Barbie, class-cutting, PROM plans.
For Valentine's Day I bought candy and 3rd-grade Barbie valentines to pass out. I gave Mr. W. the big, oversized, special "teacher valentine," of which there was only one. Yesterday he showed the class that he has been keeping it in the clear plastic window of his everywhere-folder, saying that each time he opens it he thinks of me. <3. It's this big, bright, hot pink rectangle with Barbie telling the world that Mr. W. is not only "fun" but "fabulous." (The day I gave it to him, Mr. R. told me after school that Mr. W. had been highly amused and showing it off to the English teachers. Rock on!)
Later yesterday, I had English, but there was a lot of discombobulating miscommunication over whether we go to our classroom, or the computer lab two floors up, or what. The class wound up confusedly walking around the sixth building, and as they did, Jason said, "Come on, let's go say hi to Mr. H.!" whose classroom is on the third floor. So Jason, Brett, and I ran down the hallway into Mr. H.'s room. (He used to be my and Jason's physics teacher and Brett knows him from robotics; he's a really, really fun guy.) We sat there in empty seats like perfectly good students for a full five minutes as Mr. H. joked around with students (notice I didn't say "teaching students.) Mr. H. didn't seem to notice his extra students at all. "He totally doesn't even see us!" I giggled to Jason, and then, finally, Mr. H. said, "Okay class, open up your notebooks. I'm going to ask a few random students -- picked totally at random -- to put last night's homework on the board. Okay, ready," he closed his eyes and moved his finger around the attendance sheet. "Ready, okay . . . Jason . . . Becky . . . Brett. Go put your homework on the board." We got up in front of the baffled class and wrote on the board. I wrote, "Mr. H.'s first name is Maurice," because it is, and then I wrote "GO RED SOX" just to tick him off. Then we left and went to English, totally late.
So anyway, it's that time again . . . the time when seniors of every corner of American Suburbia start washing their hands in midair in greasy, avarice-ridden anticipation of how they'll empty their Mommies' and Daddies' bank accounts via hairspray, bland dinners, and really long cars.
I'm talking about Prom. Prom!
Once I finally had a date (Jason, quite literally the Horton to my Gertrude), I started asking him and random people, "Are you in my limo? What are we doing? What's going on?" Monica told me that people had been including me in their plans since December. "Oh my Gosh!" I said. "I feel so loved and confused!" Seriously though, that makes me happy that people were thinking about me.
No offense to Nick, but I always thought getting an afterprom house in the Hamptons was ridiculous, decadent, silly, exorbitant, unimaginative, tragically northshore, and unappealing. But now that it's time for my prom . . . I'm sorta into the idea. (For my non-Long Island readers: a lot of kids on Long Island go out to the Hamptons as their afterproms and spend the entire weekend leading to graduation getting drunk and laid.) Okay, so maybe I wouldn't be so "into the idea" if several people in my limo hadn't mentioned their cousins' friends' cousins uncles who "can get us a house for like, thirty dollars a person." Now that it's cheap, I'm likin' it! (Case in point: I bought my prom outfit -- not a dress -- at Salvation Army for $2.99.)
So my limo buddies and I have been discussing the whole prom thing, which is confusing because some of our friends are taking abustoanother state, and Jason is going tothat afterprom butthe bus people might have to do ourafterprombecausetheirparentswouldn'twantthe . . .
Breathe.
If you've ever attempted to plan a prom/afterprom, you understand why I connected some of those sentences in an effort to convey the amazing confusion that comes along with such a task. Trying to explain it to my parents last night, I had to diagram it in green colored pencil on a napkin. With regard to the whole house issue, some people have connections to Hamptons homes and Fire Island homes that could save some cash, which is always delicious. This afternoon, Lindsay passed me in the hallway and shouted only, "What do you think about Montauk?" "Sure," I shouted back. That was our whole conversation. Now, another friend is in another limo (actually, a bus), but his parents are against the bus's afterprom for its chaperone-less sleepovering. So now it looks like he might join us in his parents' Hamptons house, on the condition that his mom stays with us. Everyone's pretty cool with that.
My parents have the same attitude as his parents though.
Rawr!!! I just don't understand it. "If Ms. K. is indeed staying with you guys, it's fine," Mom said. "But your father and I are not! allowing you to stay overnight with no parents." I'm trying to understand. Perfectly reasonably, I asked why, and all Mom said was, "We trust you, we just don't trust the situation." What!? What does that even mean? Are they afraid that my limo's teetotalers (many of the kids in my limo don't drink) are going to start downing 80-Proof just to spite my parents? Or maybe they assume that my Salvation Army outfit will be so alluring that Brett, whose family my parents have been trusting of and close with ever since Brett and I met in Sunday school, will lose control and rape me.
My mom started going on about how many Hamptons communities don't want afterprom activities taking place there anymore. "Okaaaaay, so that's their problem," I said. "What does that have to do what we're discussing?" I kept telling my parents, very respectfully, that I want to discuss this with both of them.
"Okay," Mom replies, "but Dad and I are not budging on this."
"I think . . . what I'm trying to say, Mom, is that I'd be more okay with your decision if I understood it more clearly." (I'm being very diplomatic.) "What about the situation don't you trust? Can you just provide me with some examples please?"
"We'll discuss this later," Mom says.
