In the past few days, I have discovered TUMBLR.
This is not to say that I was unaware of what TUMBLR was; on the contrary, I had an account. And I had even typed my name in.
But, recently, I found it bothersome to forget others account names and have to stalk all their other social networking profiles just to find their page link. "Wouldn't it be simpler," I'd mused to myself, "if I just followed them?"
So that's what I did. I added a picture and my birthdate. I wrote a quick about me and eagerly started following others.
The whole concept of TUMBLR seemed foreign. I’m not sure why. I have both a FACEBOOK and a TWITTER. I also, obviously, have a BLOGSPOT. But, for some reason, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the magic land that is TUMBLR. (If I’m being honest—and considering maybe two people read this, including myself, I will be—I still don’t understand. )
What I do understand is, however, is that this website gives people the ability to find you. Just by typing in a generic thing that you might’ve tagged.
All you have to do is tag things.
Immediately, I perked up. “Tagging? I can tag. I have a label maker. I understand labeling.” Eagerly I began to search the internet for things that could force many people to see my page. I needed followers. I demanded followers. (Yeah, it’s not really working.)
Unfortunately, I am a self-proclaimed fan girl. I’ve always been a fan girl. It started when I was quite young, still in elementary school, and I realized how incredibly bad ass Buffy Summers was. Since then, I’ve been consistently obsessed with at least one fandom (i.e., Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, Charmed, Gilmore Girls, Doctor Who and Criminal Minds). I’ve also had smaller obsessions, which I don’t necessarily consider myself a fan girl on, but this is only because I’ve been such a die-hard that I know the true meaning of ‘creepily obsessive’. (My mini-fandoms include Crossing Jordan, Angel, Scrubs, and Heroes)
Because of my teenage fan girl tendencies, when I realized that the entire internet was at my disposal, I went ape-shit. “David Tennet! Matt Smith!” I’d cried, eagerly. “Matthew Gray Gubler!”
I began to type quickly, snapping pictures with my low-grain camera phone.
I have gone over the edge of TUMBLR crazy. The only reason I left that blog was to blog quickly here. This post is merely an apology.
Carolyn, if you read this—I’m so sorry.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Why I Don't Ride Horses.
There’s a certain amount of humility that’s forced upon you when you fall off a horse.
I’ve always been an awkward girl, completely gawky and unable to shift the simplest movements in anything other than an uncoordinated mess. Walking was difficult; running was impossible. Riding a horse was something that was so implausible that in its implausibility it had become plausible. It was a paradox that swallowed me whole and spat me on top of a horse, terrified and clinging to the saddle horn.
Every time I rode, I would be hit with the same pattern of emotions. The fear would be immediate, followed shortly after by a rush of adrenaline. This adrenaline- quite possibly the worst feeling to ever course through my veins- would consume me, leave me heart pounding too fast and my thoughts too slow. I would be hit with another round of fear, which I would simmer in until the ride was over.
Samantha, one of my closest friends, loved her horses. She pet them and fed them and rode them daily. She knew all their names and would go outside to care for them even if it was raining. While I knew this was mandatory when owning animals, I still found it difficult to remember to give Laurence fresh water each day, preferring to spill water bottles on clean floors when he complained (yes, Humane Society, I have overcome this stage in my life). Samantha, however, would fill up tubs of water for seven horses two times a day, and still care for her deer and dogs and cats.
Along with having to help with the occasional horse fence, being a friend of Samantha’s meant learning how to ride a horse. Or, in my case, pretending to learn while really just clinging on for dear life, crying desperately if the animal went faster than what I could walk myself. This was a fairly well thought out plan, and had as many benefits as it did issues.
One day, however, this neat little world we created for ourselves shattered into one, bloody mess. We were riding with two other friends who understood what to do to understand the beasts, and as usual I was lagging behind. I always preferred one of Samantha’s older horses, Lucy, who would rather eat than move and could only force her body to move a tedious speed similar to my own. She ran down hills and walked slowly uphill, and never moved half as fast as what I could handle. It was lovely.
