My Super-Serious Condition That I Have Now

Way back when I was an adolescent, I was sitting in the kitchen one day eating my breakfast before school. Next to me sat my sister, and across from us stood my mother, who never sits but instead cleans incessantly.

My sister and I were eating a typical breakfast of cereal. I don't know what kind. I'd say it was Life, or maybe Corn Pops. Not sure. Not the point.

Anyway, the reason this particular breakfast stands out to me over all the others is because of a little  incident that took place. You might call it an outburst. I don't know. Just shhh...

It was quiet in the kitchen that day, no one was really in the habit of friendly chit-chat in the morning. However, one sound did mange to cut through the silence: the sound of my sister eating.

I don't know if it was because I was overtired, or if I was having a bad week or something, but everything about the process of my sister's cereal-eating was so disgusting that day I couldn't take it. The click of the spoon against the teeth, the slightest slurp of the milk as it went in her mouth, the gross semi-soggy crunch of the Corn Pops (or Life?)  as she mashed them into mush. Ughhh. Even now, I can't stand to think of it.

Eventually I lost it. OH MY GOD STOP CLICKING YOUR SPOON IT IS SO DISGUSTING! Or something like that. Something mature and reasonable.

Both my mom and sister stopped dead in their tracks, shocked by my sudden rage, and then gave me the "you-are-the-rudest-teenager-and-we-are-ashamed-to-be-related-to-you" look -- something I was not unfamiliar with in those days.

At the time I just continued to be rude, indignant that they didn't hear how gross those noises were. But now I realize, thanks to  this article, that the way my sister was eating her cereal that day was not actually gross. She was probably eating in a very normal, polite way. In fact, most people whose disgusting mouth noises have driven me over the edge have probably not been doing anything gross or weird with their mouths. It's me. It's my ears. I have misophonia.

This is a shock to me, of course. Misophonia is a thing? Really? Well, probably not, but still. I might have a condition, y'all. A straight-up condition. And the condition is not me using the phrase "y'all," despite being by all accounts not-Southern. It's that my ears and brain are in a toxic relationship called misophonia.

Is it possible that all of those kissing scenes in movies are actually not horrifying to listen to?

Is it possible that my husband's gum chewing is not the worst sound that's ever crossed my ear holes?

Is it possible that my anger was not righteous, but unfounded?

My husband chewing gum.

Eh, not sure.

Lovey-Dovey

Attention people of the world of this blog: I feel like I owe you a post. I have not written in a while, unless you count the charming posts made on my Facebook page which you should definitely check out! (Three more likes and I have 100 likes! That means I can finally start loving myself!)

I have some good ideas brewing for future mind-blowing essays, but today I just wanted to share a little something I witnessed the other day at my place of work. Just one of those little things that made me smile -- it made me happy to be alive.

A Love Story

We were all gathered for an assembly, and I was diligently policing the 50-or-so seventh graders in my area. You know, telling them to be quiet and taking their phones away and stuff. Well, wouldn't you know it, America's favorite couple was sitting in my section -- let's call them "Edward and Bella."

Edward and Bella are two adorable little misfits that found love in the hopeless place called middle school. They are really into animae, and and I think that's it, and Bella has got about a foot on Edward in the height department. I wouldn't say they are particularly affectionate (thank you Lord), but they are always together. It's an innocent love. Some may call it not really love at all.

ANYWAY, so there they are, in my section, and Bella has her arm around Edward which is pretty funny to me. Edward is all nestled-in to his lady, and they are watching the presentation, and then he does something truly amazing:

He picks his nose.

Sitting there, with his head pressed into the loving bosom of his girlfriend, just going to town on his nose and then eating it. If there were ever an image to perfectly capture the strange dichotomy of seventh grade, it was this. I turned away, to give them privacy and to not-barf, but the image stays with me.

Thank you, Universe. We needed that.

What's Hot with the Kids These Days II

I know you all count on me to bring you the latest trends in teenybopper-land, so I wanted to share with you a recent discovery of mine. (The fact that it is a recent to me does not mean it is recent, of course. I usually pick up on things anywhere between 6-12 months after thirteen-year-olds pick up on them. That said, I pick up on them about a year before regular adults would, so this is still a valid service I'm providing.)

