To: Dad
From: Meg
Subject: So take that
Guess what I'm wearing as I type this? Yep. Pleather bomber jacket. Can't tear ME down.
To: Meg
From: Dad
Subject: Re: So take that
I didn’t raise a little girl in the DC suburbs to wear … pleather!?!?! I don’t even know what pleather is, but it sounds like something worn in “stag movies” in the 40’s in place of sensible undergarments. I think I’m going to have to wash my computer screen as a result of even typing the word. I will no longer type the word.
Of course, I also didn’t raise my little girl to assume that I would buy her an actual leather jacket. There are limits. However, I might buy Evie a leather jacket. She would kind of have a Michelle Pfeiffer vibe from Grease 2. Only Evie can dance.
Finally, I’m assuming that you must be out, since sitting in your apartment wearing (you know what) seems just a little … weird. Unless of course you’re reading something by Tom Robbins, which, come to think of it, would also be weird. No, anything connected with (you know what) is just weird and I’m not going to talk about this anymore.
Love,
DAD
To: Dad
From: Meg
Subject: Re: Re: So take that
Well, truthfully I am just sitting around in "It". I mean, I'll eventually go somewhere, but, you know, it gets drafty in here. And I'm reading a biography of Unity Mitford, not anything by Tom Robbins, thank you.
To: Dad
From: Meg
Subect: Re: Re: Re: So take that
Actually, I immediately regret admitting that I'm sitting around my apartment at 11:15 in the morning wearing imitation leather and reading the biography of a BIG 'OLE Nazi. I guess that doesn't paint a very flattering picture of me.
To: Meg
From: Dad
Subect: Re: Re: Re: Re: So take that
Painting a flattering picture of yourself? We're long past worrying about that. Your mother and I just tell people that you're "literary". We tell them there's a whole "scene".
Love,
DAD
Well, fuck. Oh and nothing in the entire world would shock me less than if my parents actually bought that cat a leather jacket. And not like an ironic cat-sized one either—like a nice, Meg-sized Michael Kors bomber jacket with a rib-knit hem and exposed zippers to wipe her paws with when she's done in the commode and plush lining to curl up on when she's listening to my dad read aloud from historical biographies in their precious little Panamanian Relaxation Room.
...Slash, people don't bring up Grease 2 enough in day-to-day life. I could do with a little more of that.
Showing posts with label mornings are for nazis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mornings are for nazis. Show all posts
3.28.2011
6.17.2010
Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries, With Only One Mention of Retardation (Two If You Count This One In The Title)
“Retarded”: So apparently “retarded” is the new word that absolutely must not be said. Never let it be said that blogging doesn’t teach you new things. I want to offer this little tale as a partial explanation for my wildly unpopular remarks: My parents were very big on that grey zone between kindness and abuse called “Christian charity.” This often took the form of making me play with the weirdest kids they could find, since these kids usually didn’t have any friends and it was “a kind thing to do.” Now, I got in trouble in pre-school, not once but several times, for claiming to have been abducted by aliens, so the kids that out-weirded me were generally straight-up moon units. And since most of my friendships were parent-mandated ones with weird kids, no one else wanted to be my friend, so it was all a big vicious cycle of having to hang out with the kid who stripped naked and put a surgical mask over his genitals and referred to himself as “Dr. Dick.” Anyway. This pattern reached its most dramatic moment when I was about eight. A very peripheral acquaintance of my mother’s was dying, and her husband asked us to watch “the kids” while he made funeral arrangements. Well, it turned out that the “kids” were twenty-year-old, severely retarded developmentally disabled dwarves. (And before you start with “little people,” these people had a condition called “dwarfism.”) So of course Mom takes us all to Long John Silver’s, where the “kids” proceed to get up, run around, and scream. I was such a shy child that I would literally rather have been struck than involved in a scene, and there I was with a fat lady chasing dwarves around a seafood restaurant. (Tulane Chris: A Life. Written by Groucho Marx, directed by Salvador Dali.) Somehow we got them home, where I was treated to one of the most ringing sentences ever crafted in English: “Chris, I need to you watch him and be sure he doesn’t run into the street while I change her menstrual pad.” “Watch” quickly devolved into “restrain.” Child vs. dwarf: watch for it on ESPN. So before you call me an “ableist” and cry, as one man did, know that as a mere child I sacrificed most of my sanity, all of my dignity, and a good deal of my physical comfort to keep someone with special needs from running out into the street.