Just because this is my LiveJournal and I can be as rude as I want: Don't become a lawyer, Mom. You're really not all that convincing.
Then again, maybe they're afraid that if we get a house in the Hamptons we'll get crashed into by Billy Joel. Understandable.
Sincerely,
Becky "Hammy the Hampton Hamster" L.
Later yesterday, I had English, but there was a lot of discombobulating miscommunication over whether we go to our classroom, or the computer lab two floors up, or what. The class wound up confusedly walking around the sixth building, and as they did, Jason said, "Come on, let's go say hi to Mr. H.!" whose classroom is on the third floor. So Jason, Brett, and I ran down the hallway into Mr. H.'s room. (He used to be my and Jason's physics teacher and Brett knows him from robotics; he's a really, really fun guy.) We sat there in empty seats like perfectly good students for a full five minutes as Mr. H. joked around with students (notice I didn't say "teaching students.) Mr. H. didn't seem to notice his extra students at all. "He totally doesn't even see us!" I giggled to Jason, and then, finally, Mr. H. said, "Okay class, open up your notebooks. I'm going to ask a few random students -- picked totally at random -- to put last night's homework on the board. Okay, ready," he closed his eyes and moved his finger around the attendance sheet. "Ready, okay . . . Jason . . . Becky . . . Brett. Go put your homework on the board." We got up in front of the baffled class and wrote on the board. I wrote, "Mr. H.'s first name is Maurice," because it is, and then I wrote "GO RED SOX" just to tick him off. Then we left and went to English, totally late.
So anyway, it's that time again . . . the time when seniors of every corner of American Suburbia start washing their hands in midair in greasy, avarice-ridden anticipation of how they'll empty their Mommies' and Daddies' bank accounts via hairspray, bland dinners, and really long cars.
I'm talking about Prom. Prom!
Once I finally had a date (Jason, quite literally the Horton to my Gertrude), I started asking him and random people, "Are you in my limo? What are we doing? What's going on?" Monica told me that people had been including me in their plans since December. "Oh my Gosh!" I said. "I feel so loved and confused!" Seriously though, that makes me happy that people were thinking about me.
No offense to Nick, but I always thought getting an afterprom house in the Hamptons was ridiculous, decadent, silly, exorbitant, unimaginative, tragically northshore, and unappealing. But now that it's time for my prom . . . I'm sorta into the idea. (For my non-Long Island readers: a lot of kids on Long Island go out to the Hamptons as their afterproms and spend the entire weekend leading to graduation getting drunk and laid.) Okay, so maybe I wouldn't be so "into the idea" if several people in my limo hadn't mentioned their cousins' friends' cousins uncles who "can get us a house for like, thirty dollars a person." Now that it's cheap, I'm likin' it! (Case in point: I bought my prom outfit -- not a dress -- at Salvation Army for $2.99.)
So my limo buddies and I have been discussing the whole prom thing, which is confusing because some of our friends are taking abustoanother state, and Jason is going tothat afterprom butthe bus people might have to do ourafterprombecausetheirparentswouldn'twantthe . . .
Breathe.
If you've ever attempted to plan a prom/afterprom, you understand why I connected some of those sentences in an effort to convey the amazing confusion that comes along with such a task. Trying to explain it to my parents last night, I had to diagram it in green colored pencil on a napkin. With regard to the whole house issue, some people have connections to Hamptons homes and Fire Island homes that could save some cash, which is always delicious. This afternoon, Lindsay passed me in the hallway and shouted only, "What do you think about Montauk?" "Sure," I shouted back. That was our whole conversation. Now, another friend is in another limo (actually, a bus), but his parents are against the bus's afterprom for its chaperone-less sleepovering. So now it looks like he might join us in his parents' Hamptons house, on the condition that his mom stays with us. Everyone's pretty cool with that.
My parents have the same attitude as his parents though.
Rawr!!! I just don't understand it. "If Ms. K. is indeed staying with you guys, it's fine," Mom said. "But your father and I are not! allowing you to stay overnight with no parents." I'm trying to understand. Perfectly reasonably, I asked why, and all Mom said was, "We trust you, we just don't trust the situation." What!? What does that even mean? Are they afraid that my limo's teetotalers (many of the kids in my limo don't drink) are going to start downing 80-Proof just to spite my parents? Or maybe they assume that my Salvation Army outfit will be so alluring that Brett, whose family my parents have been trusting of and close with ever since Brett and I met in Sunday school, will lose control and rape me.
My mom started going on about how many Hamptons communities don't want afterprom activities taking place there anymore. "Okaaaaay, so that's their problem," I said. "What does that have to do what we're discussing?" I kept telling my parents, very respectfully, that I want to discuss this with both of them.
"Okay," Mom replies, "but Dad and I are not budging on this."
"I think . . . what I'm trying to say, Mom, is that I'd be more okay with your decision if I understood it more clearly." (I'm being very diplomatic.) "What about the situation don't you trust? Can you just provide me with some examples please?"
"We'll discuss this later," Mom says.
Just because this is my LiveJournal and I can be as rude as I want: Don't become a lawyer, Mom. You're really not all that convincing.
Then again, maybe they're afraid that if we get a house in the Hamptons we'll get crashed into by Billy Joel. Understandable.
Sincerely,
Becky "Hammy the Hampton Hamster" L.