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).
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
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
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 "pvvffjsafsjfisavvpvvffjsafsjfi
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
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Candy Bubbles
Did anyone ever used to buy candy bubbles? You'd blow them and then eat them.
Came in cherry and grape flavors. Cherry was best. Much better than soap flavor.
I just remembered those. Only when you didnt manage to snatch em up in your mouth, and the popped on you- they got you real nice and sticky. And sometimes people would just drink the liquid. That can not have been safe.
Anyway, on to the times of yesteryear...I was thinking about this particular memory today when eating lunch with an open-mouthed chewer who shall remain nameless.
When I was little, I was eating lunch- tomato and peanut butter on toast specifically (what? its good) - at the table with the babysitter and my sister. My babysitter proceeded to get all up in my face and tell me that I was not allowed to eat at the table with them if I could not learn to close my mouth when I chewed.
I was promptly exiled to eat my lunch in the family room, alone and mortified. Although I was young, and it was only my sister and babysitter who knew of this thing I did, I was unspeakably horrified by my actions. Every time thereafter that I made the vicious mistake of talking while chewing, or opening my mouth at all during the meal time I was banished to the couch of shame.
It took me a very short time to rectify this behavior and learn to eat like a lady.
To this day, I am very conscious and offended by open mouth chewers (you know who you are).
Moral of the story: Public ridicule effectively halts undesirable behaviors in children. So if you have kids, and they are picking their nose or something- just broadcast it at a sporting event or something. Maximum embarassment = maximum results. This could be a new psychology line of study, right Caro? Much akin to behaviorism or Jungian pyschology - here comes a new school of thought! Petersian Psychology - conditioning through public humiliation. Textbook writers, get a pen! Who wants to be a study participant?
I will further demonstrate how public humilation can affect youth and development through a case study I only refer to as THE INCIDENT. I will give you this sneak preview, as I have to collect myself and my thoughts before I can fully committ this to words. Let me just say this - this INCIDENT, as it was, I have only very recently been able to discuss without weeping or running for the hills. I considered transferring schools after it occurred, and I still can not talk about it without hearing the haunting laughter of cruel preteens and feeling the burn of my salty tears.
Since the bubbles will help disguise my tears and redness, I shall attempt, in the near future, to tell the story of...the snart. (insert the theme song of Are You Afraid of the Dark).
Buckle up.
Miriam put your bathing suit back on. I mean seriously.
Came in cherry and grape flavors. Cherry was best. Much better than soap flavor.
I just remembered those. Only when you didnt manage to snatch em up in your mouth, and the popped on you- they got you real nice and sticky. And sometimes people would just drink the liquid. That can not have been safe.
Anyway, on to the times of yesteryear...I was thinking about this particular memory today when eating lunch with an open-mouthed chewer who shall remain nameless.
When I was little, I was eating lunch- tomato and peanut butter on toast specifically (what? its good) - at the table with the babysitter and my sister. My babysitter proceeded to get all up in my face and tell me that I was not allowed to eat at the table with them if I could not learn to close my mouth when I chewed.
I was promptly exiled to eat my lunch in the family room, alone and mortified. Although I was young, and it was only my sister and babysitter who knew of this thing I did, I was unspeakably horrified by my actions. Every time thereafter that I made the vicious mistake of talking while chewing, or opening my mouth at all during the meal time I was banished to the couch of shame.
It took me a very short time to rectify this behavior and learn to eat like a lady.
To this day, I am very conscious and offended by open mouth chewers (you know who you are).
Moral of the story: Public ridicule effectively halts undesirable behaviors in children. So if you have kids, and they are picking their nose or something- just broadcast it at a sporting event or something. Maximum embarassment = maximum results. This could be a new psychology line of study, right Caro? Much akin to behaviorism or Jungian pyschology - here comes a new school of thought! Petersian Psychology - conditioning through public humiliation. Textbook writers, get a pen! Who wants to be a study participant?
I will further demonstrate how public humilation can affect youth and development through a case study I only refer to as THE INCIDENT. I will give you this sneak preview, as I have to collect myself and my thoughts before I can fully committ this to words. Let me just say this - this INCIDENT, as it was, I have only very recently been able to discuss without weeping or running for the hills. I considered transferring schools after it occurred, and I still can not talk about it without hearing the haunting laughter of cruel preteens and feeling the burn of my salty tears.
Since the bubbles will help disguise my tears and redness, I shall attempt, in the near future, to tell the story of...the snart. (insert the theme song of Are You Afraid of the Dark).
Buckle up.
Miriam put your bathing suit back on. I mean seriously.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Is That a Pizzebab in Your Pants?
Nope: It's a pad.
1996 was the summer of the pool. I was there all of the time: getting tweeted at by the lifeguards for running, frequenting the snack bar, sneaking in the occasional game of Sharks and Minnows, living the dream. I had a Speedo tan line, and I smelled like chlorine. I was a pool rat with braces.
It was supposed to be a great summer. Then came the period. It offended me, and I didn't want to talk about it with anyone, especially not my mother. But she found out eventually and led me to the closet to get what we deemed "supplies." She handed me boxes and boxes of tampons as if I were a squirrel storing them up for the winter, telling me that if I needed anymore "supplies" that I could just come and get them.
I was down with the tampon. It was OK by me. But I didn't think it would be wise to wear one in the pool. I reached this conclusion after reading one of those Most Embarrassing Moments stories in YM. In this particular story, a girl had gone to the pool with her "crush" and jumped in, causing her tampon to disappear into her internal abyss. She then had to get it extracted by a doctor. The story got 4 stars for "mega mortifying."
I opted for a much more intelligent decision at the pool: One Kotex pad for me, thanks. It was almost 2-inches thick, and it prevented me from walking in a straight line. It was kind of like a diaper. Needless to say, it don't not sit well in my Speedo. I looked like I had a bad case of penis envy and had decided to retaliate by stuffing my suit.
The junk in my trunk was beyond obvious when I removed my Umbros. I knew this and jumped into the water as quickly as possible. I stayed in for about 30 minutes, and when I jumped out, I had practically forgotten about the pad - until of course I started walking back to my towel and the water retained by Ms. Kotex began pouring out. It looked like I was peeing, and I could've sworn that the hot babes (read: the 14-year-old boys) in the pool had noticed. I managed to walk calmly back to my towel, grab it, wrap it round my waist, snag my mini-backpack and sprint for the bathroom. Once safely inside a stall, the pad was out, and the tampon was in. I reasoned that even if the tampon torpedoed through me during a cannon ball, it could never be worse than being a well-hung, 12-year-old girl.
1996 was the summer of the pool. I was there all of the time: getting tweeted at by the lifeguards for running, frequenting the snack bar, sneaking in the occasional game of Sharks and Minnows, living the dream. I had a Speedo tan line, and I smelled like chlorine. I was a pool rat with braces.
It was supposed to be a great summer. Then came the period. It offended me, and I didn't want to talk about it with anyone, especially not my mother. But she found out eventually and led me to the closet to get what we deemed "supplies." She handed me boxes and boxes of tampons as if I were a squirrel storing them up for the winter, telling me that if I needed anymore "supplies" that I could just come and get them.
I was down with the tampon. It was OK by me. But I didn't think it would be wise to wear one in the pool. I reached this conclusion after reading one of those Most Embarrassing Moments stories in YM. In this particular story, a girl had gone to the pool with her "crush" and jumped in, causing her tampon to disappear into her internal abyss. She then had to get it extracted by a doctor. The story got 4 stars for "mega mortifying."
I opted for a much more intelligent decision at the pool: One Kotex pad for me, thanks. It was almost 2-inches thick, and it prevented me from walking in a straight line. It was kind of like a diaper. Needless to say, it don't not sit well in my Speedo. I looked like I had a bad case of penis envy and had decided to retaliate by stuffing my suit.