Here is what I've discovered: Miranda Sings.

That's her in the red sweatpants. You may notice she has her arm around THEE Jerry Seinfeld. Jerry Seinfeld is with-it.

I first learned of Miranda Sings on Halloween when one of my students dressed up as her (the basic look is bobby pins, sweat pants, and a lot of red lipstick). Then last week someone turned in a video assignment doing an impression of Miranda Sings, and everyone went crazy for it. So I investigated.

Miranda Sings is a character created by an actress named Colleen Ballinger. She started making YoutTube videos as "Miranda" where she sings pop songs poorly. People started following her, and now she makes tons of videos as Miranda doing all sorts of things, like this one: http://youtu.be/zTnXw0F_iYY.

I am drawn to Miranda for reasons I cannot explain, but what put me over the edge was her recent appearance on Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee hosted by comedy icon Jerry Seinfeld. Why would Seinfeld have her on, when other guests have included Larry David, Kevin Hart, and Sarah Silverman? Surely Miranda is not yet up to that level? Do you think he was just looking to cash in to the younger audience? (Most "MirFANda's are middle-schoolers). Or is he really a fan? Tell me!!!!

Also, why doesn't Jerry Seinfeld read this blog and ask me to be his friend?

So there you have it. Miranda Sings is a THING. It's a thing you should know about. And that's why I'm here. 

What Type of 7th Grade Girl Are You?

Have you ever wondered what type of seventh grader girl you would be, if you were a seventh grade girl? Well, take this quiz to find out!

1. Your teacher assigns you a chapter to read for homework. You:
A) Don't do it, tell your teacher you didn't know there was any homework even though you totally did.
B) Wait until the next day and then guilt your friend into letting you copy theirs before class.
C) Skim it.
D) Read it and email your teacher six questions about it.


2. Your best friend tells you about their secret crush. You:
A) Keep it under your hat indefinitely.
B) Find the secret crush, tell them about your friend, and laugh laugh laugh.
C) Decide you like that same person now and your friend needs to back off.
D) Trade the information with a few friends for even juicier dirt.


3. Someone takes your seat at the regular lunch table. You:
A) Steal their Izze and call them the B-word.
B) Respectfully take your seat with the weirdos.
C) Burst into tears and hideout in the bathroom.
D) Find a teacher and share this tragic tale.


4. After you bomb your math test, you:
A) Hit the books hard and hire a tutor.
B) Tell your mom that the teacher is bad and you can't concentrate in class because the others kids are so ill-behaved.
C) Laugh and show all of your friends. Being dumb is hilarious!
D) Don't even realize it because you don't know what 15/40 makes.


5. Someone at the lunch table brings egg salad. You:
A) Say EWWWWWWW THAT IS SO GROSS YOU ARE SO WEIRD!
B) Ask for a bite.
C) Ask how many calories are in egg salad.
D) Politely ask this person to relocate.


6. You are called out in class for inappropriate behavior. You:
A) Give the teacher the dirtiest look you can muster; that'll teach her for calling you out.
B) Apologize quietly and refocus.
C) Ask to use the restroom, then go text your mom that your teacher is harassing you AGAIN.
D) Cry.


Scoring:
Q1: A-3, B-4, C-2, D-1; Q2: A-1, B-4, C-3, D-2; Q3: A-4, B-1, C-3, D-2; Q4: A-1, B-4, C-3, D-2; Q5: A-4, B-1, C-2, A-3; Q6: A-3, B-1, C-4, D-2


Results:
19-24 points: You are a JENNIFER. When things don't go your way, you tell your mom and she makes it right. No one can stop you from getting what's yours. Also, you think boys are cute.

13-18 points: You are a KENDRA. You are in it to win it. And no one can stop you -- except probably Jennifer because she is kind of scary. I mean, you're totally going to invite her to your sleepover this weekend, because she is so funny, but you probably will hide some of the personal stuff in your room before she gets there. Just in case.

10-12 points: You are a DEENA. You just want to blend in to the menagerie of junior high. You don't totally get what's going on all of the time, and sometimes people yell at you, but overall you're satisfied to lay low and watch anime videos on YouTube. You are also on a diet.

