Fate, why have you forsaken me?

07Nov09

My latest crush is the boy who I shall call Carter Jackson. Yes, the quarterback whose sprinting skills would be better suited for the football field than racing poor, non-athletic girls to math class. I’m sure you saw this coming. For a few weeks there we had more interaction than all of my previous crushes combined. But then the swine flu break came about, and since going back to school we haven’t spoken.

Yesterday in math my teacher handed back our tests (which most of the class failed miserably, but the good bit was that our teacher blamed himself, and that’s always nice) and told us he’d let us re-take them, and he’d let us work with partners. We were suspicious; it was too good to be true. Then he added, “Oh, and I get to pick your partner,” and you could practically hear the collective “well shit” from the class; seriously, you don’t want to take a huge test and spend the next forty minutes with somebody stupid. I know that sounded bad, but it’s the honest truth. Still, I’d rather be with them than get stuck with that guy who thinks he’s smart, and who you have to argue with every step of the way.

Anyway, Mr. Mason got out the class list and paired us up alphabetically. The first person was with the last person; then the second person was with the second-to-last person. On and on. I got paired up with a nice, smart girl named Jenna who I knew well enough from the tennis team and liked. It went fine.

Today I wasn’t paying attention in class and a thought occurred to me and I ran with it. After going over the class list in my head and furtively looking around at my fellow classmates, I concluded, very pissed off, that if Carter Jackson hadn’t been absent the day before, he would’ve been my partner. I was just like, yeah… damn you, fate. Damn you!


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Our school’s diseased! YES!

26Oct09

The middle school across town has been closed due to swine flu for two days, so in class today we got to talking about our chances of getting shut down. My teacher, the epitome of a Debbie Downer, was like, “Yeeeahh… no, that’s not happening.”

Then, not ten minutes before the end of the day, the principal came over the intercom. His voice was grave; like, “I regret to inform you that Christmas has been canceled this year due due to unfortunate circumstances beyond our control. Santa has been shot. That is all.” You know, THAT kind of grave. So what he said was, “Students and staff, I need to make an announcement.” (Cue entire class inching forward, on the edge of their seats, eyes wide.) “Due to an unfortunate outbreak of the H1N1 virus — ” (Jaws dropped. Eyes went wider. Everyone held their breath, waiting on tenterhooks.) ” — all schools in the area will be closed until next Tuesday.”

He said a lot more, but I don’t think anyone in the school registered that he was still talking because there was a freaking EXPLOSION as kids jumped up on desks and screamed “NO SCHOOL! SEVEN DAYS! OH MY GODDDDD!” and cheered and danced and hugged, spreading swine flu galore. My teacher was like, “Settle down, please, settle down — ” but everyone exchanged hugs and high fives and then immediately ran over to get enough hand sanitizer to drown themselves in. A whole freaking WEEK of no school! My brother already had swine flu so… fingers crossed, hoping I don’t get it.


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On the bright side, we kicked ass.

24Oct09

This is for all the girls out there (or guys, however you swing) who’ve run onto the field screaming after your team’s finally won the big game against the rival school (the one where your team was guaranteed to lose) — and you dove into the huge mob of football players and fans waving Thunderstix and noisemakers, and no one cares that the field is muddy as hell, and you look up and see the guy you’re convinced you’re in love with: he’s being hoisted on the shoulders of the other football players, punching the air in triumph and waving the trophy around.

It’s bittersweet. He’s the muddiest of the lot but looks the happiest. And afterward he’s shaking hands all around and doing that body slam thing with the rest of the team and exchanging man hugs (you know what I mean, a man hug — manlier than the average embrace, it’s sort of a backslapping hug). But he doesn’t see you, creeping on his victory from a distance. It feels like it’s your victory, but also not your victory, because you were just another fan in the crowd, just another student from the school scrambling over the fence to storm the field as the clock ran out, just another girl who thinks she’s in love with him.

So you trudge off the field with your friends, who are ecstatic and giddy and laughing because they don’t feel those pangs of unrequited love that you do. You wave your noisemaker feebly as it finally starts to downpour.

This is very Taylor Swift of me, isn’t it? Girl meets boy. Girl develops intense crush on boy. Boy is star quarterback on football team that is considered the Detroit Lions of our area (as in, if you’re losing to us, you know you suck). Team Underdog manages to beat the odds and basically murders rival school. Boy is handed trophy. Girl watches from a distance. Boy sees her and realizes nothing would make him happier than to run over and declare his undying love for her. Boy kisses girl right there in the middle of the field, both of them covered in mud and not caring. That would have been the ideal ending. Don’t piss in my cheerios, I’m picturing this and loving it.