The junk in my trunk was beyond obvious when I removed my Umbros. I knew this and jumped into the water as quickly as possible. I stayed in for about 30 minutes, and when I jumped out, I had practically forgotten about the pad - until of course I started walking back to my towel and the water retained by Ms. Kotex began pouring out. It looked like I was peeing, and I could've sworn that the hot babes (read: the 14-year-old boys) in the pool had noticed. I managed to walk calmly back to my towel, grab it, wrap it round my waist, snag my mini-backpack and sprint for the bathroom. Once safely inside a stall, the pad was out, and the tampon was in. I reasoned that even if the tampon torpedoed through me during a cannon ball, it could never be worse than being a well-hung, 12-year-old girl.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Attention, learners!
Bubbletime is soon to be FACED with a new FACE! what!
But seriously, while dipping in both the tub and a bowl of salsa last night, merep and myself (caro) made the executive decision to incorporate poems in the suds. Stories, yarns, and fables will still abound, but it will snuggle peacefully in the bosom of g and x-rated poetry.
Our very first: created by anaconda obsessed MereP and Caro...
The Ballad of the Pizzebab
By MerP and Caro
When you mix pizza with a kebab, a truly magical thing occurs
And with this, I think you will enthusiastically concur
What's that you say? What could this glorious creation be?
A Pizzebab it 'tis, and it's majestic wonder you shall soon see!
Picture this: Chunks of Sausage, Tomato, Dough and Cheese
I think I just heard you say "Get me one now! (Please)"
All of that yum is found on a stick? This must be a dream!
Yes, a dream so delicious in your hand you will cream
At first you will feel naughty,
but then mom will also make you a hot totty
Then you will feel so special, you will bequeath everybody "dance with my body"**
And Once the dance of the P-Bab has come to pass
We can only hope that some balls will slap some ass
NOTE: MEREP AND I will soon be hosting a PIZZABAB POT LUCK PARTY.
DOUBLE NOTE: Sausage can be replaced by pepperoni, ham, pineapple... even hot dog.
** COURTESY OF JMAN!! (j. pike)
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Not much really rhymes with "Bubbles"
So, this post is in honor of JP- the best story teller I have ever known.
JP was not only an avid poetry (and bubble time) lover, but quite an incredible poet himself...and I'll bet you guys didn't know that I also, am quite the incredible poet.
I have yet to grace the bathtub gang with my intricate rhyme schemes, iambic hexameter (i'm much too advanced for pentameter), mind-blowing assonance and alliteration, post-modernist themes, the use of negative capability, and just really generally genius and majestic euphony.
I don't mean to toot my own horn or anything, but I am not sure many of you are aware that you have been loofah-ing the back of a PUBLISHED and AWARD WINNING POET.
Thats right. It's true. I really don't mean to brag or make you guys feel inadequate. I still plan on sharing lukewarm scented bath waters with you. But maybe you'll think twice before insulting my feety pajamas- CAROLINE. Geez. I'm shy, ok?
But, I digress. Let me spin you a yarn of that fateful day on which my hard work would be recognized and preserved for readers of all ages and sizes to enjoy.
It was a cold fall day of my third grade year. The leaves were changing, which was appropriate, as the changing season was just the subject of my piece of timeless rhyming gold. I was called to Principal Baum's (*aforementioned in my bus post) office for some big news. I had won the OCTELA contest (Ohio Council of Teachers of English Language Arts ) and my poem "I am an Oak Tree" would be nationally published and distributed in a book of young authors. Not only that, there would be a big awards presentation at which my favorite author (Peter Catalanato- google him. swoon.) would present me an award and a signed book. I was pretty much famous after that at my school, you know, signing autographs, posing for pictures with first graders. It was big time. I mean I really thought I had hit my peak in kindergarten when, due to my extremely advanced reading level, I was asked to read a book to my principal. Think AGAIN.
Well, ok- so maybe nobody cared. And maybe my teacher forced me to go to every single classroom in Emerson Elementary school and read it to them, including the fifth grade classes!!! OH THE HORROR. And maybe it was pretty mortifying. I was so awkward, even then, that I made a friend come with me and just stand next to me when I had to do these beat poetry readings, just so I wouldn't be so embarassed, which I think just made me look weirder. This was also pre-braces (aka huge crazy crooked teeth), and the beginning of crazy glasses and being fat.
So, I got my award. My sweaty hand shook that of the gorgeous Peter Catalanato. I got a free lunch. And my moment of glory came to its close. That moment was the real pinnacle of my writing career, and have infrequently attempted much poetry since then (except when I was going through my songwriting phase), not because I am not capable of more heartwarming prose, but merely beacuse I don't want to tarnish the glorious memory.
Here's a little taste of my AWARD WINNING and PUBLISHED poem... (i can't give you the whole thing, you'll have to buy the book)
The Oak Tree
by Meredith Ann Peters
I am an oak tree
I stand across the street
silently i say hello
to everyone i meet
The pool is closed, the weather is cool
and now the kids are back at school
I am so lonely and very bored too
now that the kids are gone, theres nothing to do.
blah blah the tree loses its leaves and then the last line has something about the tree being naked. Which if I do say so myself, was very cutting edge and risque for a third grader.
Has your world been rocked or what? I accept fan mail @ 202 Bloomfield St. Apt 4, Hoboken NJ 07030
Bubbles can be Troubles!
Hmm...I think you guys should stick with reading and listening to JP's poetry and lyrics...
We'll miss you John. You are truly an inspiration to us all.
JP was not only an avid poetry (and bubble time) lover, but quite an incredible poet himself...and I'll bet you guys didn't know that I also, am quite the incredible poet.
I have yet to grace the bathtub gang with my intricate rhyme schemes, iambic hexameter (i'm much too advanced for pentameter), mind-blowing assonance and alliteration, post-modernist themes, the use of negative capability, and just really generally genius and majestic euphony.
I don't mean to toot my own horn or anything, but I am not sure many of you are aware that you have been loofah-ing the back of a PUBLISHED and AWARD WINNING POET.
Thats right. It's true. I really don't mean to brag or make you guys feel inadequate. I still plan on sharing lukewarm scented bath waters with you. But maybe you'll think twice before insulting my feety pajamas- CAROLINE. Geez. I'm shy, ok?
But, I digress. Let me spin you a yarn of that fateful day on which my hard work would be recognized and preserved for readers of all ages and sizes to enjoy.
It was a cold fall day of my third grade year. The leaves were changing, which was appropriate, as the changing season was just the subject of my piece of timeless rhyming gold. I was called to Principal Baum's (*aforementioned in my bus post) office for some big news. I had won the OCTELA contest (Ohio Council of Teachers of English Language Arts ) and my poem "I am an Oak Tree" would be nationally published and distributed in a book of young authors. Not only that, there would be a big awards presentation at which my favorite author (Peter Catalanato- google him. swoon.) would present me an award and a signed book. I was pretty much famous after that at my school, you know, signing autographs, posing for pictures with first graders. It was big time. I mean I really thought I had hit my peak in kindergarten when, due to my extremely advanced reading level, I was asked to read a book to my principal. Think AGAIN.
Well, ok- so maybe nobody cared. And maybe my teacher forced me to go to every single classroom in Emerson Elementary school and read it to them, including the fifth grade classes!!! OH THE HORROR. And maybe it was pretty mortifying. I was so awkward, even then, that I made a friend come with me and just stand next to me when I had to do these beat poetry readings, just so I wouldn't be so embarassed, which I think just made me look weirder. This was also pre-braces (aka huge crazy crooked teeth), and the beginning of crazy glasses and being fat.
So, I got my award. My sweaty hand shook that of the gorgeous Peter Catalanato. I got a free lunch. And my moment of glory came to its close. That moment was the real pinnacle of my writing career, and have infrequently attempted much poetry since then (except when I was going through my songwriting phase), not because I am not capable of more heartwarming prose, but merely beacuse I don't want to tarnish the glorious memory.
Here's a little taste of my AWARD WINNING and PUBLISHED poem... (i can't give you the whole thing, you'll have to buy the book)
The Oak Tree
by Meredith Ann Peters
I am an oak tree
I stand across the street
silently i say hello
to everyone i meet
The pool is closed, the weather is cool
and now the kids are back at school
I am so lonely and very bored too
now that the kids are gone, theres nothing to do.
blah blah the tree loses its leaves and then the last line has something about the tree being naked. Which if I do say so myself, was very cutting edge and risque for a third grader.