Unfortunately, my group with the skills despised how slow we maneuvered ourselves. Sighing, they stopped their horses while mine continued at her slow pace. I hadn’t quite learned to make them stop. Devin, the lone boy we were riding with, stopped my horse by a mere look (he might have done more. My memories have become slightly exaggerated with time). Quickly motioning at me, I slid off. Dismounting was the one thing I had down to a science. I loved to feel the ground, steady, beneath my feet.
“Why don’t you get on Dixie?” Dixie was a 15-hand Paint that was unruly and terrifying. I swallowed.
“Lucy’s fine by me,” I wasn’t begging. I wouldn’t beg. He raised an eyebrow, and I changed my mind. I would beg. “Seriously-”
“Just ride Dixie,” Samantha said.
I nodded, shaky, and allowed them to help me up. She was so much taller than Lucy, already anxiously stepping back and forth
I stayed behind them, hoping Dixie would understand to do what her horse pals in front of her did. They started riding, and Dixie ran on her own accord, much faster than I’d ever expected. I could barely breathe.
I didn’t think life could get much worse than that. I was clinging, my fingers digging into her skin as I shook. The saddle was swaying back and forth, not tight enough, not right.
I looked up, and noticed that they were far ahead of me. “Hey guys!” they didn’t reply. “Hey! This saddle is really loose!”
They yelled things that were supposed to make me feel better, but really only made my fear more prominent.
And then, in one swift motion that I barely noticed until I was one the ground, the saddle slid under the belly of the horse, and I was flying through the air.
I knew I was going to die. I accepted this fact every time I sat on a horse, and this ride was no different. I wasn’t surprised to feel myself flinging through the air at an unnatural velocity. What I was surprised about, however, was the way my body was moving. I was soaring through the air, rolling and doing summersaults my body couldn’t do with its normal maneuvering.
When I landed, I rolled a few more times, my arms flung around my face to protect it. I hit a hard patch on the ground and eventually my rolling stopped. I lay there, flat on my back, hearing my friends calling for me. I couldn’t talk, not yet, but was breathing fairly evenly.
“I’m alive,” I muttered, slowly sitting up. My body protested. My friends were staring at me, their eyes wide and their mouths quirking. I glared at them, and they started laughing hysterically.
I was bleeding, my skin was on the rocks around me, and my friends were laughing.
That was the last time I ever rode a horse.
I’ve always been an awkward girl, completely gawky and unable to shift the simplest movements in anything other than an uncoordinated mess. Walking was difficult; running was impossible. Riding a horse was something that was so implausible that in its implausibility it had become plausible. It was a paradox that swallowed me whole and spat me on top of a horse, terrified and clinging to the saddle horn.
Every time I rode, I would be hit with the same pattern of emotions. The fear would be immediate, followed shortly after by a rush of adrenaline. This adrenaline- quite possibly the worst feeling to ever course through my veins- would consume me, leave me heart pounding too fast and my thoughts too slow. I would be hit with another round of fear, which I would simmer in until the ride was over.
Samantha, one of my closest friends, loved her horses. She pet them and fed them and rode them daily. She knew all their names and would go outside to care for them even if it was raining. While I knew this was mandatory when owning animals, I still found it difficult to remember to give Laurence fresh water each day, preferring to spill water bottles on clean floors when he complained (yes, Humane Society, I have overcome this stage in my life). Samantha, however, would fill up tubs of water for seven horses two times a day, and still care for her deer and dogs and cats.
Along with having to help with the occasional horse fence, being a friend of Samantha’s meant learning how to ride a horse. Or, in my case, pretending to learn while really just clinging on for dear life, crying desperately if the animal went faster than what I could walk myself. This was a fairly well thought out plan, and had as many benefits as it did issues.
One day, however, this neat little world we created for ourselves shattered into one, bloody mess. We were riding with two other friends who understood what to do to understand the beasts, and as usual I was lagging behind. I always preferred one of Samantha’s older horses, Lucy, who would rather eat than move and could only force her body to move a tedious speed similar to my own. She ran down hills and walked slowly uphill, and never moved half as fast as what I could handle. It was lovely.