King of Vegetables: A restaurant down the street has announced its annual tribute to “the King of Vegetables – White Asparagus.” I’m curious if white asparagus is always king, or if every year the crown is passed to a new vegetable. If for any reason White Asparagus is unable to perform its duties, will a runner-up vegetable – say, squash – be called upon? Also – annual tribute? If we don’t appease white asparagus with a menu featuring it each year, will its rage be unleashed?
Wine talk: I bought a bottle of wine for six dollars, including Pennsylvania sin-tax mark-up. This is what it says on the back: “When a fisherman has an especially good catch, it is said that they have the Fish Eye. They seem to have a sixth sense about where the fish are and what will attract their attention. Hopefully our Shiraz will attract yours. This hearty red makes a huge splash displaying aromas and flavors of ripe berries, spice and a lush finish. Watch out! This wine jumps out of your glass!” Nothing says quality wine like the fish eye, and any wine jumps out of the glass if you drink enough of it. What’s on the cheaper wine labels? “Garbage disposals are a convenient and modern addition to the American kitchen. Dispose-All Pinot Noir grinds up flavors of cherry, tannins, and coffee grounds to create a wine that goes right down the hatch!”
Superpowers: Can you imagine raising children, one of whom has superpowers?
“Bridget, take out the trash.”
“Can’t Jean do it? She’s omnipotent.”
“MOOOOOOM! Sue went invisible during hide and seek again!”
Scat Porn Movie Titles:
Void Where Prohibited Reporting for Doody
Doody Calls
Poops: I Did It Again
Shit Happens
Misty Water-Colored Memories: I could only remember one of the classes I took my last semester of college when Dad asked me last week, but I know the name of every actor on “Gilligan’s Island.” I decided, on some primal level, that a topic I spent months actually studying is less likely to come in handy than knowing that the actress who played the Millionaire’s Wife was named Natalie Schaeffer, and that she once guest-starred on “I Love Lucy” as a charm-school instructress.
No Offense: So, a while ago, someone commented on the blog something to the effect of “I like Tulane Chris now that he’s a regular writer, but – no offense – I hated his guest-writing stints and complained about them to my friends.” Fair enough. I hadn’t written regularly for a year or two when I started doing guest posts, and I was rusty. Also, sometimes posts just don’t come out right, like the time I tried to make Christmas cookies and left out cream of tartar with the reasoning that if I didn’t know what it was, it didn’t matter. (As it turns out, cream of tartar forms on the inside of barrels in which white wine is being aged, and it does something to eggs that makes them bind the cookies, so that – let’s just say for example – they don’t run together and form an inedible quarter-inch-thick sheet cake.) So you know, whatever. I’ve apparently won her over in the interim, which is nice. But… “no offense?” I wouldn’t have been offended if she hadn’t said “no offense,” but that phrase itself offends me. It’s supposed to be a talisman that keeps people from being mad at you, no matter what you do – ‘cause hey, no offense! “No offense, honey, but I slept with your brother.” Gun a man down in the street, provided that with every round, you shout “No offense, but die, motherfucker!” Paint “no offense” on bombs and drop them out of a plane named Sorr About The Bang. It’s cool! No offense.
Meggles: If you have time, please put up one of those maps of Nazi Germany’s expansion – the kind with all the arrows coming out of the swastika – with NO OFFENSE! written across the bottom.
Tulane Chris: I've been googling every combination of "map," "Nazi," "World War II," and "arrows" possible for the past 15 minutes and I have no idea what you're talking about. So here's a picture of Rolf from The Sound of Music instead:
NO OFFFENSE!!!!!!!1
Yang out the Ying-Yang: Every night, I look at the sky and I think about how Kevin Yang is under the same moon.