Has your world been rocked or what? I accept fan mail @ 202 Bloomfield St. Apt 4, Hoboken NJ 07030
Bubbles can be Troubles!
Hmm...I think you guys should stick with reading and listening to JP's poetry and lyrics...
We'll miss you John. You are truly an inspiration to us all.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Name that Bubble!
I had 2 nicknames in pre-school. They were:
"yum yum" (mir-ium)
and
"cry baby" (self-explanitory.)
"yum yum" (mir-ium)
and
"cry baby" (self-explanitory.)
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Jesus and Julius
Unfortunately, we just had some near drownings in the tub due to the vulgar hilarity of Caroline's bubble time confession.
Thank GOD i'm a lifeguard. Insert whistle blow.
How can we ever follow this up?
GOD, SERIOUSLY, PUT IT AWAY GORODE...
Ladies, Ladies...it seems some of us are malcontent with BubbleTea as the drink of choice for B-Time...but let's relax, we all know that our SECOND FAVORITE drink of choice is the Orange Julius...(merep, an image of the Julius, please?)
Anywayzzz...bathroom talk is not just something our mom's used to reprimand us for when we were 5 and playing with our poops in the toilette...(anyone? anyone?)...even as adults we have our freudian moments...and mine occurred quite recently. however, girlzz, i warn you: this story is for anyone but the faint of heart. if you define bathroom talk as "arguing over what loofah to use during the MereP rub down" then i caution you to avert your eyes and web-browsers NOW.
I shall GO ON...
It was sunday. I had enjoyed a large spicey italian sausage on a roll. Not moments later, I was eating a full course meal and drinking wine at the first meeting of my bookclub. What I ate is, at best, irrelevant. What I did is, no doubt, punishable. I left the restaurant and drove in my car North on FDR. Knowing I needed to get gas, I decided to try my luck just over the GW bridge in dirty jersey . As I'm on the telephone with MereP, it hits me that I need to crap. It also hits me that I haven't done so in quite some time. It's Midnight...there's traffic...my stomache is about to explode. I start sweating. The words coming out of MereP's mouth begin to mean nothing as I try and steer my car to the closest exit. The pain, ladies, the pain...reinforcement why giving labor is about as appealing as a root canal without the laughing gas. I get off at a random exit and begin driving down a daunting boulevard (think Eerie Blvd, 'Cuse style). I can't hold it any longer. Frantically looking around for some form of salvation I see a Dunkin Donuts with a 24hr Sign...but NO! 24 hr DRIVE THRU!! FOILED!
Then it happened...
There are moments in life when you realize just how amazingly clever you are. How if you were homeless for 48 hours in the amazon maybe, just maybe, you'd actually be able to survive on pure improvisation of your surroudnings. There are also moments in life when desperate times call for desperate measures.
My salvation came in the form of a semi-empty bubbletea cup. It sat staring at me on my center console. Without a moment's thought, I threw out the remaining tapioca "pearls"...squatted in the darkest shadow my car cast on the Dunkin Donuts parking lot..and crapped. I crapped into the bubble tea cup. It happened so quickly...it was like a first kiss where you're nervous, flustered, anxious...and then all of a sudden it happens and you're both relieved it's over, but also excited! Yes, I was excited! Excited that I could begin my drive back to the city pain free. However...the story gets a tad gloomier: there was no trash around. I left the poop in the bubbletea container on the cement parking lot next to Dunkin Donuts. New light has been shed on the creation "coffee coolata".
I have little shame. It took an entire work day to realize this story is too ... juicy...to keep to myself.
I know ask you, is it a coincidence the drink of choice #1 for B-Time is BubbleTea?
I think what I did, that night, in that parking lot, only adds validation to the legacy of "dirty jersey".
Anywayzzz...bathroom talk is not just something our mom's used to reprimand us for when we were 5 and playing with our poops in the toilette...(anyone? anyone?)...even as adults we have our freudian moments...and mine occurred quite recently. however, girlzz, i warn you: this story is for anyone but the faint of heart. if you define bathroom talk as "arguing over what loofah to use during the MereP rub down" then i caution you to avert your eyes and web-browsers NOW.
I shall GO ON...
It was sunday. I had enjoyed a large spicey italian sausage on a roll. Not moments later, I was eating a full course meal and drinking wine at the first meeting of my bookclub. What I ate is, at best, irrelevant. What I did is, no doubt, punishable. I left the restaurant and drove in my car North on FDR. Knowing I needed to get gas, I decided to try my luck just over the GW bridge in dirty jersey . As I'm on the telephone with MereP, it hits me that I need to crap. It also hits me that I haven't done so in quite some time. It's Midnight...there's traffic...my stomache is about to explode. I start sweating. The words coming out of MereP's mouth begin to mean nothing as I try and steer my car to the closest exit. The pain, ladies, the pain...reinforcement why giving labor is about as appealing as a root canal without the laughing gas. I get off at a random exit and begin driving down a daunting boulevard (think Eerie Blvd, 'Cuse style). I can't hold it any longer. Frantically looking around for some form of salvation I see a Dunkin Donuts with a 24hr Sign...but NO! 24 hr DRIVE THRU!! FOILED!
Then it happened...
There are moments in life when you realize just how amazingly clever you are. How if you were homeless for 48 hours in the amazon maybe, just maybe, you'd actually be able to survive on pure improvisation of your surroudnings. There are also moments in life when desperate times call for desperate measures.
My salvation came in the form of a semi-empty bubbletea cup. It sat staring at me on my center console. Without a moment's thought, I threw out the remaining tapioca "pearls"...squatted in the darkest shadow my car cast on the Dunkin Donuts parking lot..and crapped. I crapped into the bubble tea cup. It happened so quickly...it was like a first kiss where you're nervous, flustered, anxious...and then all of a sudden it happens and you're both relieved it's over, but also excited! Yes, I was excited! Excited that I could begin my drive back to the city pain free. However...the story gets a tad gloomier: there was no trash around. I left the poop in the bubbletea container on the cement parking lot next to Dunkin Donuts. New light has been shed on the creation "coffee coolata".
I have little shame. It took an entire work day to realize this story is too ... juicy...to keep to myself.
I know ask you, is it a coincidence the drink of choice #1 for B-Time is BubbleTea?
I think what I did, that night, in that parking lot, only adds validation to the legacy of "dirty jersey".
The Wheels on the Bus
Let me continue on this spearmint-scented bubble-filled journey through crack addicts and pillow face attacks and take us through a new land- a land where children run amok, chaos ensues, harassment is commonplace and traumatic memories are inevitable.
Ladies and gentlemen, I speak of The Land of the Yellow School Bus.
Yes, the bus. A childhood institution. Like most children, I started riding the bus in Kindergarten and rode it until I was 16 and we could all start rolling up to school in our new (used) cars, pumping sweet jams.
Now, I have many memories of the bus, 91% which are bad. The other 9% aren't even good necessarily (I don't have a sweet bus make-out story or anything) - they just aren't associated with shame and horror.
Here a few tasty bits:
Once, I got on the bus and this kid Stuart (who later went to Juvie) was like "Holy Hell. Look at that girl's glasses. She looks like a fat crazy grandmother" (I believe have mentioned my huge, bright blue glasses with highlights of red and yellow spray paint. I may provide you all with a picture when the time is right) I immediately begged my parents for contacts, and ceased wearing my glasses until I got them, which resulted in a lot of bumping into things and falling down.
Later on, in fifth grade, we had this lady bus driver who drove us to gym class. And she was, well, a total bitch. We hated her. And one day, she was yelling at us for being hooligans and she totally flicked us off! The nerve!! So, thinking we'd show her- the entire class reported her to the principal. The next day as we conspiratorially giggled and prepared for the grand apology and respect we so thought we deserved, she very stoically informed us that her pointer finger, as well as her ring finger, were in fact, missing. So, while she had been upset - it was her intention to point, not to offend with a vulgar gesture. Uh, whoops. Scratch that Principal Baum. We're good here.
