Tuesday, November 22, 2011

The Awkward Moment When Your Stomach Growls

When I’m not deriving mother functions, attempting not to touch asymptotes on graphs, and not telling people to Fog Gof in my Algebra 2 class (okay, please excuse the math humor here), I am often thinking about food. I think it’s probably because I have math first thing in the morning, which is, just to my luck, when I am about as alert as when I am sleeping.
The chances of me eating breakfast is very small. I have a carpool I need to think about, homework to finish, and sometimes I wake up at 7 in the morning. Chances are, all 3 of those are going on that day, and I get out of the house at around 7:15, pick up my carpool, and step into my math class just as the bell rings.
My teacher tries to mix up the seating each math class by having the SmartBoard mix our seating chart around, but I always end up sitting next to the same couple kids. Not that I’m complaining, but a lot of my friends are in that class, and I’m always on the other side of the room that they’re on. My luck is wonderful.
Anyways, usually around 8, the pains of not eating since the last night will start to show.
The worst part is, my stomach growls so loudly sometimes that the little freshman next to me stares at me like I’m some sort of circus act. Which, I mean, I’m sure my face looks like it that early in the morning.
But it’s even better when the class is silent while taking a quiz and then my stomach growls.
What’s even better though?
When several people’s stomachs growl in, like, the same minute.
They’re all the same.

Friday, November 18, 2011

The Awkward Moment When Your Little Sister Asks For An iPhone for Christmas

Photo Credits to http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/m/mailing_list.asp
             On Monday, my mom passed out pieces of paper to my sisters and me at the dinner table and asked us to write a letter to Santa. My seventh-grade sister and I rolled our eyes casually and wrote the letter halfheartedly, you know, the usual, “Hi Santa, I’ve been good. Now hand over the gifts and maybe I’ll put out of cookies on the 24th.” But, my second-grade sister made sure to write her letter very slowly, thinking about what she really wanted and probably giving examples of when she had done something worthy of a gift (sharing her toys, not slapping her older sisters, etc). After she had finished writing, my mom collected all of our letters and put them on top of the fridge so no one could reach it. Being the bad daughter that I am, I still went to get them when she left the kitchen. I decided to read the seventh grader’s letter first. She asked for soccer equipment, which isn’t exactly surprising since I think that the girl lives and breathes soccer.
         But then, I read the second grader’s letter.

                Dear Santa, I have been very good lately. I shared my dolls with my friend yesterday and helped my mom clean up the cichen (kitchen, for those of you who don’t read 2nd grader language). For Christmas, I want an iPhone because Mrs. L. has one, and it has fun games on it. I like the one where you jump on blocks.
            Sincerely, Kathryn

                I spent a good amount of time staring at this letter. I hadn’t even asked for an iPhone, and I’m the one with the broken phone! This made me think about how fast kids are becoming addicted to technology. Kathryn already had her own notebook laptop January of her first grade year (her class made their own blogs, so this is why she needed one, or so she claimed), and even my baby brother, Matthew, had one of those new vTech-baby laptops. Let me tell you, when I was in first grade, I used to write things longhand, and when I was a baby, I played with Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed animals. And I wished for a stationary set in second grade, not a new phone.
                Kids these days are kind of getting ridiculous.
                But you know what would be more ridiculous?
                If Kathryn actually got the iPhone.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

The Awkward Moment When The Teacher Calls On Everyone EXCEPT You

Note: Names have been changed for privacy reasons

         “Circle up,” my teacher, Ms. Brown, says. It’s the usual routine- getting 26 desks to form a perfect circle in the windowless cell that I call my English classroom. The 26 of us grumble about having to move our lazy butts into formation, but we do it nonetheless, because, well, that’s just what honor students do—they do things that they don’t want to do simply to please adults (it’s kind of like taking the honors class to please their parents).
         Ms. Brown asks a prompt question to get the gears in our small heads turning, and I raise my hand quickly, but someone beats me to do it, and he is called on.
          It’s okay, I think to myself, I’ll just keep raising my hand and then I’ll share my idea.
          5 minutes pass, the Ms. Brown hasn’t called on me yet. I jot my idea down on a sheet of paper because I have the memory capacity of a goldfish and pray that she will call on me.
          10 minutes pass, and my arm is crying, begging me to put it down, because blood is no longer circulating to my fingers.
          “Jonny, what do you think about this?” Ms. Brown asks a boy who sits in the corner. He shrugs nonchalantly, says something to get her to accept that he doesn’t know the answer, and goes back to sleep.
          The same girl who has been picked on about four times now raises her hand.
          “Nina, you may talk.”
          Alright, so at this point, it has been 15 minutes and I think that everyone in this class has said my ideas, which I am writing on my paper, but then I have to cross them off. Please pick on me!
          Finally, after 20 minutes have passed, I hear my name.
          “Sarah, anything to add?”
          “No, sorry,” I say simply and call it a day. My arm is dead and I give up. All of my comments have been said in some shape, way or form by the girl who gets called on at least 4 times a day.
          After class, I ask Ms. Brown how I can boost my participation in her class. Her answer?
          Raise your hand.
          And I take that. Because I’m an honor student, and I do stuff because it makes you happy, Ms. Brown.
          Just one request. Please call on me next time.

Friday, November 4, 2011

The Awkward Moment When A White Van Follows You

Photo Creds to: http://www.buzzfeed.com/chrismenning/10-charts-of-awkward-situations

A couple of days ago, I had the pleasure of walking home alone after school. I had just finished my duties at the high school Halloween party, and watched as small children came and went in their costumes. I saw princesses, ghosts, donkeys, you name it—kids are getting pretty clever these days. 
Anyways, I turned on my street and suddenly heard tires behind me. Normally, I would simply step aside and allow the car to pass, expecting to see an Acura or some other common North Shore minivan. However, this time, nothing passed. In fact, no matter how far off the road I went, this car wouldn’t pass. So, I slowly turned around, and of course, staring right back at me was a white van, and I could see an arm sticking out of the drivers’ seat, holding a cigarette, which “fell” casually to the curbside. I shrieked and sprinted to the closest car. I probably looked ridiculous as my backpack hit my back, but I didn’t care. I hid behind the car and had a mini heart attack as I searched for my phone so I could speed dial my mother in the case I got kidnapped (which, let’s be honest— calling her wouldn't make a difference—mothers never pick up their cell phones on the first call).
Now, here’s the embarrassing part. As the car slowly drove by, I heard, “Sarah… is that you…?” Turns out, the van belonged to my neighbor’s friend, and my neighbor was driving the van. I attempted to look cool by checking out the car I was hiding behind as if thinking Wow, what a nice Saturn Sedan we’ve got here… but obviously, I looked stupid no matter how I tried to cover my tracks.
I guess I could be considered extremely prejudice for assuming that the white van was owned by some kind of rapist, but I don’t care. If I see a white van, I’m running to check out the nearest sedan.