King of Vegetables: A restaurant down the street has announced its annual tribute to “the King of Vegetables – White Asparagus.” I’m curious if white asparagus is always king, or if every year the crown is passed to a new vegetable. If for any reason White Asparagus is unable to perform its duties, will a runner-up vegetable – say, squash – be called upon? Also – annual tribute? If we don’t appease white asparagus with a menu featuring it each year, will its rage be unleashed?
Wine talk: I bought a bottle of wine for six dollars, including Pennsylvania sin-tax mark-up. This is what it says on the back: “When a fisherman has an especially good catch, it is said that they have the Fish Eye. They seem to have a sixth sense about where the fish are and what will attract their attention. Hopefully our Shiraz will attract yours. This hearty red makes a huge splash displaying aromas and flavors of ripe berries, spice and a lush finish. Watch out! This wine jumps out of your glass!” Nothing says quality wine like the fish eye, and any wine jumps out of the glass if you drink enough of it. What’s on the cheaper wine labels? “Garbage disposals are a convenient and modern addition to the American kitchen. Dispose-All Pinot Noir grinds up flavors of cherry, tannins, and coffee grounds to create a wine that goes right down the hatch!”
Superpowers: Can you imagine raising children, one of whom has superpowers?
“Bridget, take out the trash.”
“Can’t Jean do it? She’s omnipotent.”
“MOOOOOOM! Sue went invisible during hide and seek again!”
Scat Porn Movie Titles:
Void Where Prohibited Reporting for Doody
Doody Calls
Poops: I Did It Again
Shit Happens
Misty Water-Colored Memories: I could only remember one of the classes I took my last semester of college when Dad asked me last week, but I know the name of every actor on “Gilligan’s Island.” I decided, on some primal level, that a topic I spent months actually studying is less likely to come in handy than knowing that the actress who played the Millionaire’s Wife was named Natalie Schaeffer, and that she once guest-starred on “I Love Lucy” as a charm-school instructress.
No Offense: So, a while ago, someone commented on the blog something to the effect of “I like Tulane Chris now that he’s a regular writer, but – no offense – I hated his guest-writing stints and complained about them to my friends.” Fair enough. I hadn’t written regularly for a year or two when I started doing guest posts, and I was rusty. Also, sometimes posts just don’t come out right, like the time I tried to make Christmas cookies and left out cream of tartar with the reasoning that if I didn’t know what it was, it didn’t matter. (As it turns out, cream of tartar forms on the inside of barrels in which white wine is being aged, and it does something to eggs that makes them bind the cookies, so that – let’s just say for example – they don’t run together and form an inedible quarter-inch-thick sheet cake.) So you know, whatever. I’ve apparently won her over in the interim, which is nice. But… “no offense?” I wouldn’t have been offended if she hadn’t said “no offense,” but that phrase itself offends me. It’s supposed to be a talisman that keeps people from being mad at you, no matter what you do – ‘cause hey, no offense! “No offense, honey, but I slept with your brother.” Gun a man down in the street, provided that with every round, you shout “No offense, but die, motherfucker!” Paint “no offense” on bombs and drop them out of a plane named Sorr About The Bang. It’s cool! No offense.
Meggles: If you have time, please put up one of those maps of Nazi Germany’s expansion – the kind with all the arrows coming out of the swastika – with NO OFFENSE! written across the bottom.
Tulane Chris: I've been googling every combination of "map," "Nazi," "World War II," and "arrows" possible for the past 15 minutes and I have no idea what you're talking about. So here's a picture of Rolf from The Sound of Music instead:
NO OFFFENSE!!!!!!!1
Yang out the Ying-Yang: Every night, I look at the sky and I think about how Kevin Yang is under the same moon.
2.04.2010
This Week, Part 1: Hi. I am not a morning person.