And finally, the most traumatizing of all bus stories...There were some boys on my bus in middle school who used to play a game called..."Stick Shift" or "Race Car Driver." Ah, I still involuntarily cringe and shudder with the thought. Now, I'm not sure if the name of this game is self-explanatory - but it basically involved one of many popular (and very classy) middle school males sitting in the backseat of the bus, and well, using his penis as the stick shift to his imaginary race car. Now, the hilarity of this game revolved around what happened when the other schemers would find an unsuspecting female (often, me) and say "Hey Meredith, Jeff wants to talk to you." So gullible little awkward Meredith would waddle to the back of the bus to see what Popular Jeff wanted, and you can imagine her shock and horror when she discovered what awaited her there. And, its funny, because you'd think the kid exposing himself would be the one who would be embarrassed - but the laughs, points and jokes that always followed my unfortunate discoveries were enough to make me sit in the front seat next to the fingerless lady.
*Side note, Popular Jeff is now the married father of two.
I'm so happy to be back in the tub. Caroline, have you been working out? Those fingers are looking fine. Let me loofah them for you.
Ladies and gentlemen, I speak of The Land of the Yellow School Bus.
Yes, the bus. A childhood institution. Like most children, I started riding the bus in Kindergarten and rode it until I was 16 and we could all start rolling up to school in our new (used) cars, pumping sweet jams.
Now, I have many memories of the bus, 91% which are bad. The other 9% aren't even good necessarily (I don't have a sweet bus make-out story or anything) - they just aren't associated with shame and horror.
Here a few tasty bits:
Once, I got on the bus and this kid Stuart (who later went to Juvie) was like "Holy Hell. Look at that girl's glasses. She looks like a fat crazy grandmother" (I believe have mentioned my huge, bright blue glasses with highlights of red and yellow spray paint. I may provide you all with a picture when the time is right) I immediately begged my parents for contacts, and ceased wearing my glasses until I got them, which resulted in a lot of bumping into things and falling down.
Later on, in fifth grade, we had this lady bus driver who drove us to gym class. And she was, well, a total bitch. We hated her. And one day, she was yelling at us for being hooligans and she totally flicked us off! The nerve!! So, thinking we'd show her- the entire class reported her to the principal. The next day as we conspiratorially giggled and prepared for the grand apology and respect we so thought we deserved, she very stoically informed us that her pointer finger, as well as her ring finger, were in fact, missing. So, while she had been upset - it was her intention to point, not to offend with a vulgar gesture. Uh, whoops. Scratch that Principal Baum. We're good here.
And finally, the most traumatizing of all bus stories...There were some boys on my bus in middle school who used to play a game called..."Stick Shift" or "Race Car Driver." Ah, I still involuntarily cringe and shudder with the thought. Now, I'm not sure if the name of this game is self-explanatory - but it basically involved one of many popular (and very classy) middle school males sitting in the backseat of the bus, and well, using his penis as the stick shift to his imaginary race car. Now, the hilarity of this game revolved around what happened when the other schemers would find an unsuspecting female (often, me) and say "Hey Meredith, Jeff wants to talk to you." So gullible little awkward Meredith would waddle to the back of the bus to see what Popular Jeff wanted, and you can imagine her shock and horror when she discovered what awaited her there. And, its funny, because you'd think the kid exposing himself would be the one who would be embarrassed - but the laughs, points and jokes that always followed my unfortunate discoveries were enough to make me sit in the front seat next to the fingerless lady.
*Side note, Popular Jeff is now the married father of two.
I'm so happy to be back in the tub. Caroline, have you been working out? Those fingers are looking fine. Let me loofah them for you.
Bubble Tea Endorsement
On this day I would like to officially announce that Bubble Tea is the official drink of the Bubble Time Bathers.Not only is this drink milky, delicious and full of chewy little tapioca bubbles that fill your mouth with joy, but the bubble tea container (see diagram) itself saved the life of one of our Bathtime VIPs.
We endorse this product. (Shut it, Miriam)
Monday, May 7, 2007
Pillow to the Face
Miriam: Thank you to you, Mr. B and Mr. B's crack for re-inflating Bubble Time.
I will also try to teach a life lesson. That lesson is: Don't ever be the first person to fall asleep at a sleepover. And don't be the second person to fall asleep at a sleepover either. And most certainly not the third.
I learned this lesson the hard way. Megan was having a sleepover for her birthday. She invited all of the girls in the 3rd grade class at St. Monica's over to her house, which meant about 10 people. Small school. In this small school, I played the part of the shy bookworm (think Baby-sitter's Club, not Kafka) who could spend an entire religion class deciding whether to use the purple crayon or the blue crayon to color St. Francis' robes. I never liked sleepovers because they were a sham: They claimed to bring sleep, but all they really brought were hours of idle chatter, hard floors and face-licking dogs that would trample you and your sleeping bag. Now, don't get me wrong; I loved a good game of "Light as a Feather/Stiff as a Board" as much as the next person. I just would've preferred to play it at my house and then wish everyone a goodnight as I scurried off to my own bed.
But I went to Megan's, and for the most part, it was fun. We ate pizza, played games and talked about the two biggest studs in the 3rd grade - Brian and Michael. During our round of Truth or Dare, Meredith, one of the girls in the circle of sleeping bags, fell asleep. Someone decided to play a prank on her, so Megan grabbed a tube of toothpaste from her bathroom and squirted a giant blob into Meredith's hand. Meredith rolled over and got it in her hair. We all laughed. I laughed. Tricia fell asleep next. She got shaving cream in her hand. We laughed again. Then shortly after, I fell asleep.
I was half conscious and tucked into my sleeping bag with my back to the floor when I heard voices. Something had startled me awake, but I was too tired to open my eyes to see what it was. "Do it again!" said one voice.
"No, you do it this time," whispered another.
I thought I was dreaming, and I must've shifted in my sleeping bag.
"Guys, she's waking up!" hissed another voice. "DO IT NOW!"
I felt a woosh of air above my head, and I cracked my eye. The only thing I could see without my glasses on in the pitch-black room was something coming toward my face that seemed to move in slow motion. The second it hit, I passed out.
When I woke up the next morning, Meredith was trying to wash the toothpaste out of her hair. Tricia was complaining about the shaving cream on her pillow. I felt groggy. I told everyone about the weird dream I had about something hitting me in the face. Erin, Helene and all of the other stay-awakers giggled. "You were awake??" said Megan.
"Yeah, why?" I asked.
"We totally hit you with pillows!!!" Megan said. "We thought you were asleep!!!"
So, let this be a lesson to you all: In the order of sleepover pranks, it goes toothpaste, shaving cream and then a pillow to the face. Choose your timing wisely.
I will also try to teach a life lesson. That lesson is: Don't ever be the first person to fall asleep at a sleepover. And don't be the second person to fall asleep at a sleepover either. And most certainly not the third.
I learned this lesson the hard way. Megan was having a sleepover for her birthday. She invited all of the girls in the 3rd grade class at St. Monica's over to her house, which meant about 10 people. Small school. In this small school, I played the part of the shy bookworm (think Baby-sitter's Club, not Kafka) who could spend an entire religion class deciding whether to use the purple crayon or the blue crayon to color St. Francis' robes. I never liked sleepovers because they were a sham: They claimed to bring sleep, but all they really brought were hours of idle chatter, hard floors and face-licking dogs that would trample you and your sleeping bag. Now, don't get me wrong; I loved a good game of "Light as a Feather/Stiff as a Board" as much as the next person. I just would've preferred to play it at my house and then wish everyone a goodnight as I scurried off to my own bed.
But I went to Megan's, and for the most part, it was fun. We ate pizza, played games and talked about the two biggest studs in the 3rd grade - Brian and Michael. During our round of Truth or Dare, Meredith, one of the girls in the circle of sleeping bags, fell asleep. Someone decided to play a prank on her, so Megan grabbed a tube of toothpaste from her bathroom and squirted a giant blob into Meredith's hand. Meredith rolled over and got it in her hair. We all laughed. I laughed. Tricia fell asleep next. She got shaving cream in her hand. We laughed again. Then shortly after, I fell asleep.
