Turtle Power

Whenever someone asks me about my dating history, I tell a small lie. "Have you ever had a boyfriend?" one might ask, to which I reply, "Of course! But only one..." I then trail off and gaze into the distance, hoping that my wistful look will make the questioner think the relationship was too passionate and painful to recollect. I suppose that technically, my response is true. I did have a boyfriend once, but I prefer not to divulge details like, "I was only 14" or "It lasted for two weeks." Or "We broke up because one time he got high, and I thought he looked like a turtle."

Jon Weiss was a babe. He was a lanky blond with brown eyes, and he went to the all-boys school across the street from my all-girls school. He was a freshman, but the senior boys loved him, and they all called him Lucius (yes, like Malfoy. Whatever, H.Potts). We were introduced through our mutual friend Bethany, the mastermind behind the setup, and things began moving in a sexy direction when we made out at a school dance. The next morning, he called me at Bethany's house and asked me to be his girlfriend, and I agreed. Jon was a man of few words, but he was very nice and pretty and had this aura about him that reminded me of Jordan Cataluno on My So-Called Life: quiet, thoughtful, potentially deep. It would not take long for me to discover that there was a reason for this: Jon smoked a lot of weed.

When I say a lot of weed, I mean that this 14-year-old bro was smoking before school, during school, during his freetime, possibly in his sleep. And under the influence of his senior friends, he had also tried an array of other drugs that could be credited with the development of his mysterious persona.

For the first week of our relationship, things were dreamy. We went on a group date to the movies and had 2-hour conversations on AIM. At this time, I was a member of the fine cast of our school play, and the seniors in the cast began teasing me about my boyfriend. (Rounds of "Christine and Jon, sittin' in a tree" were not uncommon.) I preferred the seniors to treat me like other freshmen, forgetting my name and generally acting as if I were invisible, but they refused. The weekend of our performances, we had a cast party on Saturday night, and Jon came. I was already feeling squirmish about him being there, with everyone watching with their judgy eyes. Oh, the pressure! Then Jon went off with the upper classmen and got ridiculously stoned. When he came back, he could barely open his eyes and he had this stupid grin on his face. We were all sitting around a bonfire, and our friend Bethany turned to him and said, "Weiss, you look like a turtle." My god, I thought. Those half-opened eyes, that dopey grin, the hunched shoulders and skinny neck poking out from the folds of an over-sized hoodie. The guy really did look like a turtle.

After that, I decided I really didn't want to date Jon. Every time I looked at him, I saw the turtle. So instead of telling him this straight out, I proceeded to ignore him for about a week, hiding from him on AIM, until finally, I sucked it up and sent him a nice e-mail explaining that I just wasn't ready for the commitment. Our relationship ended, but Jon and I remained friends, though things got complicated when he began hitting on my sister a few months later. And then when his parents forced him to go to rehab a few months after that. I like to think that I foresaw these events and that is why I broke it off so abruptly. But deep down, I will always know that the night around the campfire signaled the end. His stoned out appearance was the straw that broke the camel's back. Or perhaps, the turtle's.

Businessman Takes Power Bath

ENGLEWOOD CLIFFS, NJ—Citing a need to compete in today's "cutthroat" business environment, PricewaterhouseCoopers CEO Samuel DiPiazza has made it a habit to drive home from his Manhattan office once a day to rapidly indulge in a 15-minute power bath. "During today's session I got on three conference calls and appointed a new global board member, all while grabbing a few quick suds," a robed DiPiazza told reporters Monday after hurriedly blowing out the pineapple-orchid scented candles positioned around his modern, stainless steel bathroom. "No time to waste. I come home, draw up a quick bubble B, do a little videocon with the Japan people, slap on some brown-sugar-and-fig body butter, whip out the BlackBerry, and exfoliate the shit out of myself, and bam: totally refreshed and rejuved." An utterly relaxed DiPiazza swerved into oncoming traffic and died in a head-on collision while driving back to work later that day.

Sticky Bubbles

Bathtime friends in bathing suits it is time for us to snort bubbles again!

My last name means "slow" in German.

Therefore I am by nature always late.

Sometimes it is fashionable. But other times it is the opposite.

Here is the story of one of those times.

In 7th grade I was late to class, so I started running like the wind. As fast as the wind runs when it is carrying a 60 pound backpack.

And then I fell, up the stairs.

"No big deal" you might say, or "Oh shoot! she took an L!" (I don't know what that means, but l learned it from my friends who went to Philadelphia public high school.)

But let me explain what can happen when a person falls up the stairs with a 60 pound backpack on their shoulders. The backpack can, as it did in my case, become lodged above that person's head pinning them down to the floor from the neck up. This results in the flapping of other limbs.