[A note from Co-Blogger Chris: I just wanted to thank everyone who was encouraging/proud/excited/helpful in response to my post yesterday. I didn't really intend for you all to actually help me find a job, of course you all stepped up to the proverbial plate and offered your assistance. Because you're amazing. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. If things get super bleak, I will literally show up at your door begging for work (or a free sandwich). In the meantime, please just sit back and enjoy our blog. You do enough by just being you. Thanks again!]
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Well, well, well...if it isn't my old friend—The Business Conference. How are you, Business Conference? BESIDES HORRIBLE AND SOUL-SUCKING. As you may have been able to tell from my emo tweets and lack of posting this week, I've been busy with a customer service conference. All week. I wasn't really dreading this week's conference as much as July's sales conference though, as it's being held in our studio and I don't have to travel anywhere. How bad could it be, right? Wrong. This has been just as painful as Baby's First Business Trip. True I get to come home and sleep in my own bed at the end of the night, far away from the menstrual cramps and midnight bikinix waxing sessions waiting for me in a hotel room with Boss #1, but hosting the conference in our space means just that; we have to host the conference. And what I didn't realize until Monday morning was that we means me. Me. Meghan McBlogger. The same girl who shakily puts a letter opener to her own throat at the thought of having to update the mailing list. A task done sitting down. Do you know how time consuming hosting a conference is? Very. There's your answer. First let's talk about the act of "hosting a conference." Because planning/executing a conference and "hosting" a conference are two very different things. Last week I planned the conference. Which was fine. It was a concept I could wrap my head around. I made hotel reservations, ordered catering, emailed and answered a lot of questions; basically I was useful. It was kind of a nice change of pace. Then there was the actual setting up of the conference, which thankfully went off without a hitch. But then I had to host the conference every day this week. What does that job entail? It entails stepping into a time machine, going back to 1962 and being the personal bitch-slave for 25 disguising, lecherous, old men for a week. And what was that like? Well, here's a little action shot I took with my iphone:
IT WAS HELL! Hell on earth! (Hell on earth. Kell on Earth. I don't remember TV before it. What? Goulet.) First and foremost, I have to be in the office at 6:30 every morning this week. Let me repeat that: six thirty in the god-damned morning. Be there at. To say "I'm not a morning person" is such a gross understatement that it's almost laughable. Doing anything before noon is a challenge for me. And I am in no way just saying that for effect. During summer break from college, my friends from home and I would meet up at our local diner for breakfast every Saturday morning at 10am. To make this happen, not only would I have to set a series of alarms to wake myself up from my disturbingly deep slumber, my friends would have to take turns deciding who would be the one to repeatedly call my cell phone to get me out of bed and then call my house phone and ask my parents to physically remove me from bed when I inevitably stopped answering their calls and/or turned off my phone so I could go back to sleep. Again, that was to go eat an omelet in my pajamas five minutes away from my bed at the completely reasonable hour of 10 o'clock in the morning. And I had to be at work this week at 6:30am. SHIT. BE. LOLZ.
This got me thinking about how it was genuinely a miracle that I even graduated high school at all. Because what time did that shit start? Like 6:40am? The fuck was that about? Like high school wasn't hard enough, it had to start at the witching hour to ensure extra uncomfortableness. First period was always notoriously rough for me. I got through four years worth of first periods like I get through everything else in life: just barely. I'd worked my schedule like a rubix cube to try and figure out what combination of classes I needed to take to make sure I had some bullshit class first period I could zone out in, like gym. Unfortunately that didn't always work out. One year I had Spanish first period but, thankfully my teacher was strangely susceptible to the old Meg McBlogger awkward charm. I don't know why Ms. Cuadrado liked me so much; lord knows I didn't speak a word of Spanish, but every morning I'd wake up late, leisurely get ready, watch The Today Show, enjoy a cup of coffee, read the paper, catch a ride with my dad whenever he happened to be ready (don't rush!) and breeze into class ten minutes before it was dismissed. I'm not kidding; I didn't learn a fucking thing in that class because I genuinely wasn't there for three-quarters of it. But all I had to do was bust out a little charm at the door and old Ms. Cuadrero would let me off the hook. I took this class with Jen and it drove her insane. Rightfully so, of course. Jen would get to class maybe five minutes late and Ms. Cuadrero showed her no mercy. I, however, would stroll in 40 minutes late wearing a t-shirt that said "I'M HERE" on the front and "YOU'RE WELCOME" on the back, Ms. Cuadrero would say, "AYE YAY AYE! LOOK AT THE TIME MEG-HAAAN!" and I'd say "The time, Ms. Cuadrero? Don't you mean the...tiempo? A-HAHAHAHA!" and she'd be like "Oh...YOU!!!", wag her finger at me and that would be the end of it. Meanwhile, if memory serves correctly, Jen got automatically bumped down a letter grade for being late more than five times throughout the course of the entire semester. It was one of those situations where I knew it wasn't fair and I knew I was benefiting from it and my best friend wasn't...but I was in no way willing do something to change it because the alternative was too grim. I'm sorry Jen. It was high school: every lazy girl for herself. Of all people, I know you understand.