I was half conscious and tucked into my sleeping bag with my back to the floor when I heard voices. Something had startled me awake, but I was too tired to open my eyes to see what it was. "Do it again!" said one voice.
"No, you do it this time," whispered another.
I thought I was dreaming, and I must've shifted in my sleeping bag.
"Guys, she's waking up!" hissed another voice. "DO IT NOW!"
I felt a woosh of air above my head, and I cracked my eye. The only thing I could see without my glasses on in the pitch-black room was something coming toward my face that seemed to move in slow motion. The second it hit, I passed out.
When I woke up the next morning, Meredith was trying to wash the toothpaste out of her hair. Tricia was complaining about the shaving cream on her pillow. I felt groggy. I told everyone about the weird dream I had about something hitting me in the face. Erin, Helene and all of the other stay-awakers giggled. "You were awake??" said Megan.
"Yeah, why?" I asked.
"We totally hit you with pillows!!!" Megan said. "We thought you were asleep!!!"
So, let this be a lesson to you all: In the order of sleepover pranks, it goes toothpaste, shaving cream and then a pillow to the face. Choose your timing wisely.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Nice Kicks.
Move over, women. I'm getting in this tub.
I have big feet. Size 10, baby. I don't mess around. Growing up, I was under the misconception that having big feet meant that I would be tall - lies, Mom, lies (I peaked shortly after 5'6"). But in 6th grade, I still thought my lengthy flippers would bring me to great heights, and I didn't mind showing them off. In 1996, I thought it would be best to display them in a brand new pair of sneakers - jet black, Nike Force (swoosh!), men's tennis shoes that made my feet appear about 2 sizes bigger than they actually were.
I thudded my way into Mrs. Jamison's classroom, and some of my fellows genuinely complimented my new kicks. But not Ray. Ray was mean. He made people cry. For such a short, baby-faced little rodent, he certainly knew how to wield an insult. This Napoleonic devil had it out for me that year, and, as he had already announced to the class that I had big ears, my giant feet were a new element for teasing.
We were doing worksheets in English class, and when I passed by Ray's desk to get my sheet, he did a double take. He stared at my shoes and watched them as I walked back to my desk. He turned to the tiny, loud, opinionated girl who sat next to him and whispered something in her ear. She craned her neck around to get a better look at my shoes, which were now firmly planted beneath my desk, and let out an obnoxious chuckle, one of those fake laughs that girls use when they're trying to impress guys in 6th grade.
The duo continued staring at my shoes and giggling as I tried to focus on sentence diagrams. To complete the awesome image of my ensemble, let me just say this: oversized white polo, unflattering, knee-length plaid skirt, braces, curly bangs and, the icing on the cake, huge, hulking man shoes. When I finished my worksheet, I had no choice but to walk by Ray again en route to my teacher's desk.
"Nice shoes," he said.
"Thanks," I said.
I sat back down, delighted that I'd gotten away relatively unscathed. But then, just as I took my seat, Ray leaned toward me:
"Christine," he whispered.
"Huh?" I said. He muttered something but I couldn't hear him. "What?" I said.
"Those shoes are really fuckin ugly," he said. "Your feet are huge."
I wore Sebagos for the rest of the year.
I have big feet. Size 10, baby. I don't mess around. Growing up, I was under the misconception that having big feet meant that I would be tall - lies, Mom, lies (I peaked shortly after 5'6"). But in 6th grade, I still thought my lengthy flippers would bring me to great heights, and I didn't mind showing them off. In 1996, I thought it would be best to display them in a brand new pair of sneakers - jet black, Nike Force (swoosh!), men's tennis shoes that made my feet appear about 2 sizes bigger than they actually were.
I thudded my way into Mrs. Jamison's classroom, and some of my fellows genuinely complimented my new kicks. But not Ray. Ray was mean. He made people cry. For such a short, baby-faced little rodent, he certainly knew how to wield an insult. This Napoleonic devil had it out for me that year, and, as he had already announced to the class that I had big ears, my giant feet were a new element for teasing.
We were doing worksheets in English class, and when I passed by Ray's desk to get my sheet, he did a double take. He stared at my shoes and watched them as I walked back to my desk. He turned to the tiny, loud, opinionated girl who sat next to him and whispered something in her ear. She craned her neck around to get a better look at my shoes, which were now firmly planted beneath my desk, and let out an obnoxious chuckle, one of those fake laughs that girls use when they're trying to impress guys in 6th grade.
The duo continued staring at my shoes and giggling as I tried to focus on sentence diagrams. To complete the awesome image of my ensemble, let me just say this: oversized white polo, unflattering, knee-length plaid skirt, braces, curly bangs and, the icing on the cake, huge, hulking man shoes. When I finished my worksheet, I had no choice but to walk by Ray again en route to my teacher's desk.
"Nice shoes," he said.
"Thanks," I said.
I sat back down, delighted that I'd gotten away relatively unscathed. But then, just as I took my seat, Ray leaned toward me:
"Christine," he whispered.
"Huh?" I said. He muttered something but I couldn't hear him. "What?" I said.
"Those shoes are really fuckin ugly," he said. "Your feet are huge."
I wore Sebagos for the rest of the year.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Burst My Bubble
This is a tale about regrets.
Much like how i regret that yesterday Caro tried to make a turkey costume in the tub with construction paper despite her failure the first time. And how I regret that Meredith didn't stop me from eating the rubber ducky when I thought it was a peep. Oh, indigestion and embarassment.
When I was young i liked to think i was cool, but i wasn't.
I was a fat awkward preteen and I was especially nerdy at Hebrew school.
Surprisingly there are cool jews out there, and I was not one of them.
On the day of my Bat Mitzvah, the day I became a woman, I received an offer I refused immediately: I was asked by the dorkiest boy in my Hebrew school class, to dance.
There were 3 reasons why I refused:
1. I couldn't be seen dancing with the dorkiest boy in hebrew school!
2. I was scared of boys, as I still am to this day.
3. I didn't want to hear comments like "is that your boyfriend??" from every member of my very large very jewish family.
So I said "no" and I'm pretty sure I scarred the young impressionable boy for life,
and caused years of pain agony and suffering.
The point of my story is, the dorkiest boy in my hebew school class is now really hot!
You can find me under the suds...
Much like how i regret that yesterday Caro tried to make a turkey costume in the tub with construction paper despite her failure the first time. And how I regret that Meredith didn't stop me from eating the rubber ducky when I thought it was a peep. Oh, indigestion and embarassment.
When I was young i liked to think i was cool, but i wasn't.
I was a fat awkward preteen and I was especially nerdy at Hebrew school.
Surprisingly there are cool jews out there, and I was not one of them.
On the day of my Bat Mitzvah, the day I became a woman, I received an offer I refused immediately: I was asked by the dorkiest boy in my Hebrew school class, to dance.
There were 3 reasons why I refused:
1. I couldn't be seen dancing with the dorkiest boy in hebrew school!
2. I was scared of boys, as I still am to this day.
3. I didn't want to hear comments like "is that your boyfriend??" from every member of my very large very jewish family.
So I said "no" and I'm pretty sure I scarred the young impressionable boy for life,
and caused years of pain agony and suffering.
The point of my story is, the dorkiest boy in my hebew school class is now really hot!
You can find me under the suds...
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
My First Date
These bubbles are getting a little sloppy...and by sloppy I mean hot and phat because we three girls have been chatting about the young boys of teenage days past; specifically, the heart-pumping throbs of Tigerbeat TM magazine and YM magazine. Anywayz, back in the day...say, the day of 6th or 7th grade, i was so enamored by one of these "men" that I believe I had what I still consider to be my "first date".
I saw him in a movie, yet he appeared so...life-like, fragile and masculine all at the same time. He was probably a few years older than me...mature, i guess...dashing, too. Devon Sawa took American pre-teen cinema by storm, i say! He was everywhere, in every magazine, and yet I felt so close to him...so close that I felt our "relationship" deserved some ... alone time.