6-9 points: You are an ELLIE. You know that life doesn't end in middle school, and you've got your eyes on the prize: adulthood! All you need to get there are straight A's and constant affirmation from your teachers. If an adult says you're smart, then it must be true, for the next ten minutes. After those ten minutes are up, you'll need to check back in with them to make sure you are still smart.

Teacher Diaries: ZAP!

Have you guys ever played the ZAP game? I'm guessing no?

If you have, I apologize because this is going to be boring for you to read. You should probably just send it to five of your friends to read instead.

ZAP is a great game that middle schoolers play to be mean and embarrass one another. Here's how it works: I grab your hand and begin to write on the palm of it. I do this because I have romantic feelings for you that I can't quite understand. But I don't want you to know this, so I act as though the only reason I am touching your hand is to write on it and play ZAP.

On your palm, I write the name of a person we both know. On the back of your hand, I write a time. If your look at the name on your palm before the time written on the back -- you have to ask that person out! OMG forever!

Of course, I will not write the name of anyone desirable on your hand. I could not risk the idea of your actually asking them out and meaning it! What about my vague and confusing feelings for you? What about those????

No no, it would be much better to write the name of someone weird on your hand so that you will look at me and we can laugh and laugh and look into each others eyes and I can feel those feelings some more.

And as for that "weird" person I have chosen, they get to be laughed at and potentially even fake asked-out for our entertainment. Isn't that so funny? Being thirteen is so cool! We will all look back on these days and feel proud of our behavior!

Clearly I do not have a future in hand modeling.

So clearly this is not something that I, the real adult me, support. I do, however, marvel at the tireless and timeless efforts of middle schoolers to make each other feel badly. Why is that? When I was in middle school, my very best friends and I would play a game called "Salt in the Wound." Sounds really fun, right? Well it wasn't. We would sit in a circle, and one-by-one tell each other things we didn't like about each other. One time someone actually brought a bag of salt.

"Salt in the Wound" always ended with one girl crying in the hallway and another girl comforting her saying "Well I didn't say anything about you . . ." and then those two would slowly strengthen their alliance until they were strong enough to bring down someone else with some major wound-saltening. And then the cycle would repeat itself.

This is what we did for fun.

So in conclusion, be glad that most of us have successfully blocked out our middle school years. And even though they are atrocious human beings, be nice to middle schoolers because they are definitely not nice to each other. We must show them the way.

I am a preacher.

What's Hot With the Kids These Days.

As a teacher and a mother, I am constantly surrounded by today's young people. It sounds awful, I know -- and it is awful -- but it does keep my finger on the pulse of what's hip these days. For example, were you wondering what's hip with 2-4 year old boys these days? Well I'll tell you: it's Paw Patrol. Paw Patrol is so hot right now it's on fire.

The boy pictured above is named Ryder, and he has adopted these six talented dogs to help him work off his community service hours (I assume). They all have specific talents, except Ryder, and together they complete various community service projects around their hometown of Adventure Bay. 

If you are a small child and not living under a rock -- this show is your everything.

Now, if you are 12-14 years old, Paw Patrol is, like, so stupid. You would much prefer to spend your time watching YouTube videos. 

My students often request I play YouTube videos in class, and sometimes -- after I vet their selection to make sure it doesn't have anything that will get me in trouble -- I will indulge these requests as a "special treat." (We are not allowed to give out candy anymore.)

Anyway, today I played this weird cat video under just such circumstances, and it killed. Every kid, even the too-cool-for-school kids, loved it. So apparently that is what is hip to tweenagers these days.

You're welcome.

Are you smarter than a seventh grader?

Is it just me, or is studying grammar really, really fun?

Oh, it is just me? Okay. That's cool.

All week I have been teaching grammar in my class. It will come as no surprise to you that twelve-year-olds are not super-into the topic. Me, I love it. I love writing long, clear sentences that use punctuation in such a way that makes them fun -- if not downright delightful -- to read.

Were you taught grammar in school? Did you diagram sentences? Did you have to write pages and pages of notes on comma rules, FANBOYS, and subordinate clauses that you still keep in your closet and reference from time to time? Me too!!!

Well, let's see what you remember. Are you ready? I wrote you a quiz! If you ace it, you can come to my school and teach because, to be honest, I'm not getting very far.


