Girl Moments...

A while ago I was talking with my school's Basketball coach and Lake, one of my sister's best friends. Lake was telling Coach (with a great deal of pride) about how she has a knife that is bigger than one of her male classmate's knife. My response to this was "I can't have a knife, because whenever Daddy lets me use his, I can't figure out how to close it." This was met with laughter and a derisive snort. I realized this was not my first "girl moment" of the week.

That Sunday evening I was talking with three boys who were a bit ruffled by having to miss the Superbowl for small groups. I informed them that I had "never  heard of the Ravens". They responded as one appalled voice: "The BALTIMORE Ravens" as if by  saying it with enough emphasis, I would immediately be infused with a knowlege of who was on this team, their past athletic achievements, and who is the best thrower of them all.

These unfortunate/entertaining moments have been occurring more and more frequently in the last few months as I have started hanging out with more guys. (Because sometimes, they are more fun and less stressful-- my beautiful and crazy-talented bestie Erin agrees with me) (Also, read her blog. Because it's awesome. And I like it, which means, by extension, you people should like it too.) (Also, besides my devotion to the word "also" you should also be aware of my love of parentheses.)  I take an almost malicious pleasure in tossing out ridiculous statements about myself and my exercise habits when they talk about their sports practices.

(Generic Male Friend):(also I love colons)"I had to run 3 miles today"
(Me):"I start wheezing after 30 feet. Also, I hate my running shoes. They just aren't even a little cute." 

GMF: "The other day I went shooting with my (insert gun name here). It was awesome!"
M:"My Daddy has some guns."
GMF: "Really? What kind?"
M:"I don't know--one is really long, and the other is small, and they're both really loud. The last time my family went shooting I stayed home and did the dishes instead. Way more fun."

GMF: "My abs are a little sore from all the workouts we did this week."
M: "I can't physically do a sit-up"

This unfortunate reality has caused my back to hurt. Because of babysitting.
Saturday night found me babysitting an adorable 5 week old named Claire. I was lying flat on the couch, with the baby asleep on my chest, when I realized it was time to heat up her bottle before she woke up hungry. To accomplish this, I needed to sit up. I needed to sit up smoothly, to not awaken the  12 pounds of baby on my chest. This was going to be no easy feat. I tried unsuccessfully several times, before finally bracing my foot under the coffee table for leverage. I rose. But now my back hurts.

I was reminded the other day of how well I had trained Deke, the boy I attended 3 years of high school with (he's in a band--if you like rock stuff, check it out). We were catching up over starbucks when I remembered I had to get cat food.
M: I need to run to Target to grab some cat food. Mr. Fuzzy is getting mad-want to come with me?
D:You want me to carry the cat food bag, don't you?
M: (hadn't actually thought that far ahead) Yes. Yes I do.

Deke has learned the hard way it's easier to just help me out rather than try to toughen me up. I spent several months making sure he arrived at every door we encountered first, until he naturally opened doors for me. Once, when I arrived at school to find my chair had uneven legs, I requested that Deke or Mark (my other well trained minion) replace it for me. In a moment of unprecedented rebellion, they refused. And so I rocked that chair back and forth for almost 10 minutes, until Mark broke and replaced it for me. As with all my girl battles, I won.

This lifestyle of enforced chivalry is a choice. Some of my friends will struggle to open a water bottle or move something heavy, working hard to accomplish the task and completing it, they say, with a sense of pride. Me, I just find the nearest male. Most of the time they are happy to be of use. Luckily, I don't really care if they're not. I also don't care if they think I am weak. Because facts are, they are all stronger than me. And I will shamelessly use that fact to further my lifestyle of ease and comfort.

(My little brothers are pretty good at assisting me too. See my post on MEN.)

Senioritis: It's Real, Guys.