I had been watching one of his finest features, "Wild America", at a friend's house when my parents came to pick me up. I was a ball of anxiety as I hadn't been able to see the film's climax. I was supposed to be going out to dinner with my parents, but decided I wanted to stay home and rent the movie by myself so as to finish it. My parents were understandably very confused when they asked me why I wanted to stay home alone; the conversation went as follows:
"But why don't you want to come out to dinner, Caroline? Why do you want to stay home by yourself?"
"I don't know...I guess I just want some alone time"
"Caroline, you're an only child"
The atmosphere was blistered with confusion, yet in the end my parents agreed I could stay home. They probably thought I wanted to have boys over, when in reality I wanted one, and only one, boy over...and by "over" I mean "stagnant in front of me on the television".
When I placed the enormous VHS into my VHS eating machine (i mean player) I realized if this was going to be me and Devon Sawa's first date, I couldn't be wearing a sugar-pink warm-up jacket and purple puffy sweat-pants. But I also knew I didn't have anything "Sexy", and as tempting as mom's inappropriate seater vest from the BIG DANCE was, I opted to put on my figure skating "tutu". It was the closest "thing" to neglige and the most unmentionable unmentionable I owned. I also applied very red lip-sick.
Mom and Dad came home within the hour to find me wearing a translucent ice skating costume and bright red lip-smackers lip gloss, sitting in solitude watching Devon Sawa run around shirt-less.
I saw him in a movie, yet he appeared so...life-like, fragile and masculine all at the same time. He was probably a few years older than me...mature, i guess...dashing, too. Devon Sawa took American pre-teen cinema by storm, i say! He was everywhere, in every magazine, and yet I felt so close to him...so close that I felt our "relationship" deserved some ... alone time.
I had been watching one of his finest features, "Wild America", at a friend's house when my parents came to pick me up. I was a ball of anxiety as I hadn't been able to see the film's climax. I was supposed to be going out to dinner with my parents, but decided I wanted to stay home and rent the movie by myself so as to finish it. My parents were understandably very confused when they asked me why I wanted to stay home alone; the conversation went as follows:
"But why don't you want to come out to dinner, Caroline? Why do you want to stay home by yourself?"
"I don't know...I guess I just want some alone time"
"Caroline, you're an only child"
The atmosphere was blistered with confusion, yet in the end my parents agreed I could stay home. They probably thought I wanted to have boys over, when in reality I wanted one, and only one, boy over...and by "over" I mean "stagnant in front of me on the television".
When I placed the enormous VHS into my VHS eating machine (i mean player) I realized if this was going to be me and Devon Sawa's first date, I couldn't be wearing a sugar-pink warm-up jacket and purple puffy sweat-pants. But I also knew I didn't have anything "Sexy", and as tempting as mom's inappropriate seater vest from the BIG DANCE was, I opted to put on my figure skating "tutu". It was the closest "thing" to neglige and the most unmentionable unmentionable I owned. I also applied very red lip-sick.
Mom and Dad came home within the hour to find me wearing a translucent ice skating costume and bright red lip-smackers lip gloss, sitting in solitude watching Devon Sawa run around shirt-less.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Il est temps pour une Bath de Bulle
Bonjour mes amis. So, in her last post, my life partner and bathtime confidant Caroline Paster brought to light the magical world of "The Tudors." This land where hot British men roam free in pantaloons, drinking tea, jousting, scheming with hot European royalty, and engaging in many a frisky romp is quite possibly, the most beautiful and ideal thing I could ever ever imagine. Now, one of these extremely pumptastic male specimens, as Ms. Paster mentioned, is the King of France - Francois, or King Francis 1 for you history buffs. The name Francois takes me on a journey back in time- unfortunately not to the time where Francois and Henry wrestled all nekkid like in Episode 5 of the Tudors ( so hott. seriously.) - but to my fifth grade year- aka 'The Year of Francois.'
So, when I was in fifth grade, I became involved in program called "French Back to Back." Essentially this allowed for young fifth grade kids like myself to take lessons in the language and culture of France, to be followed by a 3 week stay by a snotty Parisian kid in your home, and then you in their home. As you may have gathered, I was paired with a boy by the name of Francois. Now, this turned out to be quite an interesting social experiment for the following reasons:
I am from Ohio, we don't get Frenchies there too often. And I was paired with...a boy!! The girl/boy pairs were rare and a BIG DEAL. Now here is what was interesting...Francois was, well, Tres Chic. Not only was he popular, HOT (at the time, I'm not into fifth graders sicko!!!), smart, rich (houses in Paris, Switzerland and the French countryside), he owned/raced/jumped horses, AND was an all-star soccer player. Overachiever much?
Me on the other hand - I took awkward to the extreme. I was chubby (I'm sugarcoating), I had these huge crazy-old-lady glasses that were blue with red and yellow spray paint (thanks mom), big messed up teeth with braces that I decked out in the color/order of the French flag, and my wardrobe consisted mainly of Andrew Lloyd Webber musical t-shirts and jeans/stirrup pants of every color of the rainbow. During my time in France, I wore a large assortment of American Flag t-shirts/button-ups and fanny packs. Seriously.
Our interactions mainly consisted of him challenging me in any and every sport, which ineviteably ended in my loss, tears and embarassment, him making fun of me in French (you KNOW when you are getting made fun of, language is irrelevant), him using me as a hurdle (literally. he thought it was hilarious to jump over me while I was standing up. I still have no idea how he did that), him drinking my dads beer, and him giving me indian rug burns. Every day with the indian rug burns. There are only so many indian rug burns you can get before you JUST SNAP you know???
Now, what was especially traumatizing about this period in my life - is that all of my friends didn't want to be friends with me any more, they just wanted to get in the shadow of Francois' luminous french glow. So, by the time my French exchange had come to an end, all of my friends were entirely uninterested in me sans Francois, and I missed the opportunity to be in the school production (and rap version) of Little Red Riding Hood. Arriving back to school on the day of the play, i was cast as the "French Tree." So, I overcompensated for this feeling of betrayal and immediately set plans to and married Michael Cox on the playground. This is obviously what has directly led to my bad habit of marrying people when I feel lonely, insecure and betrayed.
Sigh.
I often think about Francois, as we lost touch many years ago. I bet he looks even better now than he did 10 years ago. I sometimes contemplate sending a Christmas card with a picture of a hot girl and be like look at me now!!!! Maybe we can have a reunion on Montel or something.
So, when I was in fifth grade, I became involved in program called "French Back to Back." Essentially this allowed for young fifth grade kids like myself to take lessons in the language and culture of France, to be followed by a 3 week stay by a snotty Parisian kid in your home, and then you in their home. As you may have gathered, I was paired with a boy by the name of Francois. Now, this turned out to be quite an interesting social experiment for the following reasons:
I am from Ohio, we don't get Frenchies there too often. And I was paired with...a boy!! The girl/boy pairs were rare and a BIG DEAL. Now here is what was interesting...Francois was, well, Tres Chic. Not only was he popular, HOT (at the time, I'm not into fifth graders sicko!!!), smart, rich (houses in Paris, Switzerland and the French countryside), he owned/raced/jumped horses, AND was an all-star soccer player. Overachiever much?
Me on the other hand - I took awkward to the extreme. I was chubby (I'm sugarcoating), I had these huge crazy-old-lady glasses that were blue with red and yellow spray paint (thanks mom), big messed up teeth with braces that I decked out in the color/order of the French flag, and my wardrobe consisted mainly of Andrew Lloyd Webber musical t-shirts and jeans/stirrup pants of every color of the rainbow. During my time in France, I wore a large assortment of American Flag t-shirts/button-ups and fanny packs. Seriously.
Our interactions mainly consisted of him challenging me in any and every sport, which ineviteably ended in my loss, tears and embarassment, him making fun of me in French (you KNOW when you are getting made fun of, language is irrelevant), him using me as a hurdle (literally. he thought it was hilarious to jump over me while I was standing up. I still have no idea how he did that), him drinking my dads beer, and him giving me indian rug burns. Every day with the indian rug burns. There are only so many indian rug burns you can get before you JUST SNAP you know???