                                         THE LAZY STAND-UP GRAMMAR QUIZ

1. Many students don't know jack about grammar.

In this sentence, the word "jack" is used as a:

A) noun
B) verb
C) adjective
D) adverb


2. Often, I want to poke my own eyes out while teaching seventh graders about grammar.

In this sentence, the word "out" is used as a:

A) conjunction
B) interjection
C) preposition
D) pronoun


3. What is a pronoun?

A) a professional noun
B) a person who supports noun's rights
C) a word that stands in place of a noun
D) stupid


4. When a noun isn't "proper," it's called a __________ noun.

A) rude
B) a total ass
C) ill-mannered
D) common


5. I fully expect twenty students to egg my house on Halloween due to the grammar unit.

In this sentence, the word "twenty" is used as a:

A) noun
B) verb
C) adjective
D) adverb


6. When I ask my students how they're doing, a grammatically-correct response would be:

A) Good!
B) Well!
C) Bad!
D) We no like you!


7. What is wrong with this sentence?

Each of my students love circling nouns and underlining verbs for thirty minutes.

A) It is inherently untrue
B) It lacks subject-verb agreement
C) It is not funny; this blog is supposed to be funny
D) It ends in a preposition





Answers: 1-A, 2-C, 3-C, 4-D, 5-C, 6-B, 7-B

What the kids are into

I'm sure you're already all over this, but this is what all the kids are singing/talking about these days. It's a big deal for middle-schoolers.

I don't want you to feel left out.

Mobile users click here.

Just not lest ye be judged on a stranger's blog.

We've all had moments where we've behaved in a way that would embarrass us later on in life. All of us. Don't act like you haven't. Stop it. You have.

For many of us, the majority of this unflattering behavior occurs during a time called "pre-teenager/teenager." It's expected and even somewhat tolerated during this time. However, the further a person gets from teenager time, the less accepted the ridiculous behavior becomes.

Case in point: This weekend at a baseball game I saw a grown man tear up his cash in front of a hot dog vendor to show his dissatisfaction with the vendor's slow service. To be clear: he tore up his own money.

The man was probably in his late-fifties/early-sixties, and the number one thing I felt was embarrassed for him. It was awkward and uncomfortable. I remember thinking: I can probably use this on my blog.

Of course, who knows the kind of night that guy was having. His team was down two runs, I will give him that. Maybe that vendor was actually an old arch-nemesis and he was just trying to return some money and bury the hatchet after the mining accident in Bulgaria, but when the guy blew him off, he was just like "Forget this!" and tore up the money.

You never know. 

I can say without question that I would not enjoy random strangers analyzing my stupid behavior on their blogs, or in their homes, or anywhere. But I'm sure it's happened. Especially because once I fell off a treadmill at the gym.

It's safe to say that, at one time or another, perfect strangers have sat around and told stories about something you did or said in public. Hopefully it was just a short little anecdote and not a story they tell every year at Thanksgiving.


A friend once told me a story about something that happened to her in high school (during the teenager time). She was getting ready for school one day, listening to radio, when the deejay started telling a story about a girl he'd seen in the mall the day before.

Apparently this girl was a real brat, yelling at her mother for not buying her a particular shirt. The deejay mentioned the store name, and the time of day, and described the atrocious behavior of the girl in hilarious detail.

It was my friend. The one in the story. She was listening to a stranger make fun of her on the radio. She knew it was her: the store, the time of day, the shirt . . . it was unquestionably her. She turned off the radio and never told anyone for a long, long time.

And then I told all of you. Because it's a good story.

So what do you think? Is someone out there telling a story about you right now? I bet that hot dog guy is telling a story about me . . . the nerve. 

Last Word

Remember when having sleepovers with your friends was the most fun thing ever? Hanging out all night, eating breakfast together -- it was the pinnacle of a good time.

I wasn't allowed to have sleepovers until I was six, and my first few attempts at sleeping at friends' houses ended with my mom picking me up at 10PM. I just didn't like not sleeping at home. Sleepovers were really fun up until the point where the other person drifted peacefully to sleep in their own bed with their own stuff and their own parents nearby, and I laid there on the trundle feeling wide awake and not peaceful at all. 