Unfortunately, my group with the skills despised how slow we maneuvered ourselves. Sighing, they stopped their horses while mine continued at her slow pace. I hadn’t quite learned to make them stop. Devin, the lone boy we were riding with, stopped my horse by a mere look (he might have done more. My memories have become slightly exaggerated with time). Quickly motioning at me, I slid off. Dismounting was the one thing I had down to a science. I loved to feel the ground, steady, beneath my feet.
“Why don’t you get on Dixie?” Dixie was a 15-hand Paint that was unruly and terrifying. I swallowed.
“Lucy’s fine by me,” I wasn’t begging. I wouldn’t beg. He raised an eyebrow, and I changed my mind. I would beg. “Seriously-”
“Just ride Dixie,” Samantha said.
I nodded, shaky, and allowed them to help me up. She was so much taller than Lucy, already anxiously stepping back and forth
I stayed behind them, hoping Dixie would understand to do what her horse pals in front of her did. They started riding, and Dixie ran on her own accord, much faster than I’d ever expected. I could barely breathe.
I didn’t think life could get much worse than that. I was clinging, my fingers digging into her skin as I shook. The saddle was swaying back and forth, not tight enough, not right.
I looked up, and noticed that they were far ahead of me. “Hey guys!” they didn’t reply. “Hey! This saddle is really loose!”
They yelled things that were supposed to make me feel better, but really only made my fear more prominent.
And then, in one swift motion that I barely noticed until I was one the ground, the saddle slid under the belly of the horse, and I was flying through the air.
I knew I was going to die. I accepted this fact every time I sat on a horse, and this ride was no different. I wasn’t surprised to feel myself flinging through the air at an unnatural velocity. What I was surprised about, however, was the way my body was moving. I was soaring through the air, rolling and doing summersaults my body couldn’t do with its normal maneuvering.
When I landed, I rolled a few more times, my arms flung around my face to protect it. I hit a hard patch on the ground and eventually my rolling stopped. I lay there, flat on my back, hearing my friends calling for me. I couldn’t talk, not yet, but was breathing fairly evenly.
“I’m alive,” I muttered, slowly sitting up. My body protested. My friends were staring at me, their eyes wide and their mouths quirking. I glared at them, and they started laughing hysterically.
I was bleeding, my skin was on the rocks around me, and my friends were laughing.
That was the last time I ever rode a horse.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Hufflepuff Knows What's Up
When news spread that prize baskets would be given to the winning Houses, Hufflepuffs kicked it into high gear. Writing with more feverous excitement and bonding in our goal, we became more than just a House: we became a family. Winning these baskets, which may or may not be metaphorical, became extremely important to us.
Professor Puff, a nickname engineered to create competitive spirit as well as to make us laugh, is a key figure to our group. While I firmly believe Hufflepuffs excellence could succeed with any mismatch of characters, there would be no way to be as wonderfully united and strong without our fearless leader. Not only does “Professor Puff” have an amazing ability to take a simple story and create a complex, beautiful thing with it, he owns toe-shoes. Toe Shoes are extremely cool and hidden in almost every shoe store I’ve ever been to. To track these shoes down must’ve taken intense, Hufflepuff-ey investigation.
The Hufflepuff common room has a lot of meaning to me. Not only does it give the implication that we are the far superior House, the only group with our own room, it allows us to chat and workshop completely isolated from outside noise.
The light green that washes over the walls is a soft, inviting color. Unlike any other shade, the color is something I could ever imagine someplace else. The big, wooden tables were pushed together, plastic chairs circling them every meeting before we begin. It’s silent, beside the occasional rustle of pages as we read the others work. Then, suddenly, trickling into an encouraging roar, as we share our thoughts and critiques with our House.
Nerves are always tangible. Hands shake and palms sweat, lips are bitten and foots tap against the carpet. We’re always anxious, wary of others reading such raw material we have written in a mere hour. But then, any and all fears are dissolved at the sound of snaps. It’s impossible to leave the common room with any feeling other than complete happiness.
After all, we’re Hufflepuffs and we know what’s up.