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CORN MAZE = LOVE.

17Oct09

So it’s Friday night. And what do we do? Party it up? Break out the alcohol and let the good times roll? Nope. We Mapquested the nearest corn maze, piled into Shannon’s rust bucket of a car, and took off. Don’t judge.

I’ve got to say, corn mazes are a basic necessity of life. When we got there, the first thing Shannon asked the owners was, “How often to go in there to make sure everyone’s out?” The five of us spent about half an hour looking for the first checkpoint. We stopped in the middle of it, stood in a circle, and had a picnic of pretzels and potato chips (because Laura came prepared with enough junk food to support a third-world country for a year — I brought about fifty cents and a dinky flashlight that might as well have been out of batteries for all the good it did). We were about to leave but the owner of the maze convinced us to stick around for the haunted one. I’m proud to say that I led the way, although I was holding Tori’s hand because we were so freaked out. There was a scarecrow that turned out to be a real dude (I peed a little… okay, not really, but it was close), and there was a guy with a mask and an axe right around the corner. And some lady in a black dress who followed us saying, “I’m Sarah Jane… why did you leave me? Why? WHY?” although this was slightly less scary than it should’ve been because Tori was like, “Hey, I know you! You were in my catechism!” Small town life, folks.

The best bit was the five of us huddled around a map in the kids’ maze trying to figure out where we were, while a group of little kids marched past us purposefully like they knew exactly where they were going. Good times. Afterward we went to McDonalds. It was a great feeling, driving around at night with the heat on high while we sang along to songs that we only sort of knew.


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and they’re off!

11Oct09

Again, sorry. Months without posting. Complete negligence of my poor blog. But fear not, I’ve got one hell of a story that will make up for it, I promise you. I woke up this morning in my Happy Bunny pajamas (and there are few things better in life than waking up in Happy Bunny PJs, I don’t mind telling you) and I thought, “Okay, it’s time to blog again.”

So I have this teacher — we’ll call him Mr. Mason — who is notorious for his tardy policy. When you’re late to class, you have to sit outside like an idiot until he lets you in. And it could be five minutes, it could be ten. He might be halfway through a lecture before he remembers you’re out there. And it’s no good trying to sneak in after the bell rings — the rest of the class will rat you out, because undoubtedly they’ve all been subjected to this punishment and wish to see others suffer as well. And then you look even stupider, halfway to your seat, mid-lunge, when Mason turns around and calls you out on it. Then you must submit to the walk of shame and head back out into the hall like a naughty kindergartener who just got caught eating crayons or licking the floor. So anyway, if two people are late, the first person to sit down at their desk is off the hook, and the other poor sap has to walk defeated out into the hall. A race usually ensues. It’s very vicious. Whenever I’m not the idiot in the hall, it amuses me. It’s just funny.

But okay, I had to finish my psychology test — I just had one answer left — and I thought I had enough time to stop by my locker and get to Mason’s class on time. Turns out I miscalculated. I ran downstairs, turned the corner, and then the bell rang. And I was just like, Shit. Having already been late once that week, I was screwed.

But then. But THEN. I saw this guy at the other end of the hall. He was in my class. Mason’s room was right smack in the middle of us. We both stopped dead. Cue the staredown. For about two seconds we just stared at each other. Then simultaneously we both started SPRINTING. We were hauling ASS, in this epic race from opposite ends of the longest freaking hallway ever. And here’s the funny part. The guy was Carter Jackson. If you were from my town this would mean something to you. But since you’re not I’ll elaborate: he’s been the quarterback on our high school team since sophomore year. Let me tell you, the guy can RUN. It wasn’t even close. He paused at the door, waved at me, then kind of laughed good-naturedly and ran inside. Ah, well. It made for a good story, right?


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yikes.

18Aug09

Wow, sorry about the hiatus there. I got so caught up in summery goodness. Which means that for the last few days I have alternately watched Psych epiosdes online, took a stab at my summer reading, and played my Gameboy into the wee hours of the morning. I regret nothing.