Eventually I got over this problem, because I was older, and more mature, and didn't want people to make fun of me after I left. But my least favorite part of the sleepover was still the part where the other people fell asleep and I did not. (Apparently it takes me longer to fall asleep than anyone else in the world. Ever.)

It usually went the same way. We would be talking about something, and then I would say something and there would be no response because the other person was asleep. This was followed by that creepy feeling of talking to yourself, and no matter your last statement had been, hanging there in the air with no one to hear it, it felt like the stupidest thing you ever said. Example, circa 1995:

ME: That "Can't Hardly Wait" is so funny.

FRIEND: Yeah, I loved it.

ME: We should go see it again.

FRIEND: Yeah.

ME: Jennifer Love Hewitt is really pretty.

FRIEND:   -------------------------

Well great. Now the last thing I said was "Jennifer Love Hewitt is really pretty" which sounds weird, and I'm not sure if my friend is asleep or if she is just so uncomfortable with my sudden profession of love for JLH that she doesn't know how to respond. Now I am just going to lay here thinking about what a stupid thing that was to say for the rest of the night. 

I got so paranoid about having the last word at sleepovers that I started dropping out of conversations early and pretending to be asleep. This gave me the unique opportunity of listening to other people have the last word and that weird period self-consciousness that would follow it. 

Occasionally I would feel badly and come back, responding to them to keep the conversation going for a little while. But having just had a close-call, the other person would inevitably fall asleep as fast as she could, leaving me with the last word once again. Thus I learned: show no mercy. 

Nowadays I have a sleepover every night with my spouse, but the last word is not a concern. We usually just say "good night" and go to sleep simultaneously because sleep is like a rare, precious jewel neither of us wants to waste.

But I am always the last to fall asleep. 

Scuffgate

I mentioned my high school trip to Spain yesterday and it brought back some memories. I realized there is a story from that trip that is perfect for the tone of this blog; meaning it's embarrassing and about me.

My high school organized a trip for students taking Spanish to go to España as a way to learn first-hand all about the culture. For the first half we stayed with host families, and for the second half we traveled around and stayed in hotels. It was awesome.

My friend Mary and I were assigned to the same host family. While we were staying there, we embraced the experience by hiding in our bedroom and speaking in English to each other. Sometimes, we would go to the homes of our friends' host families and hide in their bedrooms and speak in English to them. It was muy bueno.

One afternoon, Mary and I were hanging out at our friends' host family's home, having a great time. We were sharing stories about various uncomfortable interactions and communication gaps we'd been experiencing, when someone said something so funny that I fell off the bed laughing.

Prior to falling off, I had been lying on the bed with my shoes up on the wall. [Because that's polite.] So when I rolled off the bed and onto the floor, the black sole of my running shoe left a long, black, scuff mark down their clean, white, Spanish wall.

It was a problem.

We knew the mark was bad, and we went to work trying to get it off. I don't remember what methods we tried specifically, but I am sure they were stupid. Nothing was working, so someone tried to gently scratch it off with the hard side of a toothbrush. (Because when you scuff someone's wall, what you want to do is damage it further, to show them you MEAN IT.)

Eventually, we attempted a lame cover up with some awkwardly-placed pillows and got out of there. We were leaving soon, so maybe they wouldn't notice . . . ?

Well they noticed. And they were mad. Consequently my friends were mad at me because their host-parents were yelling at them in Spanish while I was back at my host family's eating delicious paella.

A couple of days later, we were on the bus getting ready to leave the city of Salamanca and our beleaguered host families when my friends came to tell me that their host mother wanted to see me. They said she wanted to tell me that it was okay, and not to feel too badly about the scuff mark. She wanted to make peace.

I got off the bus and went to find the woman. She flagged me down, and said hello. I said "Hola" and then, to be extra charming, I added: "Lo siento mucho." 

What happened next is a little blurry, but I can tell you she screamed at me in Spanish for a while. I didn't catch most of it, because it was more complicated than what we'd been learning in school. (Why wasn't "You are a spoiled American brat and your parents should be ashamed" on our useful phrases sheet?)

