About armpits, written just for you

While checking the Facebook this morning, I noticed several parents posting about how today is field day for their children.  Of course I was instantly flooded with my own personal field day experiences, specifically one that I had in the 7th grade.  (Only slightly related: why was I participating in field day in the 7th grade?  Seems a little old.  Must be my Georgia public education working for me.) 

ANYWAY.  Here is a story about field day that still makes me cringe. 

Picture it: 7th grade.  13 years old, the epitome of  awkward/self-conscious/PleaseLetMeBlendIntoThisWall.  I happen to know a lot of 13-year-olds, since it's sort of my job to hang out with them, and I strenuously object that they do not seem to suffer through these same gangly, ugly duckling stages.  I mean, these days, they even have cute hair in 7th grade.  Clearly, the rules have changed. 

Again, I digress. 

One of the field day events was tug-of-war and as I recall, the girls from my class were divided into two teams to compete against each other.  I assume the boys were also divided into teams so they could have an audience while they farted, stank, and told dirty jokes.   

So the teams were decided, and before I knew it, I had been forced nominated by my teammates to be the anchor of our team.  In other words, of all the sissy girls, I was the least sissy...the strongest of the weak...and so I had to stand inside the big loop at the end of the rope.  As I pulled the rope up to my waist from the ground, I remember an ominous feeling.  The sky might have turned black, in the distance thunder might've rolled, and maybe a flock of vultures began circling.  Or maybe I'm just channeling my 7th grade dramatics. 

In an instant, the whistle blew.  To most, that would signal the start of the pulling.  Apparently, my teammates misunderstood the whistle to mean that they should immediately and as a group LET GO OF THE ROPE. 

The scene which unfolded next was not pretty.  I, being stuck in the loop of the rope, fell, and was subsequently dragged all the way down the tug-of-war field, in the dirt.  The other team showed no mercy.  Above all the cheering (which I would later realize wasn't cheering at all - it was people laughing at me), it was difficult for the teachers to get the other team to stop.  It was a long ride.  On the ground.  In the dirt. 

As I remember, the field day uniform was a white t-shirt which featured a Field Day logo.  After the dragging ended, my shirt was brown from dirt.  Dusty.  My knees were scraped, as were my hands, elbows, face, and pride. 

But it gets worse.

As some of my friends gathered around to help dust me off, it was discovered that the dirt around the armpit of my shirt had, in fact, turned to mud as a result of sweat.  Usher in a second wave of laughter amongst my "friends" as they laughed at my muddy pit. 

I spent the rest of that day with dirty shirt and a muddy right pit.  No shirt to change in to.  No way to conceal defeat. 

Sigh.

Happy Field Day, everyone. 

Hate mail

As long as the hate mail train has left the station (as evidenced by this post, and this one), I have one big, huge piece of hate mail that I'd like to share with you.  And this time, it ain't about math. 

Dear The Month of May 2012,
Seriously?  I know there are still 9 days and a few hours left until you are over, but seriously?  Month of May 2012, I can't imagine what stunt you'd have to pull in the next 9 days and a few hours to redeem yourself, but suffice it to say it would have to be one mammothly huge, difficult to fathom and otherwise unbelievable occurrence in order for you to find yourself in my good graces.

Good luck.  

What did I ever do to you, Month of May 2012?  Nothing.  That's what.  I even usually look forward to you, Month of May.  Two wonderful holidays occupy time within your 31 days - Cinco de Mayo (known to nacho-lovers like me as "springtime Christmas") AND Memorial Day, not to mention my sweet nephew Baxter's birthday.  Month.  Of.  May.

But this year, your cheerful holidays are overshadowed by your bad attitude and all the slime and debris you threw at me.  The things you did to me, Month of May 2012, will have to be sorted out in therapy at a later date.  For now, I'd just like to sit with my arms crossed, my face contorted like I just smelled something bad, and I'd like to take a moment to pout in your general direction. Month.  Of.  May. 

Let me be clear to the months that follow The Month of May 2012.  I am not issuing a challenge to see if you can equal or outmatch the stank of The Month of May 2012.  Please do not be that annoying friend who always has to one-up the others (there's one in every group).  June?  July?  August?  All of 2013?  I'm talking to you.

Don't get me wrong, Month of May 2012.  I know I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darnit, people like me. There are an abundant amount of things in my life which inspire me to dance around my kitchen after sunset.  I have a lot of things to be thankful for (never end a sentence in a preposition, MONTH OF MAY).  But I am not thankful for you.  The only time I will dance around my kitchen in your honor is ON JUNE FIRST when you are gone FOREVER.  Month.  Of.  May. 

You are not good enough.  You are not smart enough.  And gosh darnit, I do.  Not.  Like.  You.  And the fact that I can write a blog post about how much you rot, well that makes me happy.  'Cause last time I checked*, you do not have a blog. 

Month.  Of.  May. 

You smell bad,
Bits and Wiz


*I didn't really check.

Looks about right to me

On second thought, maybe I'll just turn this blog into one continuous, thinly veiled hate letter to Math.

(Also, I'm counting the MILLISECONDS until my brother (aka: Mr. Math) comments with the value of x.  Twerp.)

Math + bad grammar = awesome.

Hi.  It's been awhile, huh?  Sorry to say I don't even have anything original to write, but I did find a funny comic about math to post.  Even better, it starts off with a terrible grammatical error, just to make your head swim. 

I think posting someone else's funny creation is better than posting nothing at all, and I hope you agree. 

One less elderly house guest

Do you ever watch House Hunters on HGTV?  I do.  I love that show.  And if it's ok with you, we can pretend I don't watch it mainly to judge other people.  Would that be ok with you?  Good. 

The premise of the show is simple: you get to watch people navigate the troubling waters of house hunting.  The best episodes are the ones when the couple totally disagrees on their "wish list", or when their "wish list" is so totally out of line with their budget, and you can see the polite-but-jaded realtor try to resist breaking out a full nelson head lock wrestling move to knock some sense into the precious, clueless buyers.  What's that?  You want at least 4 acres of land in the middle of downtown Portland?  (insert high-pitched laughter, a nervous pause, and a sentence from the realtor that always begins with "Well...")

In an episode I watched yesterday, the wife's mother (who was in no way involved in the purchase of the new home, mind you), had firmly informed her daughter and son-in-law that, if the sum of the numbers in the street address of the house equaled "13", the mother would not so much as step foot inside the house.  Ever.  So, upon entering each prospective property, the wife would quickly add up the numbers and declare, "Not 13, so we're good."  (Incidentally, she was really quick at adding numbers in her head.  Color me jealous.)

I was relaying this story to Jeremy this morning, going on and on with the "isn't that totally RIDICULOUS?  Can you believe that?"  He chuckled politely (he has to...it was in our vows) before pausing.  He remained quiet for a few moments before saying calmly, "the numbers of our street address add up to 13." 

O.M.G. 

So you mean that lady's mom will never visit us? 

Better yet, should I be worried?  Or just stop watching so much TV?