So anyway, a week or so ago a friend was driving me to her house, and not five minutes after we took off my mom heard sirens coming from the road we were on and she panicked. She called me nine times. When I failed to answer to pulled out the trusty police scanner (it’s like this radio my dad uses to eavesdrop on cops, I have no idea where it came from) and called again. Now, what, you ask, could possibly justify worrying your mom to the brink of insanity?

We were trying to save a dog.

Carrie, Sam and I pulled into Carrie’s neighborhood and immediately almost mauled a little terrier that was just BOOKING IT in our direction. Carrie squealed to a stop and the dog, without missing a beat, skidded out of the way and just kept on going, down the middle of the street. We all looked at each other, then simultaneously we all jumped out of the car. Then our ineptitude came into play. Not one of us is experienced in the manner of chasing dogs, so we screwed everything up by doing all the wrong things. Screaming. Waving our arms. Laughing hysterically. Sam, being the athletic one, kept going. Carrie and I were lying in the middle of the road, laughing our heads off. We almost got run over too. The dog never even looked back, just kept on pounding down the pavement until he turned the corner and Sam went too. It was really funny at the time. I mean, I started giggling, then Carrie gave a chuckle, and before you know it we were hysterical.

Then I realized my phone was vibrating, and it was my mom, in tears. I explained what had happened and you could tell she was pissed but mostly relieved.

Two days later, the dog was hit by a car. Not exactly a happy ending. I wish we could’ve saved it.


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Story of a small town girl.

30Jun09

Ready for the latest small town scandal? One of my best friends, Shannon, broke up with her boyfriend for cheating on her with the school slut. Who happens to be my cousin, Veneta. Imagine what it’s like when Veneta comes over. I’m a nerdy-honors-student-who-reads-for-fun type of person, and she wears an abundance of eye makeup of the “nocturnal rodent” variety, has had more boyfriends than most people have friends on Facebook, and lost her virginity in the woods near our school. We sit there awkwardly watching MTV like she didn’t have sex with my ex-boyfriend a few months ago, too. I could say something, like, “So, how was that juvenile detention facility? I heard you punched Jenny Wordell in the face. Still on parole?” Instead I go, “I think Pimp My Ride is on channel twenty.”

That all happened before school got out. Since then, another close friend, Liz, broke up with her boyfriend Nick, because he cheated on her as well. Lovely, right? But it wasn’t enough for him to cheat on her. They broke up two weeks ago. Yesterday she found out he gave her mono. Nice. It’s been suggested that we all get together, break into his house, and piss collectively on all their doorknobs. It would be easy — he’s my next-door neighbor.

I can’t wait to get out of here.


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Truth: I’m an embarrassment.

30Jun09

My friend showed me a truth or dare generator because we’re deathly uncreative when it comes to dares. So I’m gonna do a truth blog. See if the truth will set me free, or however that goes. And I just think it’d be fun. Anyway, no cheating. I’ll do the first truth I get.

Describe your top three most embarrassing moments. In detail.
That would be the first question. Let me first say that I had to go through my mental list of embarrassing moments and pick out the ones that were not completely mortifying, and that I hadn’t already blogged about.

1. I’m changing after gym class, which is the ultimate humiliation, bar none, since you’re yanking on jeans and a T-shirt in a mad hurry so no one will see you forgot to shave your legs, you’re wearing a padded bra, you don’t have a flat stomach, etc., etc. It just sucks, unless you’re a) pretty, b) well-liked, c) a jock, or d) all of the above. Anyway, I’m pulling on some jeans when a girl I sort of know goes, “Wow, you’ve sure got an ass to put in those jeans!” She belts it out, too, so at this point the entire locker room whips around to look at me, thanking God they aren’t me, and mentally passing judgment on my ass in jeans. I go, “Um… thanks,” and she says immediately, “Oh, it wasn’t a compliment.” Oh. Right.

2. I was going on vacation with my family when I spotted this uber attractive guy in the airport. I’m thinking, Holy friggin crap, this guy is MADE of hotness! I practically had a grand mal seizure when we were boarding our plane and he got in line behind me. So I was walking down the aisle looking for my seat. I tried to squeeze in next to my brother when it happened. I sneezed, bumped my knee on the food tray and banged my head on the overhead compartment. He Who Is Made of Hotness gave this little snort and laughed all the way to his seat. It was over before it began.

