It's So Flipping Cold Out.

It's always around this time of year that I begin to hate winter. It's not entirely that I'm out of things to do. No, there's plenty to do. In fact, I've comprised a list of things that I could do:

-Cross country skiing.

-Snultimate

-Ice skating

-Walking around aimlessly and see how much feeling I can lose in my extremities

-Hibernating with cocoa

-Studying

-Leveling up in the Frostbite game.

Clearly, most of these, with the exception of four, five, six and seven, are extremely limited when it gets to, say, below ten degrees.

There are all of those great public service people who come onto the morning news to talk about children's health and how easy it is to find great outdoor exercise for your kids, even in the winter. They lie. Unless you want your kids leveling up in the Frostbite Game. With the windchill today, it is thirty below. Owie. My hands felt crystallized after less than a one-minute walk from the door of the car to the door of the school.

When I was in eighth grade, I walked to and from school. In the spring and fall, I would even rollerblade the few winding blocks between my house and the school. In the winter, I would trek through the snowbanks, but only when I couldn't beg a ride from my parents (who, according to legend, were forced to walk to school with bare feet, uphill both ways with all of the neighborhood children on their backs). One day, unexpectedly, I was without a ride home, and so resorted to walking. Unfortunately, by some stroke of a universal loathing, this also happened to be the coldest day of the year. Twenty five degrees below zero, with the blistering windchill. And unfortunately for me, I not only was without mittens or a hat, but I also had to carry one of those big, bulky, tri-fold posters home. The idiot in me refused the offers of mittens from concerned teachers, and I trotted off in the direction of home. Well, halfway down the first street, the skin on my fingers clutching the posterboard were aching and pinching with the awful frigidness of the day. For another street or so, I transferred my hands, one holding onto the poster while the other balled up to try and regain warmth. This stopped working after awhile, and halfway between the school and home, I began to get frantic. Remembering that the air from my mouth is obviously heated more than the air outside, I began alternately stuffing as many of my fingers in my mouth as I could while trooping on, every step surging with a pinch of pain, because, of course, I also had no boots. To make matters worse, I didn't realize that as I was sticking my fingers in my mouth, I was also getting them wet, causing the cells in my finger tips to freeze more quickly. And so, as I embarked onto my home street, the home stretch, the final leg, I began to cry, certain that I wouldn't make it. My legs were tired and tingled with the cold, my feet numb, my fingers on that painful verge of numb that haunts nightmares- except for my thumbs, which sent me over that crying edge, because I couldn't feel them at all. I considered more than once just throwing my posterboard into a snowbank and fleeing home, but it was a very important project, and I wasn't about to let it go to waste.

And so, I cannot imagine what my mother might have thought when I finally arrived home. Unable to move my fingers enough to manage the doorknob, and too frozen to knock without pain, I pounded my forehead against the pane of the door.

What I must have looked like to her, a little fourteen year-old girl in a skirted uniform, nose and ears bright red, snot and tears running in tracks down my face that made hair stick to my skin, and fingers immobile, clutching a posterboard with the title, "Forensic Entomology".

So now you see, unless I find some remarkable change in personality that causes me to crave another level-up in the Frostbite Game, I have no other option but to hibernate inside.

Forgive me Play 60. But there's no way in Hell that I'm going outside...to Hell.

More OBE, or, Rosie the Riveter, or, You are Sixteen, Going on Seventeen.

I'm still filled with a good bout of OBE.

But it's not entirely detrimental to my state of being- in fact, it can be put to relatively good use. Which is why, on a Tuesday morning, I'm sitting with a list of eighteen places to apply for jobs. I'll be a big kid soon, it's time to enter the work force.

Yeah, Rosie, sure we can. But only after many hours of rigorous application filing and looking clean and professional and practicing firm handshakes (which, by the way, is something I've never gotten the hang of. It doesn't mean I'm a flimsy person- it just means that my fingers hurt). Yesterday at Petco (looking for a few rat supplies. More on that later), I went up, attempting my, "I am professional. Can't you read the words 'hire ME!' stamped across my forehead?" ploy for the first time, and asked, I thought very maturely, if they had applications available. The cashier looked at me for a second, and then informed me that it's all online, and, "You have to be eighteen to work here."

Oh. 'Kay then. Is it really that easy to tell that I'm not eighteen? It's not like as soon as I turn eighteen I'll magically be an adult, and capable of the rigors of working at Petco. Yeah, yeah, I know all of the legal stuff. There's probably some liability there just in case you get your head pecked to a nub by some parakeet (one of which, by the way, was loose at the time of my visit. They were running around with a net trying to catch it). But seriously. One year? When he said "eighteen", I almost threw myself on the ground and stomped my feet and almost shouted, "It's not fair!". Maybe that's the difference between sixteen and eighteen. Or sixteen and seventeen, take your pick. Oh well. So far, Tim Hortons looks like a good option. Also, Dunkin' Donuts and Charlotte Russe. I don't think I'm prissy enough for a job at Charlotte Russe, but it's worth a shot anyways.