So it was all good when i was lying on the cold stairs, eyes millimeters from the granite. But it was not good when a cute boy from the 8th grade strolled by on the upper level. It's tough for a pre-pubescent girl to yell out to a cute boy "hey! my head is lodged between my backpack and the floor! can you help me?" So he yelled out "Are you ok!" but i certainly did not ask for assistance even though, frankly, i needed it.

I eventually got free, most likely because of the flailing. And you'd think this catastrophic event would have taught me my lesson and made me try to not be so late. But it hasn't, because being late is my middle name, or my last.

I can not wait for more bubblicious tales! Meanwhile, i will have a tea party with rubber ducky.

Something to tide you all over until my smelly cohorts end this ridiculous strike and begin to bathe once again...such demands!

Anyway, remember when I described my glasses, my profound awkwardness, the tres chic-ness of Francois? See below for photographic proof. I exaggerate not.

Precious, isn't it? I bet nobody can beat that.

Strike.

I do apologize for the delay on postings as of late.
Bubble Time has been on a Writer's Strike due to our minimal wages and minimal appreciation.

However, being on strike from bubble time comes at another price. These bath time sessions happened to be the only way some of our members were cleansing themselves, and hence, now do not smell very good (cough cough CAROLINE cough cough).

THE Incident.

The time has come.

Deep breaths. (Not under the bubbles, as that could be potentially dangerous)

Telling this bubble time story is not an easy task for me. To say that I embarass easily is an understatement. Tell a boy I like him. Put a sign on my back. Yell something offensive and pretend like it came from me. These things may seem like harmless enough jokes- but within moments I am guaranteed to turn bright red, sputter, and potentially run away and/or cry.
Keep that in mind as I tell you about the forthcoming event, the one that I only refer to as - The Incident. It was the most embarassing moment of my childhood and life thus far. It took me two years (at least) to be able to even discuss it without weeping. I jest not. I can not think of The Incident to this day without a shudder and a chill.
I tell you now, beacuse anything after Caroline's story about crapping in a cup seems like childplay, and I feel like maybe the time has come to put this AromaTherapy to the test and make public this story which I have kept like a deep dark secret for so long.

And so we begin. Ladies, I may need you to hold my hand. I apologize for the wrinkles. I've been in here awhile, prepping.

(insert dramatic music and a fog machine)

The year is 1997. I am in seventh grade. It is a very humid and hot day although Fall has just begun.
Let me paint you a picture of adolescent Meredith - she wears glasses (not the crazy spray painted ones, at this point I had graduated to more normal looking silver ones), she is chubby, very shy and considerably awkward. She longs desperately to fit in, but hasn't quite found her niche. She is right in the thick of her middle school identity crisis and has recently made the switch from wearing her dads giant clothes, listening to A LOT of Bush (and I mean a lot) and trying to fit in with the "skater" crowd to wearing Abercrombie & Fitch, listening to top 40, joining the swim team, and trying to be popular.
So, this Meredith is sitting in her seventh grade pre-algebra class on this hot Fall day, the fan is whirring and my teacher, Mr. Holt, is droning on about integers and variables and blah blah who cares numbers blah blah doesn't math suck?
I feel a tickle in my nose, and then before I even know what has happened, The Incident has occurred. The Laughter begins. Middle school as I know it, is forever altered.
What has happened in that split second is something unaffectionately referred to as a Snart.
Now, some of you may be familiar with snarts. but in honor of Mr. Holt, let me put explain it to you in the form of an equation.

Sneeze + Fart = Snart

So basically, I sneezed and involunatrily and simultaneously, let a loud one rip.
(I think I am having post traumatic stress writing this part down, I have the shakes, the sweats, you name it. )

So, of course, as to be expected, the Snart was followed by loud peals of laughter from everyone in the class. I realize what has happened, that the laughter is directed at me, and I freeze. Oh God. No. Please, no. Mr. Holt says "Class, Class - lets be adults here" and the laughter slowly dies down to some collective giggling and pointing. There is no denying this or pinning it on someone else (Miriam, you lucky bitch). In this scenario, I am the obvious offender.
I am so horrified and appalled, that before I know it I am crying, nay- bawling. As if I hadn't already made enough of a scene, I am weeping and shaking loudly. Two of my best friends are in this class, and seeing the need to save me, they come to my side and escort me out of class.
They comfort me and assure me that nobody will even remember, but I know that this is far from the truth - and that the legend of Meredith the Snarter will be a long told tale by 3PM.
I skip my classes and hide and cry in the bathroom for the rest of the day.