Once they noticed what was happening, one of my teachers stepped in and ushered me back onto the bus. There, in typical annoying-teenage fashion, I was met with hoots and hollers and general peer approval. It was great. I went around the rest of the trip, intentionally scuffing famous historical landmarks and various Platha Mayors. I told you this story was embarrassing.

When I got back to the US and told my own mother the story, she informed me that we could have just rubbed off the scuff mark with our fingers.

Now I know for next time. And now you know for when this exact same thing happens to you.

Final Countdown

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I wish I could write more about my job. I really wish I could. But in this world, writing about other people’s children without their knowledge in a public forum seems unadvisable. I bet in Europe I could get away with it.

Generally speaking, it’s the end of the year and that means that my days are filled with insanity and nonsense. It’s quite invigorating. Teaching the last weeks of May is like following a tornado down a narrow hallway of Grecian urns without letting any of them fall. And the tornado is wearing short-shorts.

Here is what I say all day long:

“Please don’t do that.”

“Please put that down.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“That’s not appropriate.”

“Who let you wear that to school?”

“Sir Mixalot is a lyrical genius, but please stop singing ‘I Like Big Butts.’”

Then I get home and I say these things:

“Do you have to go potty?”

“Please stop screaming, my love.”

“Will you take him?”

“Please take him, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“No really, I have to go. I’m not just going to hide in there and look at my phone.”

“I know I just went ten minutes ago.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t hear the toilet flush. I flushed it.”

“Fine just give me the baby.”

Here's a question: what do you find yourself saying all day long?

Pop Quiz

Put everything away except for a pencil; it’s time for a quiz. I’m going to need complete silence until everyone is finished. Please be respectful of your classmates. Here we go:

WHERE DO I WORK?

1) Yesterday everyone lost bathroom privileges after someone dumped the contents of a garbage can in the toilet.

A) Prison

B) Middle School

2) 20 minutes of work time were lost when someone farted [twice].  

A) Pre-School

B) Middle School

3) A mysterious person has been popping jelly packets on the floor every day for a week.

A) Mental Hospital

B) Middle School

How did you do? Check back later for answers.

 

This one's for Whoopi.

 

There comes a point in every attention-deprived child's life where he or she makes a great discovery; a wonderful secret kept from them by mean adults who don't want it getting out. For me, it happened in the sixth grade, during a school-wide Mass to honor the feast of Mary. I was standing there, thinking of the Blessed Virgin and her grace-filled ways, when it hit me like a Tearjerker from the back of the school bus: Getting in trouble with teachers was funny, and kids like kids who are funny. I could get in trouble and be funny!

We were singing the hymn “Hail Holy Queen.” You may be familiar with this song because you are:
A) Catholic and probably related to me, or
B) a fan of the iconic Whoopi Goldberg.

Whoopi's hilarious turn as lounge-singer-posing-as-a-nun in the 1992 comedy “Sister Act” was nothing short of genius, and at that moment it gave me the inspiration to turn my life around. Maybe I wasn’t the coolest kid in school. Maybe I wasn’t the prettiest. But I could be funny. I could be brave. I could be like Whoopi. 

In the movie, Whoopi helps the struggling church choir by beefing up their repertoire, taking hymns like “Hail Holy Queen” and making them rock-and-roll gospel songs.  [This is achieved in part by adding lots of “whoa-whoas” and “ooh-oohs” between lyrics.] If you haven’t seen the movie; do. It’s a classic.

Always a Whoopi fan, I’d seen the movie and its sequel, “Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit” a few times. And I saw an opportunity within the music choice of Mass that day. While the rest of the school sang with the quiet dignity of a repressed Catholic, I tentatively started adding in some whoa-oh-oh's. I heard a few giggles, so I got more aggressive. Before too long my bee-bops and scats went beyond the tidy path Whoopi had laid out for me. I lost my inhibition and ran with the thrill of being supported by my peers. I was like that quiet, nerdy nun who suddenly busts out with an awesome voice! Minus the awesome voice.

Naturally, there were consequences to my actions.

At my grade school, at least in the 1990’s, if a student acted inappropriately, he or she first received a warning. If the behavior continued, the offending student was sent to “The Support Room.” This was a room where, as you would assume, the student was supported.