Here goes nothing. Dive, dive, dive!

**On another very exciting note, it looks like my rattie adoption has been approved! Yaaay! I'm waiting for the official e-mail, but all signs say go. Hooray, for Madeline and Pimento!

Hey, Chemistry. Screw You.

Supposedly we had a vaction about a week ago, but I don't remember it.
Only one week back, and I've been swept up enough that I honestly cannot remember vacation clearly. This has been, by far, the longest week in months. Not that it's been horrible, although Chemistry (The Bain of My Existence) has been giving me a run for my money. Actually, it's sort of kicking my butt right now.
Supposedly this thing they call chemistry is the basis for all of life. But seriously. I've been breathing, running, and certainly alive without having to know any of this for the last seventeen years. I'm not concerned about the synthesis reactions that oxygen causes. My heart doesn't race for lewis structures, except sometimes out of fear.
They always say that as long as there are tests in school, there will be prayer in schools. Well, as long as there is chemistry in schools, there will be prayer, but also rage-inducing frustration, and rage-induced murder.
Not that my teacher isn't great. She's fabulous. But...significant digits? Why didn't you just say "Walk the plank"? It's so much more straight forward.

Winter and Germs and Collard Greens? Oh my, oh my.

Snow has fallen
and stayed fallen
blanketing the mud and green
covering up the cracks
and filling in the potholes
of the roads we crack and curve

Dear winter,
you're here
and so am I.





Thanksgiving break brought snowfall almost everyday. It's not quite enough to make legitimate snowbanks, but it's just a slight blanket over everything. It puts me in a good Christmas mood, which is nice, because there are plenty of seasonal things to do. Friday night will be our annual Classy Christmas Shopping, where we all head downtown to buy presents for each other locally (sneakily, because we all go together...to buy gifts for each other). This year we're making it a ladies night, because we decided not only that it would work better logistically (as in, we can get our gifts for the boys without them being around), but that boys are impatient shoppers. Downtown is not only a great place to shop for Christmas because it tends to be cheaper and much much more unique, as well as local, but because our downtown is so beautiful in the snow. The sun sets super early, so even when we go right after school, the streetlights come up to deter the falling dark and cast everything into a golden orange glow, the snow glistening nearby. Shopowners put up little lights in their windows and wreaths on their doors. The bagel shop puts out a menorah, and there's eggnog and cider enough to make everyone glad.

My beautiful city in the snow

We still haven't picked our collard greens, and I suppose now it's too late. They're a really hardy vegetable, okay to eat after the first frost. But after the first three snows, I'm not so sure.
With winter (which, by the way, is defined by the temperature and snowfall in Maine, not the date) comes a whole 'nother season, one much less pleasant. The season of SICK. Everyone around me has a cold or a flu, so I know that this tickle in the back of my throat has got to be something. Hellooo throatcoat.
I'm of the conviction that all of that crap about using Germ-x or whatever to clear away germs is a load of bullshit. You need germs to live long, and Germ-x doesn't actually kill anything unless you wash your hands right before. There are little hand sanitizer dispensers at places all around my school, and I just want to knock them down with a baseball bat. I mean, some of them make sense, like in the bathroom next to the paper towels. Although, the thought that a lot of girls then bypass actual handwashing for a squirt of alcohol on the palms of their hands is a little nasty. But sometimes, the dispensers are just holstered up in the middle of a hallway. What? Hold up guys, I've just gotta smear a glob of chemicals onto my hands before I walk into Spanish class.

It is time to bid adieu to my lovely bicycle, at least until next spring. Goodbye, dear. It's been a wonderful season.

This is Just to Say

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

- William Carlos Williams

This is Just to Say

I had injected

those plums,

which you had expected

to delight

your stomach,

with arsenic.

Forgive me,

but my

immunity has been built,

and you should

have known better

to leave someone else's plums

well enough alone.

---

This is just to say

just in case

those plums were a metaphor,

I too have eaten

The Plums.

Your two plums,

to be precise,

which you were

probably hoping

to indulge in

in the near future.

Sorry.

[In case you have failed to understand

the subtleties of my metaphorical sarcasm

in this note to you...]

I must tell you frankly.

Forgive me:

But you should take

better care of your Plums.

They were so rotten

and so bitter.

---

This is Just to Say

I stole your heart

last Friday night

even though

you were probably

trying to keep it

until you could

steal mine.

Forgive me.

It was so warm

and so flattering.

---

This is Just to Say

I stuck a marshmallow

on your back

in second grade.

Your mother was

probably mad

[definitely perplexed]

when the sticky goo

held on tight

to the fibers of your teeshirt.