Luckily (?), this happend on a Friday, so I had the weekend to get my head together.
I feign sick Monday and Tuesday, and Wednesday comes. It is time to go back to school and to face my worst fears. I keep my head low, and ignore everyone I see. I know the rumors have spread, and all of my attempts to become popular have been halted by this 2 seconds of disgrace. The worst of it is knowing that Dan Brown, my biggest middle school crush, knows - and he will now never return my affections. For who could love a Snarter? No one, thats who.
It comes time to return to PreAlgebra. (drumroll?)
I walk in, try not to look at anyone, and sit down. My teacher gives me a sympathetic nod and smile. I take some deep breaths and think 'alright, this could be ok after all - its been several days - maybe its old news, everyone has forgotten, we can all just move on and pretend like this never happened.'
The thought comes a moment too soon. In perfect timing, this little punkass kid who sat next to me whose name was David Pfefferle (what a stupid name, look at all those Fs) goes, extremely loudly, "HEY DID YOU FART ON FRIDAY?"
I startle. I look at him and say "Um, No."
He snorts.
Everyone stares. I am saying to myself "be strong meredith. be strong." I wipe away a single tear and say assertively "I think class is starting. Please leave me alone."
And that is really the end of the story.
Dan Brown never did love me back - but hey, he's weird now. And I think he got someone pregnant. So PHEW. Maybe the snart saved my life?
Nobody made fun of me that badly to my face, and by the end of 8th grade I was sitting at the popular kids' lunch table. I would say that is Triumph over the Snart!
I have not since then snarted again in public - but everytime I sneeze I have a moment of terror.

Whewwwwww.

Sweet relief. I've done it- the story is out. I, who can't even say bad words or talk about body functions without giggling and blushing, have released the demon story.

Lets never discuss this again.

Butt Bubbles!

Hello friends.

I remembered this story over margaritas and refried beans, in the bathtub obviously.

I attended quaker school from Kindergarten to 12th grade.
"But you're Jewish?" you might ask or "Do quakers have big beards and not use electricity?" "No, that's the Amish." I reply.

Quaker school attendees were only 10% quaker.
Yet, once a week we were forced to do our quakerly duties and sit in the meeting house for 45 minutes in silence. If you felt touched by the light of god, you were to stand up and speak. Needless to say, god never touched me. So during meeting I learned how to make different animal species with my hands, including an operatic frog.
Don't ask.
Or do, and I will show you!

We would also do other strange quakerly activities like "Feedback," a.k.a. class therapy. Once a week the class sat in a circle and shared feedback with eachother. For instance, "I had so much fun making pizza beabs with MerP and Caro this weekend." or "I was hurt when Ray made fun of my shoes." I know Christine is wishing she had feedback. well you didn't. so ha. :-PPP
(that was not quakerly of me, i'm sorry)

One day in 4th grade we were sharing feedback on this and that, and all of a sudden I felt a sharp pain in my neather-regions.

I had to fart.

It was the painful kind of fart that always comes out honking. Mind you feedback was a quiet time, one person speaking at a time in a large room with superb acoustics. On top of having to fart I was only 3 people away from giving feedback and as I previously implied I was nervous speaking in public. My sentences usually came out in the form of laughter and spastic breathing. So in all that awkwardness I didn't know which decision would be better suited to avoid embarrasment: A) book it to the bathroom or B) stay and hope the fart would pass.

I stuck it out and waited nervously. Then came my turn. My butt HURT. I leaned forward off of the radiator, my tailbone in all sorts of pain but I held onto that fart for dear life.
Then all of a sudden "pvvffjsafsjfisavvpvvffjsafsjfisavv."

The entire classroom was up in arms, rolling around on the floor laughing. I was devastated and my face turned bright red. But I kept a straight face and Craig the psychologist told everyone to quiet down. I gave my feedback and returned my buttocks to the radiator contemplating my lonely future with no friends or boyfriends.

Later that day in gym class I heard: "Did you hear when Evan farted in Feedback!?"
I couldn't believe it!! The fart was blamed on the most popular boy in class who was sitting right next to me!

This brought me comfort only momentarily because I knew, Evan knew, he didn't fart, and would be more than happy to set the record straight.

But I still had friends i guess, and about 2 boys have liked me since.

So bubble boys and girls, farting loudly in a classroom full of fourth graders doesn't always completely destroy your social life.

I bid you adieu with my favorite feedback comment of all time:

Nerd: "I want to thank Matt Fink for telling me about the time he got constipated."
Matt Fink: "What?! that's not feedback!"

<3