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Professor Puff, a nickname engineered to create competitive spirit as well as to make us laugh, is a key figure to our group. While I firmly believe Hufflepuffs excellence could succeed with any mismatch of characters, there would be no way to be as wonderfully united and strong without our fearless leader. Not only does “Professor Puff” have an amazing ability to take a simple story and create a complex, beautiful thing with it, he owns toe-shoes. Toe Shoes are extremely cool and hidden in almost every shoe store I’ve ever been to. To track these shoes down must’ve taken intense, Hufflepuff-ey investigation.
The Hufflepuff common room has a lot of meaning to me. Not only does it give the implication that we are the far superior House, the only group with our own room, it allows us to chat and workshop completely isolated from outside noise.
The light green that washes over the walls is a soft, inviting color. Unlike any other shade, the color is something I could ever imagine someplace else. The big, wooden tables were pushed together, plastic chairs circling them every meeting before we begin. It’s silent, beside the occasional rustle of pages as we read the others work. Then, suddenly, trickling into an encouraging roar, as we share our thoughts and critiques with our House.
Nerves are always tangible. Hands shake and palms sweat, lips are bitten and foots tap against the carpet. We’re always anxious, wary of others reading such raw material we have written in a mere hour. But then, any and all fears are dissolved at the sound of snaps. It’s impossible to leave the common room with any feeling other than complete happiness.
After all, we’re Hufflepuffs and we know what’s up.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Star the Crab.
My first pet was a Hermit Crab named Star. She was yellow, with a purple star on her back (admittingly, I didn’t really succeed in name development). She was, for all intents and purposes, my best friend.
It was her week-and-a-half birthday. My brother and I were celebrating since his Hermit Crab, Superman, also seemed to be doing well. We were both ridiculously excited, thrilled that we had proved our own parents wrong and that we were succeeding in being rock-star parents. Hermit Crabs would flee from their horrible lives just to see if we’d take them in. We would, of course. We were going to house hundreds of foster hermits.
I was chatting happily, content with life, when suddenly, the crab in my hand wasn’t moving.
I glanced down. “Star?” I murmured, shaking her a bit. She rolled off of my hand and hit the carpet. She still didn’t move. “Star!”
I threw myself to the ground, but it was too late. My best friend in the whole world, my daughter, had died.
I don’t remember saying anything. It was a very solemn moment, especially for an eight year old. My brother and his friend paused; their faces froze, watching me hesitantly.
And then I started to cry.
It’s difficult to explain exactly what I was feeling; I was a dying doe, watching her small, rabbit child being raped and savagely beaten by forces she can’t see. There was no hope. Star was dead, and my life was over.
I was a little surprised by how quickly I came to that fact. One moment I was mourning- the next, I was accepting my fate. I stopped crying, and slowly prepared myself for live to be over.
My brother watched me warily. “What should we do?”
I sniffled, but tried to hold onto my dignity. “Bury her,” I said. “We’ll have a funeral.” That’s what Star would’ve wanted- after all, I was her mother. I knew what she needed. I turned to my older sister- she was twelve, and watching me with the same expression my mother gave the dog when it got off its chain: something near fear, but closer to reluctance to believe she was going to have to chase the dog down.
She sighed, without bothering to fight with me. “I’m building the coffin?”
I nodded. “Tristan, Devon, you two go dig a hole.”
“What’ll you do?” I wiped away a tear, thoughtfully. I was Star’s mother- what should I do?
“I’ll write a speech,” I decided.
An hour later, with Star’s lifeless body placed carefully into a decorated Kleenex box, I lowered the coffin into a hand-dug hole in my front yard. We placed dandelions- the only flowers that grow abundantly near my home- on top of the grave, and I hushed my family for a moment of silence.
“Star was my daughter,” I began, tearing up again. “She was my heart, my everything, and my best friend. And she’s gone now, living in Heaven, with all the other little crabs. Maybe she’ll see her biology parents” give me a break, I was eight. I meant biological “and sisters and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles.” I took a deep breathe, trying not to sob. “I loved you, Starry.”
And that was the last time I saw Star… until Sorento’s Earth Day Parade, which I am not going to talk about today.
It was her week-and-a-half birthday. My brother and I were celebrating since his Hermit Crab, Superman, also seemed to be doing well. We were both ridiculously excited, thrilled that we had proved our own parents wrong and that we were succeeding in being rock-star parents. Hermit Crabs would flee from their horrible lives just to see if we’d take them in. We would, of course. We were going to house hundreds of foster hermits.