In this case, being supported involved sitting at an old-fashioned study carol and filling out a slip of paper detailing your crime. The school librarian would watch you disapprovingly, and after ten minutes you were sent back to class to have the paper signed by your teacher. That night, your parent would sign the paper. Then you would bring it back to school, where your teacher would probably throw it away.

This process was meant to make you feel so deeply ashamed that you would never do anything so terrible ever again.

But, if for some reason the devil had made camp in your soul and you were impervious to disgrace thus earning more visits to the support room for hilarious musical antics, “Lunch in Solitude” was the next step. [Exactly what it sounds like, only worded more pretentiously.] Believe me, after eating your PB&J alone in a classroom, you'd be begging for mercy.

Buuuuut, if for some reason you continued to act out and embarrass your Lord and Savior by getting sent to the support room and assigned multiple lunch-in-solitudes, then . . . they were out of ideas. Case closed. You were a hopeless, godless, heathen. And SO popular.

Just like Whoopi.

Why I hate President Lyndon B. Johnson

from smithsonianmag.com

I know a lot of people have a favorite president. Scratch that. I know a lot of nerds have a favorite president. But I have a least-favorite president, and that president is Lyndon B. Johnson.

First of all, what kind of name is Lyndon? A stupid kind, that’s what.

Second of all, he wasn’t even elected. So there.

Third of all, to the best of my Wikipedia-based knowledge, it was Lyndon B. Johnson who officially initiated the mandatory Presidential Fitness Test for all school-aged children. What an ass.

Prior to the Presidential Fitness Test, no one in my class knew I couldn’t do the sit-and-reach. It was private. That was my business. But then, because of some dumb president’s idea of fitness, I had to lean slightly forward in front of everyone while my gym teacher looked at me with disgust and wrote "-6 inches" on his uppity clipboard. And that was just the beginning.

The shuttle run? Are you kidding? Torturous. Trying to pick up those erasers and quickly run the other way was impossible; and for the record, I have yet to encounter another situation in my life where I’ve needed to do anything similar.

Then there were the pull-ups. Guess how many pull-ups I could do. Zero. I would just hang there until the teacher said I could get down. And even then my hands really hurt.

But the worst of all of these was the mile run.

I run now, by choice, multiple miles at a time. On rare occasions, I actually enjoy it. But in grade school, running a mile was an insurmountable feat. I would have anxiety dreams weeks in advance: the thirst, the side-aches, my classmates lapping me again and again. It was horrible. Twice a year these nightmares would come true. There was no escape … or so I thought.

When I was in 4^th grade, God Himself smiled down upon me and blessed me with a little condition called “Allergy-induced cough-asthma.” It was like having asthma, only more awesome.  Essentially, in the fall and spring (fitness-test season) I would start having coughing attacks when I exerted myself physically. It wasn’t a congested cough, it was like the sound of a dog barking. It sounded awful and was a little painful, but on the day we ran the mile, that cough was like a choir of angels singing sweet hymns in my lungs. Because to treat said coughing-attacks, I needed an inhaler. 

Inhalers are kryptonite to gym teachers. Children with inhalers are automatically exempt from any physical activity they do not wish to participate in. Sometimes it’s legitimate; sometimes it’s crap, but the gym teacher can’t argue. So to have that powerful tool in my possession was miraculous. When we jogged out to the field to run the mile, I would start barking and reach for my trusty puffer: Hey teach, maybe it would be best if I just picked dandelions with the other asthma kids today. Don't want to risk my health! 

It’s not that I don’t believe in physical fitness. I do, especially for children. But I am not sure this type of public testing is helping anyone, other than the kids who are already fit. You’re really thin and athletic? Here is a certificate! You’re not thin or athletic? No certificate for you. Aaaand done. 

Instead, how about training and support for the kids who don't pass? They could set goals for improvement; like, hey, next time let’s shoot for negative four on the sit-and-reach! Or, next time see if you do the shuttle run without crying! Yay, you did it!

Then again I haven’t been in gym class since 1997, so these changes may already be in place. But the fact remains that Lyndon B. Johnson is on my list.

Musical Theater Part II: WHY I WILL NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, JUMP ONTO ANYTHING. EVER.

[For Part I click here.]