More so than anyone, Talia really bore the brunt of my morning abuse. (Yeah. I don't know why I have any friends either.) Talia is the epitome of a morning person. By the time I'd drag myself out of bed and keel over onto my desk like a corpse, Talia had already gone for a run, taken a shower, watched a solid hour of TV, had a heart-to-heart with her mom, did the grocery shopping for the week, saved a Somalian orphan, performed open heart surgery and starred in a one-man off-off-Broadway hip-hop production of Titus Andronicus met with mixed reviews and ultimately judged as "too ahead of it's time." And I resented the hell out of her for this. She was everything I wasn't (awake) and everything I wanted to be (not part house cat.)
Talia and I had first period together twice and the results were disastrous. First we had pre-Calc together, a class I would show up on time to, but then proceed to completely zone out in and not listening to a damn thing our teacher said in for 40 minutes straight. Then the night before a unit exam, Talia would come over to "study" and I'd be all, "So...what did we learn this unit, buddy?!" and she'd teach me everything we learned in the past three weeks while I was sleeping with my eyes open. When we got our tests back, I'd hold up my A+ and give her a thumbs up and she'd look down at her B- start to sharpen her pencil into a stabbing mechanism. Teresa was the real badass in that class though. She'd roll up sunglasses still on, Redbull in hand right literally seconds before the bell rang and Mrs. Linthicum would be all, "Teresa! Where have you been??" and she'd be like, "NO DICE. Can't make it to your class; so don't ask." I was like, WOW, SHE'S LIKE THE JAMES DEAN OF MORNING HATERS! AND SHE'S SO DREAMY!!!1
I think I feel the worst about how I treated Talia when we took Ancient and Medieval History first period together. Before judging my actions, keep in mind this was second semester of senior year, a time in my life where a.) I was about to graduate and who gives a flying fuck anymore? and b.) I had just worked my entire high school career to get into NYU, only to be rejected due to an administrative error. The wounds were still fresh and I wasn't exactly "all there." I had to be on time to Ancient and Medieval History; there was no way around it. Not only did I actually respect the teacher, I had her later in the day again for AP Psych and her husband for Philosophy; two classes I couldn't exactly fuck up and charm my way out of. Every morning I'd painfully drag myself into class feeling like death warmed over only to find Talia already sitting at her desk (Lord knows she'd already been there for hours repainting the classroom with a toothbrush...) all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. This greatly offended me. I know she's my best friend, and I realize this sounds horrible, but I would just slump into my seat and glare at her with burning hatred in my bleary eyes as she'd talk a mile a minute and jump around her seat like she had just chugged four liters of Mountain Dew. "Hey Mayyyyyggles!" she'd chirp merrily as she grabbed my forearm in excitement. "SERIOUSLY TALIA, DON'T EVEN TOUCH ME RIGHT NOW," I'd growl back (eyes black, foaming at the mouth,) "YOUR HANDS ARE COVERED IN PANCAKE BATTER AND YOU SMELL LIKE SIMPLE SYRUP." "Oh...sorry, Meg. I just thought—" "I SAID DON'T TOUCH ME." I don't know why I did this. She's Talia. She'd been my best friend since seventh grade. She went on my family vacations. Sadly, at that ungodly hour her positive demeanor irritated the hell me and the fact that she had had breakfast and I hadn't might as well have made her Pol Pot in my eyes. Every morning she'd have to endure roughly 20 minutes of me manically ranting and raving about what various breakfast pastries were supposedly all over her hands and how she wasn't allowed to look at or touch me before I'd slowly wake up and return to my civilized self.
