Memory: Adventures in Stats Class

Well, again I woke up today feeling like someone had stuffed lead into my limbs. I was dreaming something strange but awoke in the usual start at my cellphone alarm. I slide out of bed, still in dreamland and knock on my little brother's door. Sadly, it's time to get up.

I decided to dress myself in a fluffy vest thing that is so very 70s. It's not something that I would wear on any given day, but it was cold outside and I was feeling adventurous. As I put on my Cleopatra makeup, I realize that I have misplaced my mascara.

Bummer.

I trot down the stairs and straight into the kitchen hoping for its usual dark and cool embrace in the grey morning light. Instead I find myself in the headlights of the kitchen bulbs and straight into a serious disscussion between mother and father about marital satisfaction. I decide to switch it to ignore mode and focus on the mission of obtaining delicious dark coffee. A liquid sure to clear the morning fog from the windshield of my mind. My brother screws around as usual and makes me late. Again.

I'll have to crack the whip tommorrow.

I walk in with the late train of people into Statistics. The rodent-esque Mr. M is off talking to his favorite boys. I'm sure Mr. M doens't appreciate that but he hardly ever starts class just when it begins. More like halfway through. I take a seat behind Sarah and I try to focus on the teacher's lecture but soon I drift off and snap myself back only to realize that I lost about five minutes of the lecture while off in dreamland.

Damnit, girl, focus!

Then Mr. M goes off on a tangent about weathermen. Time for lame stand up comedy from the Mouseman himself.

"Well, that's the best job in the world! You get paid a lot of money even if you are wrong about the weather! It's the only job that allows you to be wrong about things." he said and he laughs.

"Of course, you don't even have to be qualified to be a weatherman, I know you've all seen those morning shows with the weatherwomen... They obviously weren't the best credentialed meterologists in thier class... if you know what I mean." he said, and there is a knowing chuckle from the boys.

"How do you know they aren't credentialed, Mr. M?" I say as Gloria Steinem seems to have possessed my body in that very instance.

I don't really listen to the response, because I'm sick and tired of him playing to the boys club in this math class.

"Have you checked thier credentials ... do you know? Or are you just saying that?" I continued.

"Well, by the way they dress, I think it's pretty obvious that they weren't hired for thier credentials..." he said.

"That's just television though!" I say, but for some reason I don't have a better answer for that. The paradox of being a woman in the workplace. And as Mr. M continued his lecture, I was thinking furiously on the relationship between a woman and her body. It's such a double edged sword, used like a weapon to seduce men into subtle submission. But the weapon is also used to keep a woman down. You can't dress sexy or you're a slut or trying to use men. But if you dress frumpy, you're a prude and not worth any attention. Women are so fashion concious because we have to walk such a razor's edge between sex and seriousness.

"Are the three Ms in the class getting it?" Mr. M asked. I try to be a smartass.

"Yeah, just call us M squared."

"You mean cubed." Mr. M replies with a self-satisfied smirk. My peers eyes watch me.

"Yeah." With perfect deadpan. As the eyes turn away I shoot a deadly evil eye at my teacher.

Oh, you win this round, mouseman. But in the end, sweet victory will be mine.

(circa Jan 31, 07)

Summer time in the Golden State

I just got back from visiting my family in Utah. As much as I love the people in Utah, the weather nearly killed me. It was on average about 90 to 100 degrees (F) there. How outrageous is that? People tried to comfort me saying that it was just a dry heat. Yeah, no kidding. My lips were cracking like logs on a fire.

At least in California we have a nice ocean breeze that cools us off in the afternoon and night. Utah is just desert. Not saying that the mountains aren't a spectacular sight. They just radiate the heat at night.

When I told my mother that I felt sorry for the Utah-(ans? ians?) because they had no beach, she told me that sure, they have lots of beach, they just don't have an ocean.

Well, I suppose I should update more. But there's tons of stuff I need to write about and so little time. I'm off to work in a few hours to the happiest place on earth. Life's just swell, isn't it?

Bruised Ego

I've been trying to write for a project in my drama class. I've had writer's block for a few days. But it's not because I'm uninspired. I am deeply motivated to write but I'm afraid.

See, a few years ago, I joined my school's speech and debate team. I wanted to compete in original prose. I had just finished an original short story and I was very pleased with myself. Delusions of grandeur haunted my mind. When the first debate tournament was up, I decided I would dive head first into the mess without much training from anybody in particular. Needless to say I gloated to my speech and debate coach about my work. She didn't disagree with me and told me to go right along with it. So I did.

Early Saturday morning I got up, got dressed and had my mom drive me to the high school where the tournament was being held. I was not informed of the dress code. I came in casual clothes to a formal event.

Taking my fashion faux pas in stride, I decided to go along and compete. I signed my name on the roster went to the classroom, took a seat and noticed that I was the only one representing my high school.

As I listened to their stories, cold dread was creeping up my spine. My prose was not in the fashionable way, that is, in first person and memorized. I find it fascinating how in one fell swoop, one's confidence can burst into flames, turn to ashes, and blow away like dust in the wind. As I stood up in front of my smug audience, I could feel my poor little knees shaking. Even as I read my melodrama I found it sufficiently disgusting and loath able. I only had ten minutes to read 6 pages. I cut it dangerously close. As I finished my totally unlikable drama I heard snickers.

Then I heard my heart drop and shatter into a thousand pieces. I screwed a smile on my face and heard the rest of the stories out. Afterwards I went up to the people whose stories I was really moved by and shook their hands. While I was devastated, I was determined. Someday I'd be like them. I'd learn from my mistakes and become great. That's why I joined drama in the first place. I wanted to be able to speak in front of people without sounding like a stuttering Stanley or some nerd who just locks herself away in her room and writes stories.

But now comes the test. Can I just stop crying about all this that happened so long ago and get over it and get to writing? Well. I guess only time will tell that.

Apparently, some people are up in arms about Prince's very suggestive shadow when he played the solo for "Purple Rain" during his halftime performance during the Superbowl halftime show. Some cry "malfunction" with hindsight to Janet JacksonGate.

I know it definitely is reminiscent of a particular scene in "Robin Hood: Men in Tights" but come on. He's a guitar player not a pervert. People just need to go on and get thier heads out of the gutter already!

---

In other news, I'm working on a script for my drama class that might be promising. At first, Papageorge (commonly called Papa) told us to find a fable and use the moral of the story as a launching point for our own ideas. I chose "The Fox and the Grapes," the moral of which is "It is easy to despise what you cannot get."

I have about five characters who envy each other's lives... which might turn out well, or it might it might suck because I've never written a real script before. But I'll keep you guys updated on that. Chow.

I was awake today in my stats class and I feel as though I have more than a glimmer of hope of passing the class. Hooray!

In my Econ class, Mr W was trying to do stand up as usual and failing miserably. He decided to try to flatter us...

"Wow, you guys are stars of Economics already! They should have a reality show about us. Yeah I'm sure that'd go over..." he paused and of course, being the smartass I am I interjected.

"Like a lead balloon."

I thought my comment might go unnoticed as I am in the back of the class. But no. Of course not. W picked up on it immediately and decided to play off what I was saying in his incredibly lame way.

"Oh yeah. Just like how Led Zeppelin got thier name, right M? Why don't you tell the story of how they got thier name?"

I was mortified at the thought of playing along with his little routine.

"No no no. Why don't you tell it, Mr. W."

It would be more your era afterall, I wanted to say.

So he rambles on and on, pausing for laughter and gets none. This man has no comedic timing and is simply just clueless. He isn't paid for his jokes and I don't understand why I am forced to listen to them.

... Is highschool over yet?