a book, the FIRST book I've ever checked out my entire 4 years of high school, is the busiest day in there), looking over at me, me who is now crouched behind the librarian's desk with 4 books in one hand and one with a sparkle spine in the other. I finally find one about boys and grab it. I don't think I'll get any "
dramarama" in a boy book.

"Oh! You found one!"

"Sure did!"

"You only want one?"

"Well I'd like to start off with one since I'm reading about 4 other books right now."


"Oh! You can blog about those as well!"

Why do I lie?

"Do you have friends who like to read?"



"Give them these fliers!"

Why do I tell the truth?


Great. I will leave the library and be forced to walk all the way across the school DURING LUNCH when everyone is out and about, with two books in one hand, the
laminated-paperback-obviously-from-the-library-kind, with a giant bookmark sticking out from each of them, a STACK of neon green fliers, and a face as red and blotchy as that one kid in 5th grade whose face was always red and blotchy. At least I'm finally getting out of there with SOME dignity, since the mob didn't ACTUALLY know what I was doing behind her desk submerged in the hot pink paperbacks from Hell. I reach the door, when all of a sudden...


I might as well just join.