I was chatting happily, content with life, when suddenly, the crab in my hand wasn’t moving.
I glanced down. “Star?” I murmured, shaking her a bit. She rolled off of my hand and hit the carpet. She still didn’t move. “Star!”
I threw myself to the ground, but it was too late. My best friend in the whole world, my daughter, had died.
I don’t remember saying anything. It was a very solemn moment, especially for an eight year old. My brother and his friend paused; their faces froze, watching me hesitantly.
And then I started to cry.
It’s difficult to explain exactly what I was feeling; I was a dying doe, watching her small, rabbit child being raped and savagely beaten by forces she can’t see. There was no hope. Star was dead, and my life was over.
I was a little surprised by how quickly I came to that fact. One moment I was mourning- the next, I was accepting my fate. I stopped crying, and slowly prepared myself for live to be over.
My brother watched me warily. “What should we do?”
I sniffled, but tried to hold onto my dignity. “Bury her,” I said. “We’ll have a funeral.” That’s what Star would’ve wanted- after all, I was her mother. I knew what she needed. I turned to my older sister- she was twelve, and watching me with the same expression my mother gave the dog when it got off its chain: something near fear, but closer to reluctance to believe she was going to have to chase the dog down.
She sighed, without bothering to fight with me. “I’m building the coffin?”
I nodded. “Tristan, Devon, you two go dig a hole.”
“What’ll you do?” I wiped away a tear, thoughtfully. I was Star’s mother- what should I do?
“I’ll write a speech,” I decided.
An hour later, with Star’s lifeless body placed carefully into a decorated Kleenex box, I lowered the coffin into a hand-dug hole in my front yard. We placed dandelions- the only flowers that grow abundantly near my home- on top of the grave, and I hushed my family for a moment of silence.
“Star was my daughter,” I began, tearing up again. “She was my heart, my everything, and my best friend. And she’s gone now, living in Heaven, with all the other little crabs. Maybe she’ll see her biology parents” give me a break, I was eight. I meant biological “and sisters and brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles.” I took a deep breathe, trying not to sob. “I loved you, Starry.”
And that was the last time I saw Star… until Sorento’s Earth Day Parade, which I am not going to talk about today.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Duh-Duh-Duh-Duh-Duhhhhh.
“And I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more, just to be the man who walked a thousand miles just to fall down at your door…”
You want me to go on. I know it, and I know why. It’s not because it’s a good song- no, if anything, it’s the worst song ever written. It’s catchy, and peppy, and the absolute worst thing to ever happen to music, anywhere.
You want me to go on because THAT’S ALL YOU KNOW. Those are the only lyrics you can remember. Those are the only lyrics, you’re convinced, that even exist.
I’ve had the Proclaimers replaying that damn song on YouTube for half an hour. And still. Those are the only lyrics my brain is containing. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re questioning my sanity, murmuring: “Emily, why? Why in God’s name do you keep listening to it? Why? Have you no sense of self preservation, woman!?” And I’ll answer you: apparently not.
It’s like when you get into the lunch line at school, and you know, you know, more than you’ve ever known anything before, that those French Fries are going to kill you. They’re gross- quite possibly rancid- and they will not taste good.
But you buy them anyway. Because, they’re French Fries; you can’t screw up French fries too badly, can you? Surely, even High School Cafeteria Cooks can’t mess up one batch of French Fries too badly, can they? Surely, surely, they can’t make them taste the way you’re imagining them…
Yes. They can. But you buy them anyway. And you eat that second fry, because you bought it, and for damn’s sake, it was three dollars. So you eat a third. All the while, you’re complaining to your friends, laughing: “Guys, these are seriously disgusting!” and they keep saying: “Why are you eating them, then?” and you don’t have an answer, and to be perfectly honest, neither do I.
I just keep listening. I’m miserable: I’m humming miserably, typing miserably, breathing miserably. When a song can make you BREATHE miserably, there’s a serious problem.