Somewhere into the semester, Talia figured out that if she gave me apple slices (mother nature's natural coffee,) it expedited this process and made both of our mornings considerably more tolerable. Our morning routine then became the following: I'd pout my way into class and unhappily plop down into my chair and without saying a word, Talia would reach into her bag, pull out a ziplock baggy of sliced apples and gingerly place them on my desk. Then, like a small child, I would num-num my apple slices in silence until the last one was gone, and we could finally begin a normal conversation like two normal human beings.
One of the more depressing moments of my life was the morning of my first college class—a 9:55am eastern religion class. As I sleepily sat at my desk waiting for class to start, I looked around the room full of strangers and it struck me that not only did nobody in this class have a ziplock baggy of apple slices for me, I might not ever meet anybody else willing to deal with my batshit crazy neuroses like Talia again. A knot formed in my stomach and my eyes welled up with tears. The second I got back to my dorm room I frantically IM'ed Talia all "I HAD A MORNING CLASS AND NOBODY HAD APPLE SLICES FOR ME AND I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!!1" Then, of course, Ex Co-Blogger Eddie knocked on my door all "Y'ALL TRYIN' TO HAUL OUR COMFORTERS INTO THE LOUNGE TO WATCH MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000?!?!!??!!?" and I knew that yes Virginia, there are people just as weird as you at college. But it's a lonely feeling to be surrounded by irritating morning people who don't tolerate or try to work with your anti-morning curmudgeonry. That's what I've felt like every morning this week at work. It's been cold, lonely, tiring and full of sexual harassment; the recap of which will come tomorrow. Right now I'm still in the thick of it. But if you'd like to bring me a baggy of sliced apples, I wouldn't refuse 'em.
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Well, well, well...if it isn't my old friend—The Business Conference. How are you, Business Conference? BESIDES HORRIBLE AND SOUL-SUCKING. As you may have been able to tell from my emo tweets and lack of posting this week, I've been busy with a customer service conference. All week. I wasn't really dreading this week's conference as much as July's sales conference though, as it's being held in our studio and I don't have to travel anywhere. How bad could it be, right? Wrong. This has been just as painful as Baby's First Business Trip. True I get to come home and sleep in my own bed at the end of the night, far away from the menstrual cramps and midnight bikinix waxing sessions waiting for me in a hotel room with Boss #1, but hosting the conference in our space means just that; we have to host the conference. And what I didn't realize until Monday morning was that we means me. Me. Meghan McBlogger. The same girl who shakily puts a letter opener to her own throat at the thought of having to update the mailing list. A task done sitting down. Do you know how time consuming hosting a conference is? Very. There's your answer. First let's talk about the act of "hosting a conference." Because planning/executing a conference and "hosting" a conference are two very different things. Last week I planned the conference. Which was fine. It was a concept I could wrap my head around. I made hotel reservations, ordered catering, emailed and answered a lot of questions; basically I was useful. It was kind of a nice change of pace. Then there was the actual setting up of the conference, which thankfully went off without a hitch. But then I had to host the conference every day this week. What does that job entail? It entails stepping into a time machine, going back to 1962 and being the personal bitch-slave for 25 disguising, lecherous, old men for a week. And what was that like? Well, here's a little action shot I took with my iphone:
IT WAS HELL! Hell on earth! (Hell on earth. Kell on Earth. I don't remember TV before it. What? Goulet.) First and foremost, I have to be in the office at 6:30 every morning this week. Let me repeat that: six thirty in the god-damned morning. Be there at. To say "I'm not a morning person" is such a gross understatement that it's almost laughable. Doing anything before noon is a challenge for me. And I am in no way just saying that for effect. During summer break from college, my friends from home and I would meet up at our local diner for breakfast every Saturday morning at 10am. To make this happen, not only would I have to set a series of alarms to wake myself up from my disturbingly deep slumber, my friends would have to take turns deciding who would be the one to repeatedly call my cell phone to get me out of bed and then call my house phone and ask my parents to physically remove me from bed when I inevitably stopped answering their calls and/or turned off my phone so I could go back to sleep. Again, that was to go eat an omelet in my pajamas five minutes away from my bed at the completely reasonable hour of 10 o'clock in the morning. And I had to be at work this week at 6:30am. SHIT. BE. LOLZ.