So sorry.

But the look

on your face

when you found it later that night

was so sweet

and so gooey.

---

This is Just to Say

I redug the hole

in the middle of the park

after you had

filled it up,

probably because

you were scared

of being swallowed in

by its immense girth.

I am

so very sorry.

But forgive me,

because

I like that hole,

and I look at my feet

when I walk.

---

This is Just to Say

I found your note

concerning the plums.

Forgive me.

I cannot marry you.

And They Wonder Why My Hands Are Always Cold, or, Sometimes I Wish I Could Fly. I mean drive.

At some point, biking becomes inconvenient.
Up he'uh in Maine, yahknow, it getsah bit chilleh.
I know I haven't talked too much about biking since this summer, but I assure you, I'm still peddling around like a little girl on training wheels.
My house is conveniently located near, well, everything. I can easily access the grocery store, my thrift store, several outlets and little touristy cafes with just a ten minute bike ride. Which is cool and all. But it means my parents can hold out on my driver's license and not feel guilty.
Because biking around is good for me, right? Sure.
And I like it, right? Welll...
There are definitely times (i.e., this entire week) when I'd rather just have a car, no matter how awesome my bicycle is. It gets cold. Very cold. If any of you are from here, or have been up here, it really does get cold. It's not too bad yet, but it's been storming, and the wind has been enormous. Add onto that preexisting windchill the wind whipping past me as ride downhill to downtown, and it's a bit colder than one might enjoy.
Which is why I'm making a new invention. I'm going to call it the pope-icicle. The Popicle. Nope. The Popsicle.
It's modeled after the pope mobile, and involves a bell of warmth sheilding the bike rider from the outside world, so that one may bike ride in all of the comforts of summer. It comes complete with a synthesized springtime scene portrayed onto the surroundings. Tired of snow? Hop in your Popsicle and your winter woes will be cured!

Oh, I wish. Until then, I'll invest in a set of gloves so that my fingers will stop getting stuck to my frozen brake handles.

Updates on everything:
I am sitting here in my studly hall, the hall of studs (or, not so much. The hall of duds), and I am surrounded here, in the library, by level two science kids doing a project on atomic energy. One of them, two to my right, is incessantly smack, smack, smacking his gum, his lips, his mouth, his keyboard, and I just want to smack smack smack him in the head. CUT IT OUT!

Okay. Now that that's done with. I had my meeting with the superintendent last week. The issue about fundraising was a...misunderstanding. If I understood. As far as having our coach attend nationals, I got shut down. She basically just said no, because it's taxpayer money. Even if we paid for the substitute teacher. She said no.
Witch.
But not really. It's a difficult situation to be in as an administrator, and I get that. I'm just being a big baby, because I didn't get the answer I wanted, and want to just pound my fists on the floor.

Mr. Thirsty, or, why I hate the Dentist's Office.

Today, I went to the dentist. Now, let me start out by telling you that I pretty much detest going to the dentist. I hate having someone tug around the bottom of my teeth for an hour, poking and prodding and making my gums bleed. I abhor the way hygienists ask questions about school and life, and you either have to talk around their hands and tools, or hold up the proceedings to say, "I'm taking French four, Honors English, the lowest math class possible, chem-friggingstry, acting, music, and everything else". Yeah. The dentist's stopped being awesome after the treasure chest was closed to me, when I turned thirteen.

I've also had general bad luck when it comes to my dentists, as in the people. Multiple, because they tend to die or succumb to a similar fate. Maybe I'm being dramatic, but the first one did die, of being ancient, and the last one just had a stroke, so couldn't be a dentist anymore.
The situation is actually very tragic. He was a very sweet old man with big glasses and a balding head. At the end of every visit, he would shuffle into the room, and peer down into my mouth. I always liked the fact that I was able to see a clear reflection of the inside of my mouth in his glasses. It is far more entertaining to actually watch someone prodding and poking and stabbing around in your mouth than to just experience it. "Bite and smile", he would command. I chomped my teeth together and grinned for him. "Perfect. Beautiful teeth. You're so lucky." He said the same thing every time, unfailingly finding my dentures perfect and beautiful.
Well, then he stroked, and now I have a new dentist. Two new dentists actually. As opposed to my old dentist's office, which was just a team of one dentist and four hygienists, located in a little house, now I go to an office, with two dentists and God knows how many hygienists.
The first thing I noticed walking in was the smell of the office, sterile and rubbery, like latex lathered in hand sanitizer. The waiting room was uniform and neat. I filled out my forms, waited, and was scooted into a room.
I almost wish I could be a dentist someday so that I could fix one of the biggest issues present to mankind: Decor in doctor's and dentist's offices. Without fail, there's always one of the following:
-A mass produced Georgia O'Keefe print. Of a flower, obviously.
- Norman Rockwell. Clever and mildly entertaining.
-Other floral/scenic/quaint paintings. Always stomach-innards wretchingly boring.