Now, what was especially traumatizing about this period in my life - is that all of my friends didn't want to be friends with me any more, they just wanted to get in the shadow of Francois' luminous french glow. So, by the time my French exchange had come to an end, all of my friends were entirely uninterested in me sans Francois, and I missed the opportunity to be in the school production (and rap version) of Little Red Riding Hood. Arriving back to school on the day of the play, i was cast as the "French Tree." So, I overcompensated for this feeling of betrayal and immediately set plans to and married Michael Cox on the playground. This is obviously what has directly led to my bad habit of marrying people when I feel lonely, insecure and betrayed.
Sigh.
I often think about Francois, as we lost touch many years ago. I bet he looks even better now than he did 10 years ago. I sometimes contemplate sending a Christmas card with a picture of a hot girl and be like look at me now!!!! Maybe we can have a reunion on Montel or something.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Jeremy Northam's Bum, what?
I must apologize for my lack of bubble postings lately. However, my procrastination was not in vain. I have been swept away into the juicy world of The Tudors - for those of you who are unfamiliar, it is a seductive and addictive mini-series on show time about King Henry the VIII. How hott is that? All bathtime pursuits have been put on hold as myself and meredith (miriam to join shortly) have indulged ourselves in not licorice flavored bath bubbles but in the sensual bodies of Sir Thomas Moore, Cromwell, The King of France (conevniently named "Francoise") and Thomas Wyatt. What's that you say? Middled Aged men do it for you? Yes, yes...they do.
Anyways, back to reality...
One time in the second grade I picked my nose during choir practice for The Wizard of Oz...I came to school the next day and had few, if any, friends. Was that tough and tenderly lodged booger really worth it? Although my toils and labor lasted an intense 3 minutes, in the end the awkwardness I experienced during the remainder of prodcution for The Wizard of Oz was crippling.
Anyways, back to reality...
One time in the second grade I picked my nose during choir practice for The Wizard of Oz...I came to school the next day and had few, if any, friends. Was that tough and tenderly lodged booger really worth it? Although my toils and labor lasted an intense 3 minutes, in the end the awkwardness I experienced during the remainder of prodcution for The Wizard of Oz was crippling.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Dunk Me
Remember Dunkaroos?
How good were those?
This bathtime crew - we are kind of are like dunkaroos. Only, isntead of chocolate goo, its scented bubbly bath water. And instead of cookies or graham crackers or whatever, its ladies. In bathing suits. Or footie pajamas. Whatever. We're dunking. And also Delicious. But we are not Australian. Unfortunately.
How good were those?
This bathtime crew - we are kind of are like dunkaroos. Only, isntead of chocolate goo, its scented bubbly bath water. And instead of cookies or graham crackers or whatever, its ladies. In bathing suits. Or footie pajamas. Whatever. We're dunking. And also Delicious. But we are not Australian. Unfortunately.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
I LOVE SWEAT PANTS
It's been far too long since the last installment, and I know Miriam and I are regretting buying new bathing suits because we haven't had the chance to show them of in the tub. (Note to Meredith: we told you once, you CANNOT continue to wear foot pajamas in the tub...you need to grow up and purchase a real bathing suit like miriam and myself. ok? don't make me bring this up again...your food pajamas absorb way too much water and the bath level goes down...don't forget there is three (3) of us.)
Well, since we're slightly on the topic of proper attire for proper circumstances, perhaps now is the best time for this particular installment of childhood/pre-teen terror.
In 7th grade I was planning on attending my first dance. Yes, you remember...bumping and grinding pre-teen dances where young children mimicked sex on the dance floor. I was scared. It was a Friday and mid-afternoon. All the girls in my class were talking about the BIG DANCE and I started sweating. My extremities became nervously clammy. During recess I was reading my latest edition of the X-Files magazine (mom bought it for me the night before) when I realized I needed a new outfit for the BIG DANCE. I had a terrible hair problem in the 7th grade: extra large bangs. They were both thick and curly and the closest evidence I have seen of the big bang theory. Therefore, I new I needed just the perfect outfit to off-set the bangs. However, I also knew I had figure skating practice BEFORE the dance. With that said, not only was pre-gaming with Hi-C Cooler and Ssips lemonade out of the question, so was purchasing a new outfit. I decided I should use the pay phone to call home and have mom pick something up for me in the meantime. The mistakes we make...
When I arrived home and was ready to dress for the dance, I saw it. It was hanging out on my bed next to a new pair of jeans. My stomache turned but I knew I had no other options. The wool, rainbow colored sweater vest and white turtle neck that mom thought would be PERFECT for the dance would have to do. I convinced myself it wasn't that bad. Oh, but it was. I arrived at the dance to find every other girl wearing spaghetti-strap tank tops and flared jeans. Needless to say, my outfit also fully illuminated the big bang theory.
To this day, large sweaters in inappropriate situations makes me queeeeezy.
Well, since we're slightly on the topic of proper attire for proper circumstances, perhaps now is the best time for this particular installment of childhood/pre-teen terror.
In 7th grade I was planning on attending my first dance. Yes, you remember...bumping and grinding pre-teen dances where young children mimicked sex on the dance floor. I was scared. It was a Friday and mid-afternoon. All the girls in my class were talking about the BIG DANCE and I started sweating. My extremities became nervously clammy. During recess I was reading my latest edition of the X-Files magazine (mom bought it for me the night before) when I realized I needed a new outfit for the BIG DANCE. I had a terrible hair problem in the 7th grade: extra large bangs. They were both thick and curly and the closest evidence I have seen of the big bang theory. Therefore, I new I needed just the perfect outfit to off-set the bangs. However, I also knew I had figure skating practice BEFORE the dance. With that said, not only was pre-gaming with Hi-C Cooler and Ssips lemonade out of the question, so was purchasing a new outfit. I decided I should use the pay phone to call home and have mom pick something up for me in the meantime. The mistakes we make...
When I arrived home and was ready to dress for the dance, I saw it. It was hanging out on my bed next to a new pair of jeans. My stomache turned but I knew I had no other options. The wool, rainbow colored sweater vest and white turtle neck that mom thought would be PERFECT for the dance would have to do. I convinced myself it wasn't that bad. Oh, but it was. I arrived at the dance to find every other girl wearing spaghetti-strap tank tops and flared jeans. Needless to say, my outfit also fully illuminated the big bang theory.
To this day, large sweaters in inappropriate situations makes me queeeeezy.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
bubble love.
When it came to bubble bathtime, I only remember fun and giggles.
I'm specifically reffering to the bath I took yesterday.
My personal favorite 8th grade rumor was discovered when I walked into homeroom and heard (say this with a whisper) "Miriam and Sarah Jo made out in the Science and Technology building handy capped elevator!"
I'm specifically reffering to the bath I took yesterday.
My personal favorite 8th grade rumor was discovered when I walked into homeroom and heard (say this with a whisper) "Miriam and Sarah Jo made out in the Science and Technology building handy capped elevator!"
The entire grade was buzzing about it.
But there were 3 things wrong with this rumor started by the most popular, most mean girls in the class:
a) I was not allowed to enter the Science and Technology building being that I was in middle school and only high schoolers were allowed.
b) I did not know that I was a lesbian, I still do not know this.
c) I first made out with Sarah Jo in games of drunk truth or dare in our friend's parents basements, but that was not till years later!
I think that we should create a bubble formula that creates giggles. This may involve soap, nitris oxide and a whole lot of love.
But there were 3 things wrong with this rumor started by the most popular, most mean girls in the class:
a) I was not allowed to enter the Science and Technology building being that I was in middle school and only high schoolers were allowed.
b) I did not know that I was a lesbian, I still do not know this.
c) I first made out with Sarah Jo in games of drunk truth or dare in our friend's parents basements, but that was not till years later!