This got me thinking about how it was genuinely a miracle that I even graduated high school at all. Because what time did that shit start? Like 6:40am? The fuck was that about? Like high school wasn't hard enough, it had to start at the witching hour to ensure extra uncomfortableness. First period was always notoriously rough for me. I got through four years worth of first periods like I get through everything else in life: just barely. I'd worked my schedule like a rubix cube to try and figure out what combination of classes I needed to take to make sure I had some bullshit class first period I could zone out in, like gym. Unfortunately that didn't always work out. One year I had Spanish first period but, thankfully my teacher was strangely susceptible to the old Meg McBlogger awkward charm. I don't know why Ms. Cuadrado liked me so much; lord knows I didn't speak a word of Spanish, but every morning I'd wake up late, leisurely get ready, watch The Today Show, enjoy a cup of coffee, read the paper, catch a ride with my dad whenever he happened to be ready (don't rush!) and breeze into class ten minutes before it was dismissed. I'm not kidding; I didn't learn a fucking thing in that class because I genuinely wasn't there for three-quarters of it. But all I had to do was bust out a little charm at the door and old Ms. Cuadrero would let me off the hook. I took this class with Jen and it drove her insane. Rightfully so, of course. Jen would get to class maybe five minutes late and Ms. Cuadrero showed her no mercy. I, however, would stroll in 40 minutes late wearing a t-shirt that said "I'M HERE" on the front and "YOU'RE WELCOME" on the back, Ms. Cuadrero would say, "AYE YAY AYE! LOOK AT THE TIME MEG-HAAAN!" and I'd say "The time, Ms. Cuadrero? Don't you mean the...tiempo? A-HAHAHAHA!" and she'd be like "Oh...YOU!!!", wag her finger at me and that would be the end of it. Meanwhile, if memory serves correctly, Jen got automatically bumped down a letter grade for being late more than five times throughout the course of the entire semester. It was one of those situations where I knew it wasn't fair and I knew I was benefiting from it and my best friend wasn't...but I was in no way willing do something to change it because the alternative was too grim. I'm sorry Jen. It was high school: every lazy girl for herself. Of all people, I know you understand.
More so than anyone, Talia really bore the brunt of my morning abuse. (Yeah. I don't know why I have any friends either.) Talia is the epitome of a morning person. By the time I'd drag myself out of bed and keel over onto my desk like a corpse, Talia had already gone for a run, taken a shower, watched a solid hour of TV, had a heart-to-heart with her mom, did the grocery shopping for the week, saved a Somalian orphan, performed open heart surgery and starred in a one-man off-off-Broadway hip-hop production of Titus Andronicus met with mixed reviews and ultimately judged as "too ahead of it's time." And I resented the hell out of her for this. She was everything I wasn't (awake) and everything I wanted to be (not part house cat.)