My point is this: When you're sitting in the dentist or doctor's office for an hour, an hour and a half, there's never anything interesting to look at. This problem must be fixed, because I think it clearly causes depression (Fun fact: Dentists have the highest suicide rate of any occupation, closely followed by psychiatrists). The hygienist gave me a pair of HUGE, ugly sunglasses as I sat in the big victim's chair, telling me that they were for my eyes, so they didn't hurt in the bright light. Oh. Okay. The last time I had been handed sunglasses in the dentists office, I was eleven. Great.
But there was nowhere to put the sunglasses to reject them, and no polite way to put them aside without betraying what I was thinking, which was something along the lines of "I'm sixteen. I don't want these. I don't even want to be here. Please don't poke and prod, metaphorically and literally. Kay, thanks, bye."
She poked and prodded and scraped my teeth and gums for about thirty minutes. It was unbearable. By far, this is one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world. I especially hate it when they take that little hook and get it between your two middle bottom teeth, and tug. I'm always scared that they'll pull it out.
This new hygienist also didn't tell me to rinse when she polished my teeth. Instead, she used that sucky thing that pretty much sucks out your soul, and all the moisture in your mouth. It got me thinking- When you're younger, they tell you that it's called Mr. Thirsty. Obviously that's not actually what it's called. You're supposed to use it or ask for it for different procedures in the dentists office, but they never tell you it's real name, and no adult is going to say, "Can I use Mr. thirsty?"
I hate the dentists.

Go Fight City Hall, or At Least the Superintendent.

Tonight is the night of the gubernatorial debate, and it's going to be a long day. Tune in, if any of you get ABC.

Yesterday, Dad got an e-mail from our superintendent, concerning the letter I sent her. As far as I know, it said nothing besides requesting an "audience" (her word, not mine. It's an interesting choice of words, and it indicates and ego complex, if you ask me..) with myself, dad, and our principal (Mr. N). It took her three weeks to get back to me, and she didn't even get back to ME. I'm sorry, but if someone takes the time and trouble to send you a carefully planned letter, you ought to do your best to return the favor. It's not like she's celebrity status or anything. I'm sure she has more important things to worry about, but...really? I have to be a little offended that after proving that I am capable of thinking for myself and acting like an adult, I deserve to be treated like an adult.
So, the way I figure, this could go one of two ways:
1. Oh, shniekie, I'm in trouble. The superintendent wants us to drop the issue and just keep our heads down and do as we're told. Bad dog! Sit!
If this happens, of course, dad, as an employee, has to say "yes, ma'am". I think he's under the impression that that's what I'd say, too. But I'm not obligated to say "yes, ma'am". I'll say ma'am, of course, but I think it'll be more along the lines of "No, thanks very much, ma'am. I'm right, and you know it".
2. She actually wants to discuss her reasoning and why she is or is not planning on changing her policies.

I'm almost hoping for the first option, because this one is a whole lot more fun, even if we do get in trouble. The more difficulty we have getting what we want, the more people can get involved. I was telling my fellow debaters about the situation, at one of our tournaments, and they got very fired up. They're ready to go to a school board meeting and (respectfully) speak their minds. It makes a captain proud. Either way, I got the meeting, and that does say something. I suppose I shouldn't be too offended that they contacted dad rather than me- I have to pick my battles. But by George, I'm going to win the ones that I do pick.

Spirit Week. Rah, Rah... raaaaaah.

This week is spirit week at my school.
Spirit week is only four days, apparently because it always used to fall in the week of Columbus day. I think it's just because the administration doesn't want to put up with it any more than they have to.
So, technically the festivities start tomorrow. But today was declared, by the underground of the student body, to be Zombie day.
It's one of those things when you think to yourself "I know I shouldn't care what other people will think, but I'm not going to do it, because I know no one else is going to do it."
Yup. Two of my friends dressed up. I'm personally in favor of doing one of those full out zombie vs. Human games, like the ones that colleges sometimes do.

I think the whole spirit of spirit week is lost. Which is fine by me. The whole idea is that we celebrate how awesome our football team is and sing the school song and chant things, or whatever. It's how I imagine Spartans must have spent their Sundays. Our school system certainly makes an effort to have it center around football. We have mandatory pep rallies (which I usually hide from, in the library), and the band at some point will march through the halls of the school, playing the school song. By the way, I can't think of a single person in this school who isn't a cheerleader who knows the lyrics of the school song.
The idealized spirit week and homecoming...is totally barbaric. So I like to think of it as just a week where I get to dress up in awesome costumes and shoot zombies with a nerf gun.

**An update on my taking down the system:
My letter went out early last week, and I still haven't received a reply from our superintendent. I'm giving it two more days, and then I'm looking into a schoolboard meeting.