I think that we should create a bubble formula that creates giggles. This may involve soap, nitris oxide and a whole lot of love.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Accessorize
It's true, as both young girls and adults no bath would be complete without accessories. And while meredith showered barbie dolls in da tub, I brought construction paper.
you think i'm kidding.
i'm not. in first or second grade i wanted to be a Turkey for Halloween. To accomplish this, I thought it best to take an actual bubble bath and bring in all the colored construction paper I needed in order to let it get soggy. My plan involved letting the paper soak so that it would become more malleable to turn into turkey feathers. Did I even know what "malleable" meant as a post kindergarten grad? It's one hundred percent doubtful..yet I was on a mission.
In the end, both the bubble bath and the construction paper-feathers SUCKED. The water started to smell and the paper stuck to me and I felt dirtier than when I got into the bathtub. In what was probably a fit of absolute confusion that this "plan" didn't work, I attempted to clean the tub and cover up my tracks...but mom was smarter than me and discovered that the paper had clogged the tub drain. My "punishment" : I wasn't allowed to watch The X-Files (my favorite television show) for 2 weeks.
With Easter on the horizon, Meredith and I will be taking bubble baths with pastel colored construction paper.
you think i'm kidding.
i'm not. in first or second grade i wanted to be a Turkey for Halloween. To accomplish this, I thought it best to take an actual bubble bath and bring in all the colored construction paper I needed in order to let it get soggy. My plan involved letting the paper soak so that it would become more malleable to turn into turkey feathers. Did I even know what "malleable" meant as a post kindergarten grad? It's one hundred percent doubtful..yet I was on a mission.
In the end, both the bubble bath and the construction paper-feathers SUCKED. The water started to smell and the paper stuck to me and I felt dirtier than when I got into the bathtub. In what was probably a fit of absolute confusion that this "plan" didn't work, I attempted to clean the tub and cover up my tracks...but mom was smarter than me and discovered that the paper had clogged the tub drain. My "punishment" : I wasn't allowed to watch The X-Files (my favorite television show) for 2 weeks.
With Easter on the horizon, Meredith and I will be taking bubble baths with pastel colored construction paper.
Monday, March 19, 2007
this isn't just about bubble TEA
to prevent mildew, soap scum, and any unwanted film meredith and i will both be taking turns cleaning the tub. she prefers to clean with a wet rag, i like bristle sided sponges. but enough administrative talk...
bubble time is indeed, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, bad childhood experiences. although puking from rollercoasters, getting bottles thrown at you, and snarting are all reasons to enter therapy, there are two stories which i believe provide the icing on the cake (or, in this case, the soap on the loofah...)
story A: Clowny
When Caroline was in 2nd grade she had two primary companions. No, their names were not commonplace such as Lauren or Mike, instead their names were Stuffed Armadillo and Clowny (Stuffed Armadillo was none other than a stuffed animal armadillo and Clowny was a stuffed clown doll).
One morning as Caroline prepared for her day as a learner of the 2nd grade, she was heading out the door to the bus stop with Clowny in hand when her father accidentally spilt coffee on Clowny's face. Caroline was upset, but pulled it together to make the bus in time and was on her way to study multiplication and get married on the play ground (was Clowny to be the maid of honor...no one will ever know...). Upon arrival at school and during "first period", Caroline was called to the blackboard to do some examples of multiplication (again, clowny in hand) when a fellow boy classmate remarked, "what happened to your doll (referring to the huge coffee stain) he looks like a burn victim!". Caroline started uncontrollably crying and left school "sick" that day. The following morning Caroline placed Clowny into the basement of her home and never played with him again.
Meredith, do you as well have a stuffed animal story?
Other friends, any stories of stuffed animals and imaginary friends?
I will post-pone the second story for another time...this bath water is starting to get a little .... lukewarm.
Until the faucet runs again...
bubble time is indeed, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, bad childhood experiences. although puking from rollercoasters, getting bottles thrown at you, and snarting are all reasons to enter therapy, there are two stories which i believe provide the icing on the cake (or, in this case, the soap on the loofah...)
story A: Clowny
When Caroline was in 2nd grade she had two primary companions. No, their names were not commonplace such as Lauren or Mike, instead their names were Stuffed Armadillo and Clowny (Stuffed Armadillo was none other than a stuffed animal armadillo and Clowny was a stuffed clown doll).
One morning as Caroline prepared for her day as a learner of the 2nd grade, she was heading out the door to the bus stop with Clowny in hand when her father accidentally spilt coffee on Clowny's face. Caroline was upset, but pulled it together to make the bus in time and was on her way to study multiplication and get married on the play ground (was Clowny to be the maid of honor...no one will ever know...). Upon arrival at school and during "first period", Caroline was called to the blackboard to do some examples of multiplication (again, clowny in hand) when a fellow boy classmate remarked, "what happened to your doll (referring to the huge coffee stain) he looks like a burn victim!". Caroline started uncontrollably crying and left school "sick" that day. The following morning Caroline placed Clowny into the basement of her home and never played with him again.
Meredith, do you as well have a stuffed animal story?
Other friends, any stories of stuffed animals and imaginary friends?
I will post-pone the second story for another time...this bath water is starting to get a little .... lukewarm.
Until the faucet runs again...
Bubble Time Chat Numero Uno
In our first installment of bubble time chats, we began by reminiscing about the cruelty of childhood amis a bath full of freesia scented bubbles and a cassette tape of "In the Tub" to keep us in the mood.
Some of the most terrible and traumatizing incidents are as follows
-When Caroline puked on the bus after the school field trip to the amusement parked, and was not only ridiculed, but a bottle was thrown at her head.
-When Meredith got sick and puked into her coat, and then had to ride the bus with her smelly pukey corduroy coat and no one would sit next to her.
-When Caroline picked her nose, and someone saw, spread a rumor, and no one spoke to her for a week.
-One word. Snart.
- When Caroline misinterpreted her best friend's actions to mean that she had found new friends and no longer needed Caroline's company, and told her mom such - who told the other girl's mom, who promptly grounded this girl who then proceeded to turn everyone against Caroline for the majority of the 8th grade.
- When nobody wanted to be Caroline's partner in anything -and she had to do all science, etc. projects by herself.
- When Chad Blackburn and Max Wagner told Meredith that only fat girls played the trombone. And she was fat. And played the trombone.
-The time Meredith got chased with worms off the bus by Kyle Vitale. And she is not a good runner.
-The time Caroline got chased by the boys in her neighborhood with a pair of panty hose stuffed with eggs and sand and other smelly nasty things...what?!?!
Please friends, feel free to get into some swim trunks, place a capful of scented bubbles under the running water and hop in the tub to join in this discussion about how children can be so gosh darn mean.
On the bubble time horizon: Meredith and Caroline's gift registry...
Some of the most terrible and traumatizing incidents are as follows
-When Caroline puked on the bus after the school field trip to the amusement parked, and was not only ridiculed, but a bottle was thrown at her head.
-When Meredith got sick and puked into her coat, and then had to ride the bus with her smelly pukey corduroy coat and no one would sit next to her.
-When Caroline picked her nose, and someone saw, spread a rumor, and no one spoke to her for a week.
-One word. Snart.
- When Caroline misinterpreted her best friend's actions to mean that she had found new friends and no longer needed Caroline's company, and told her mom such - who told the other girl's mom, who promptly grounded this girl who then proceeded to turn everyone against Caroline for the majority of the 8th grade.
- When nobody wanted to be Caroline's partner in anything -and she had to do all science, etc. projects by herself.
- When Chad Blackburn and Max Wagner told Meredith that only fat girls played the trombone. And she was fat. And played the trombone.
-The time Meredith got chased with worms off the bus by Kyle Vitale. And she is not a good runner.
-The time Caroline got chased by the boys in her neighborhood with a pair of panty hose stuffed with eggs and sand and other smelly nasty things...what?!?!
Please friends, feel free to get into some swim trunks, place a capful of scented bubbles under the running water and hop in the tub to join in this discussion about how children can be so gosh darn mean.
On the bubble time horizon: Meredith and Caroline's gift registry...
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