Talia and I had first period together twice and the results were disastrous. First we had pre-Calc together, a class I would show up on time to, but then proceed to completely zone out in and not listening to a damn thing our teacher said in for 40 minutes straight. Then the night before a unit exam, Talia would come over to "study" and I'd be all, "So...what did we learn this unit, buddy?!" and she'd teach me everything we learned in the past three weeks while I was sleeping with my eyes open. When we got our tests back, I'd hold up my A+ and give her a thumbs up and she'd look down at her B- start to sharpen her pencil into a stabbing mechanism. Teresa was the real badass in that class though. She'd roll up sunglasses still on, Redbull in hand right literally seconds before the bell rang and Mrs. Linthicum would be all, "Teresa! Where have you been??" and she'd be like, "NO DICE. Can't make it to your class; so don't ask." I was like, WOW, SHE'S LIKE THE JAMES DEAN OF MORNING HATERS! AND SHE'S SO DREAMY!!!1
I think I feel the worst about how I treated Talia when we took Ancient and Medieval History first period together. Before judging my actions, keep in mind this was second semester of senior year, a time in my life where a.) I was about to graduate and who gives a flying fuck anymore? and b.) I had just worked my entire high school career to get into NYU, only to be rejected due to an administrative error. The wounds were still fresh and I wasn't exactly "all there." I had to be on time to Ancient and Medieval History; there was no way around it. Not only did I actually respect the teacher, I had her later in the day again for AP Psych and her husband for Philosophy; two classes I couldn't exactly fuck up and charm my way out of. Every morning I'd painfully drag myself into class feeling like death warmed over only to find Talia already sitting at her desk (Lord knows she'd already been there for hours repainting the classroom with a toothbrush...) all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. This greatly offended me. I know she's my best friend, and I realize this sounds horrible, but I would just slump into my seat and glare at her with burning hatred in my bleary eyes as she'd talk a mile a minute and jump around her seat like she had just chugged four liters of Mountain Dew. "Hey Mayyyyyggles!" she'd chirp merrily as she grabbed my forearm in excitement. "SERIOUSLY TALIA, DON'T EVEN TOUCH ME RIGHT NOW," I'd growl back (eyes black, foaming at the mouth,) "YOUR HANDS ARE COVERED IN PANCAKE BATTER AND YOU SMELL LIKE SIMPLE SYRUP." "Oh...sorry, Meg. I just thought—" "I SAID DON'T TOUCH ME." I don't know why I did this. She's Talia. She'd been my best friend since seventh grade. She went on my family vacations. Sadly, at that ungodly hour her positive demeanor irritated the hell me and the fact that she had had breakfast and I hadn't might as well have made her Pol Pot in my eyes. Every morning she'd have to endure roughly 20 minutes of me manically ranting and raving about what various breakfast pastries were supposedly all over her hands and how she wasn't allowed to look at or touch me before I'd slowly wake up and return to my civilized self.
Somewhere into the semester, Talia figured out that if she gave me apple slices (mother nature's natural coffee,) it expedited this process and made both of our mornings considerably more tolerable. Our morning routine then became the following: I'd pout my way into class and unhappily plop down into my chair and without saying a word, Talia would reach into her bag, pull out a ziplock baggy of sliced apples and gingerly place them on my desk. Then, like a small child, I would num-num my apple slices in silence until the last one was gone, and we could finally begin a normal conversation like two normal human beings.
One of the more depressing moments of my life was the morning of my first college class—a 9:55am eastern religion class. As I sleepily sat at my desk waiting for class to start, I looked around the room full of strangers and it struck me that not only did nobody in this class have a ziplock baggy of apple slices for me, I might not ever meet anybody else willing to deal with my batshit crazy neuroses like Talia again. A knot formed in my stomach and my eyes welled up with tears. The second I got back to my dorm room I frantically IM'ed Talia all "I HAD A MORNING CLASS AND NOBODY HAD APPLE SLICES FOR ME AND I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!!1" Then, of course, Ex Co-Blogger Eddie knocked on my door all "Y'ALL TRYIN' TO HAUL OUR COMFORTERS INTO THE LOUNGE TO WATCH MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000?!?!!??!!?" and I knew that yes Virginia, there are people just as weird as you at college. But it's a lonely feeling to be surrounded by irritating morning people who don't tolerate or try to work with your anti-morning curmudgeonry. That's what I've felt like every morning this week at work. It's been cold, lonely, tiring and full of sexual harassment; the recap of which will come tomorrow. Right now I'm still in the thick of it. But if you'd like to bring me a baggy of sliced apples, I wouldn't refuse 'em.
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