And I’m not denying I have one- it’s become quite clear to me that The Proclaimers have invaded my safe haven, my YouTube channel, my mind, and poisoned it with the continual “duh-duh-duh duh, duh-duh-duh duh, duh-duh-duh duh, duh-duh-duh” so many times that I’m curled in a miserable ball, yelling: “DUH- DUH- DUH- DUH- DUH FIVE HUNDRED MILES DUH DUH DUH DUH DOOR STEPS DUH DUH DUH!”.
This blog post really has no meaning: it’s just me, complaining about that frigging song. I think I’ll stop here before I leave the ‘adorably charming’ and enter the ‘downright creepy’ level.
I hope you can get this out of your head now.
You want me to go on. I know it, and I know why. It’s not because it’s a good song- no, if anything, it’s the worst song ever written. It’s catchy, and peppy, and the absolute worst thing to ever happen to music, anywhere.
You want me to go on because THAT’S ALL YOU KNOW. Those are the only lyrics you can remember. Those are the only lyrics, you’re convinced, that even exist.
I’ve had the Proclaimers replaying that damn song on YouTube for half an hour. And still. Those are the only lyrics my brain is containing. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re questioning my sanity, murmuring: “Emily, why? Why in God’s name do you keep listening to it? Why? Have you no sense of self preservation, woman!?” And I’ll answer you: apparently not.
It’s like when you get into the lunch line at school, and you know, you know, more than you’ve ever known anything before, that those French Fries are going to kill you. They’re gross- quite possibly rancid- and they will not taste good.
But you buy them anyway. Because, they’re French Fries; you can’t screw up French fries too badly, can you? Surely, even High School Cafeteria Cooks can’t mess up one batch of French Fries too badly, can they? Surely, surely, they can’t make them taste the way you’re imagining them…
Yes. They can. But you buy them anyway. And you eat that second fry, because you bought it, and for damn’s sake, it was three dollars. So you eat a third. All the while, you’re complaining to your friends, laughing: “Guys, these are seriously disgusting!” and they keep saying: “Why are you eating them, then?” and you don’t have an answer, and to be perfectly honest, neither do I.
I just keep listening. I’m miserable: I’m humming miserably, typing miserably, breathing miserably. When a song can make you BREATHE miserably, there’s a serious problem.
And I’m not denying I have one- it’s become quite clear to me that The Proclaimers have invaded my safe haven, my YouTube channel, my mind, and poisoned it with the continual “duh-duh-duh duh, duh-duh-duh duh, duh-duh-duh duh, duh-duh-duh” so many times that I’m curled in a miserable ball, yelling: “DUH- DUH- DUH- DUH- DUH FIVE HUNDRED MILES DUH DUH DUH DUH DOOR STEPS DUH DUH DUH!”.
This blog post really has no meaning: it’s just me, complaining about that frigging song. I think I’ll stop here before I leave the ‘adorably charming’ and enter the ‘downright creepy’ level.
I hope you can get this out of your head now.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Stir Crazy from Cabin Fever...
Snow days affect every age group differently. Inside those age groups, they affect every individual differently. Going off of my own assumptions and my own experiences, I've gathered the following about snow days:
When you're nine, they're magical days where you stay in bed, even if you were wide awake, until after the bus would've left, just in case. They were days where you make massive snow men that never looked like Frosty: The Animated Movie suggested they would. You'd drink Hot Chocolate and watch Disney movies and just revel in the pureness of staying home on a weekday.
When you're thirteen, you stroll around the block with your friends and pretend to be cooler than playing in the snow. You get into huge snowball wars where at least one person gets seriously bodily injured. You sled down hills with trees that will somehow damage you or your sled, no matter how carefully you navigate.
By the time you become sixteen, your day consist of mostly sleeping, doing homework that you didn't do the week before and obsessively refreshing Facebook's homepage. And, usually, if you're not me, you play in the snow.
Basically, no matter what age you are, snow days rock. Everyone agrees on this, and until today, I was one of those 'everyone's.
I'm reporting live from Snow Day 912. The snow outside is still falling, and the schools are still being called off. The fun is over. The boredom has come. The power is flickering on and off, and the heat is rapidly decreasing. I've read the first two chapters of every book I own. I've refreshed Facebook's homepage so many times, my computer is wheezing, and is one blog post away from dropping of exhaustion. I've stared at the tree-limbs, encased in frozen ice, and I've drank my weight in hot beverages. I've watched Anastasia six times since December alone.