My sophomore year of high school we did “Guys and Dolls.” In comparison to my audition for Bye Bye Birdie, I sang something less awkward but equally off-key, and was again cast in the chorus. I made it on-stage this time, thankfully, but humiliation came in a new form: I was cast as a guy. That is, a guy, not a doll. I was cast as a guy. Are you getting that? I was a guy in “Guys and Dolls.” It was a complete blow to my sense of femininity. While the other girls would be “Hot Box Dancers” dressed in frilly costumes, I went shopping for a suit coat and tie with my mother. 

There was an upside to being a guy in the play – I got to be in guy scenes, one of which was elaborate and required several hours of rehearsal with all of the cool boys that I liked. It was not a bad way to spend an evening.

At the beginning of "the crap game" dance, my job was to stand on the top of two large, wooden boxes painted to look like sewer pipes. When the music started I would jump (with flair) down onto another box, and then to the floor to start shooting craps with my fellow gamblers. It was simple and elegant, exactly how you imagine high-school theater.

One day in rehearsal I was jumping from box one to box two (with flair), when box two suddenly collapsed beneath me. I fell knee-deep into the broken wood and face-first onto the stage. It was incredibly painful. My knees were bleeding, there were splinters involved, and every person (keep in mind mostly male) stopped and stared in shock. I don’t remember whether or not they tried to stifle their laughter. Mercifully, I blocked the next thirty minutes out and the next thing I remember was being at home with bandages all over my legs.

The next day our director called me out of class and informed me that the box was built improperly and that is was not my fault it broke. Um, thanks? Apparently this was so important that I had to be called out of class to hear it. Maybe he was afraid I would sue. (I should have sued!) But litigation was not my concern at the time. I was consumed with the fear that it wasn't the slipshod the carpentry of a junior set-designer, but rather my own body weight that took down the box. Who could know for sure? No one. NO ONE! 

It should be clear by now that I am not totally over this. I bet someone out there is writing a blog write now about the time a chunky girl broke through the set during Guys and Dolls rehearsal and how he'll never forget how hilarious it was and how stupid she looked. If you read that story somewhere, please let me know.

Actually, please don't.

On My Own

When you go see a play, do you like it when the actors come into the house and down the aisles and get really close to you? I am guessing you don’t, because no one does. It’s weird and uncomfortable and it makes you never want to go see a play ever again.

I don’t know why directors do this. Maybe they had a failed acting career and now they hate audiences. Or maybe they have too many actors to fit on stage. Or maybe some of the actors aren’t talented/attractive enough to be lit by stage lights, so they are better placed in the semi-dark of the house.

Or maybe, as was the case with my high school director in the 1996 production of “Bye Bye Birdie,” it was all three of these reasons combined. 

As a ninth grader, I auditioned for Bye-Bye Birdie with high hopes. I showed up with a song prepared: “On My Own” from my musical obsession: Les Miserables. I was weirdly obsessed with the character of Eponine – a tragic girl desperately loves a guy who only sees her as a friend because maybe she wasn’t that pretty or popular or well-dressed.

If you don’t know the song, it is beautiful and awful at the same time. I can only imagine how many times high school directors have had to listen to homely girls use it for auditions; they must keep a tally. Even now, I can hear my voice quaver with nerves as I slowly made everyone in that room uncomfortable with my raw display of emotion.  In retrospect I am unspeakably embarrassed.

I was not cast in a speaking role, but rather as a background character in the song “Telephone Hour.” [Not a too bad, considering.] However, since there were so many students in the show, I was actually not allowed to dance on stage. Instead, I was directed to dance in the bleachers. Not like “part of the set” bleachers, but actual bleachers. Our theater was in a multi-purpose gym.

This was a little off-putting. Not only because I was no longer technically in the scene, but also because it is kind of hard to dance on bleachers.  To add insult to injury, on opening night they forgot to turn on the lights on the bleachers. I ended up singing and doing the grapevine in the dark. I mean, not that anyone was looking. Those who did were probably like “Wow, that girl is really into this musical, dancing over there in the dark like she’s in the show.”

As I write this I feel like I must be exaggerating, but weirdly I am not. This happened. And it’s not even the worst thing that happened during my high school musical career. That is a story for another time.