3. There was this guy I sort of had a crush on. He was my brother’s best friend. (DANGER ZONE. TREAD CAREFULLY.) We were going on a week-long trip together for Spring Break, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled about it. I was so pumped. Day one, we all piled into my dad’s Chevy. I got in after my crush and promptly whacked my head on the ceiling, then fell back out and practically knocked over my grandma who was seeing us off. It was a very long week after that.


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All summer long

29Jun09

Before I unveil a shocking announcement of epic proportions, you may want to sit down. No, Mike Daniels did not publicly proclaim me his lover. No, I didn’t get A’s on all of my exams. Yes, actually, I did manage to stray away from junk food for a whole week, but then I caved and ate half a box of Swiss Cake Rolls. But anyway.

I’ve been busy this summer. No need to go back and reread because you read that right! I have PLANS! Like actual normal person plans. I’ve gone to the beach. The movies. The bookstore. Downtown. I’ve had sleepovers. Okay, admit it… who thought I’d be spending this entire summer sitting on my lazy butt, watching reruns of House while making funky peanut butter and potato chips concoctions? Hands in the air, raise ‘em high — that many, huh? Yeah, don’t worry, I thought the same thing. But for all of my normal people activities (and here’s the really shocking part), I can’t find anything blog-worthy, which translates into, I haven’t done anything stupid lately. I mean, I’m sure I have, but I can’t think of anything.

While I was at a baseball game with a few friends, we somehow snagged a table in the rich people section. Basically we were sitting next to the kind of sleek, well-to-do people who you can just tell wear suits all day and stride down the sidewalk like they’ve got somewhere important to be and probably play a lot of golf. And we were just a couple of girls in jeans and T-shirts and flipflops who didn’t know first base from the pitcher’s mound. (That’s exaggerating, but we didn’t know how many innings there were or even what constituted an inning to begin with.) So in an effort to at least look like we belonged here, we took out our cell phones and cameras and tried to take pictures without a clue what we were looking for. Mostly we just cheered and clapped when everyone else did.

Halfway through the game, Emilie switched our phones. She and I have the same phone — a pink razr — and while I was looking the other way, she switched them around. And when she got up to go get ice cream, I switched them without knowing that she’d already done it, thinking I was being all discreet and sneaky and such. Some time later we both went for our phones, expecting the other person to be like, “Hey, this isn’t mine!” and when it didn’t happen, we both got it in the same instant and started laughing like this was something hysterical.

The rich people just glared. Even the mascot threw us a dirty look. Screw ‘em. On that breezy summer day, with the sun setting and the clouds turning orange and the ice cream we’d spilled seconds before seeping into our well-worn jeans and our pink razrs mixed up and the rich people staring at us like we’d just announced we were unreformed Stalinists who eat babies, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.


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Damn you, fate!

10Jun09

So I was taking my French exam. (Yes, already you can tell this is going to be a Mike Daniels story of epic proportions. Buckle up.) Part of it was oral — like you had to go out in the hallway and recite a story to the teacher in French. Normal foreign language class stuff, right? But let me tell you something about me and reciting French stories. I instantly go into freak out mode. I have the kind of horrible memory typically associated with Alzheimer’s, and I get all tongue-tied and I pause like five thousand times. Long, painful pauses that make you think I’m done when really I’m straining myself to remember the next part. Usually I sound like a highly intoxicated illiterate Parisian. Thank God my teacher is amazingly patient. And she takes us into the hall so we don’t have to go through the unendurable shame of screwing up in front of the whole class.

I’m halfway through the story, and it’s actually going pretty well. I stumbled like, twice, but my flow is awesome and I’m throwing out French phrases like I was born there. And then Mike Daniels comes back from the bathroom. Understand a few things here: Mike Daniels is constantly taking the bathroom pass, and judging by the direction from which he returns I doubt he’s ever taking a genuine trip to the toilette. Anyway, we were going in order by the seating chart to recite the story, and right after he went, I saw him grab the pass. And it was my turn. And already I was calculating how long it would take me to say the story so that he wouldn’t come back while I was in the middle of it. Assuming he took his usual time, I’d have to speak pretty damn fast.

And of course, he came back right before I reached the halfway point. The whole area was situated so the teacher was sitting in a chair in front of me, and I was sitting in a chair right in front of the door, to discourage people from exiting the classroom while someone was doing the exam. Unfortunately that also meant that Mike Daniels couldn’t get in. So he’s standing there, and I immediately dissolve into “drunk Parisian with a second grade education” mode.

It was a very long story.


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