There's a type of war raged in your body when you hear that school won't be in session, again, tomorrow. Half of you is still childish enough to cheer and happily go back to doing absolutely noting before the boredom sets in. The other half, the more sensible half, remembers immediately that by nine thirty the next day, you'll be begging the ice to just stop.
"Mom," I say, miserably. My dad is fiddling with his guitar, my brother killing zombies on a game. Even my dog is playing quietly with his stuffed lion. I am the only one with this much boredom spewing aggressively through my every pore. "Mom, please make sure we have school tomorrow."
My mother shakes her head. "I can't do that. I'm only a Mom." Long ago, she stopped lying to me about the power she actually has with the school board: which, is none.
"Mom," I keep trying. I have to keep trying. "C'mon, can't you do anything?" But I know she can't, and she knows she cant. She's useless.
I turn to my dad, aware of how pathetic I look, but unable to care. "Dad, Daddy, Pops... I love you..."
He sighs, and sets down the instrument. "I can't make them open school tomorrow, Emily."
"Why! Hmm, and why's that? Because you can't grant me this one little thing? Huh, Dad? You both hate me!"
They look at each other, and shake their head. Mom turns back to her book, and Dad picks up his guitar, both secure in the knowledge that tomorrow, they can leave this house.
Unlike me. Because, tomorrow, day 913 of my misery, is a snow day.
When you're nine, they're magical days where you stay in bed, even if you were wide awake, until after the bus would've left, just in case. They were days where you make massive snow men that never looked like Frosty: The Animated Movie suggested they would. You'd drink Hot Chocolate and watch Disney movies and just revel in the pureness of staying home on a weekday.
When you're thirteen, you stroll around the block with your friends and pretend to be cooler than playing in the snow. You get into huge snowball wars where at least one person gets seriously bodily injured. You sled down hills with trees that will somehow damage you or your sled, no matter how carefully you navigate.
By the time you become sixteen, your day consist of mostly sleeping, doing homework that you didn't do the week before and obsessively refreshing Facebook's homepage. And, usually, if you're not me, you play in the snow.
Basically, no matter what age you are, snow days rock. Everyone agrees on this, and until today, I was one of those 'everyone's.
I'm reporting live from Snow Day 912. The snow outside is still falling, and the schools are still being called off. The fun is over. The boredom has come. The power is flickering on and off, and the heat is rapidly decreasing. I've read the first two chapters of every book I own. I've refreshed Facebook's homepage so many times, my computer is wheezing, and is one blog post away from dropping of exhaustion. I've stared at the tree-limbs, encased in frozen ice, and I've drank my weight in hot beverages. I've watched Anastasia six times since December alone.
There's a type of war raged in your body when you hear that school won't be in session, again, tomorrow. Half of you is still childish enough to cheer and happily go back to doing absolutely noting before the boredom sets in. The other half, the more sensible half, remembers immediately that by nine thirty the next day, you'll be begging the ice to just stop.
"Mom," I say, miserably. My dad is fiddling with his guitar, my brother killing zombies on a game. Even my dog is playing quietly with his stuffed lion. I am the only one with this much boredom spewing aggressively through my every pore. "Mom, please make sure we have school tomorrow."
My mother shakes her head. "I can't do that. I'm only a Mom." Long ago, she stopped lying to me about the power she actually has with the school board: which, is none.
"Mom," I keep trying. I have to keep trying. "C'mon, can't you do anything?" But I know she can't, and she knows she cant. She's useless.
I turn to my dad, aware of how pathetic I look, but unable to care. "Dad, Daddy, Pops... I love you..."
He sighs, and sets down the instrument. "I can't make them open school tomorrow, Emily."
"Why! Hmm, and why's that? Because you can't grant me this one little thing? Huh, Dad? You both hate me!"
They look at each other, and shake their head. Mom turns back to her book, and Dad picks up his guitar, both secure in the knowledge that tomorrow, they can leave this house.
Unlike me. Because, tomorrow, day 913 of my misery, is a snow day.
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