Senioritis. noun \ˌsē-nyər-ˈī-təs\ : an ebbing of motivation and effort by school seniors as evidenced by tardiness, absences, and lower grades. ( Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

The above definition is a stellar example of the very malady it defines; instead of writing my Biology paper like I'm supposed to, I am looking up the definitions of made-up words. And then writing a blog post about it. Also, I am considering an experiment. What exactly would happen to my A+ average in Biology if I were to take a zero on a paper? The more I think about it, the more it seems like a good idea, for these reasons:

Reason A- With out ever having experienced the consequences of this laziness, I might be more tempted to try this out in a college course. 

Reason B- I have to maintain my final GPA from high school in college to keep my HOPE Scholarship. So really, raising it now can only hurt me, right?

Reason C- (As senioritis comes with a healthy dose of entitlement), shouldn't I get extra credit for conducting an experiment in Science class?

Really, the fact that I even show up in the mornings when I have Independent Study first period is cause for incredible praise. I can study independently just as well, if not better, from the comfort of my own bed. Also, I don't have to wear my constricting, if spiffy-looking uniform there. Also, because of senioritis, I'm not even bothering to restrict my abundant use of the word "also".  

Now I'm running out of motivation to finish this post. But I am working through it--because I hate the tundra. Not really, but I don't want to write a scientific paper on it. Also, we have to draw stuff about our biosphere. Or paste pictures on it. Really, Mr. Beaumont?! Because I can write a darn good paper, but you know I hate art.  

Unfortunately, the sense of pride in being a "good student" that propelled me through our study of Plato last year (I mean, how on earth did something as boring as those essays manage to survive 3000+ years?) is compelling me to write this paper. It will be a good paper, with lots of adjectives and commas, as well as a few semi-colons, and maybe even a colon, depending on how fancy I feel. Also, I will likely not use the word "also" more than once a paragraph. 

Maybe I'll even paste some pictures on scrapbook paper--what now?

I feel I should point out that I have it pretty good here, and I know it--this knowledge is merely blocked out occasionally by senioritis. Because it's a real thing guys.

Sometimes I Freak Out II: A Melt Down on 37th Street

As you may know, for the first 4 months or so of my driving career, I drove my father's 1990 Acura Legend. This car, in my father's eyes, was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. To me, this was a vehicle 5 years older than myself, badly in need of some new paint, with an annoying habit of making an awful screechy noise every second time or so it was started. However, I loved it. The Acura (or Acria, depending on which brother of mine you speak to) represented my independence. I could go where I wanted, when I wanted. (As long as I checked with Mom first, and got her permission, and ran any errands she needed done while I was out, all while texting her my location about every 30 second--BUT NOT WHILE DRIVING! I take what I can get.)  I enjoyed myself hugely that summer--driving out to camp with the windows rolled down (a mandatory action as the air conditioning was broken) blaring music from the laptop buckled into the passenger seat (the radio was also broken) and watching out for the stream of water that flowed from the sunroof after heavy rain. It should be noted that we had a thunderstorm almost every afternoon for a month. All that aside, I was perfectly content. Until it started cutting off on me. While I was driving. On roads. Real roads. With other cars. The first time this happened to me, I freaked out. I consider this a fully justified situation. With a few more details, I believe you will too.

I was driving home from youth group, sweating because it seemed inadvisable to drive through the shady part of town with my windows down. Heading towards the scariest stoplight of all, I reluctantly braked as the light turned yellow, and came to a halt just as it turned red. And then disaster struck. The car turned off all by itself. I double checked my door lock, and called Dad. Upon reflection, I have realized that many of our phone conversations follow this basic outline:

M: Daddy, the car is broken.
D: Broken? What's wrong with it?
M: I don't know, it just won't turn on.
D: Well open the hood and--
M: I don't know how to do that.
D: (poorly concealed sigh) *describes how to open the hood*
D: Now wiggle the left battery post--
M: Wait, still opening the hood. Also, what on earth is a battery post?
(For the record, I am still unclear on this issue, but I now know where this mystical piece of machinery is located.)

Only that is a conversation in a place of relative safety, the resolving of a routine inconvenience. This was no such occasion. Instead, our conversation went more like this:

M: Daddy, the car is BROKEN!!!
D: (OBVIOUSLY NOT GRASPING THE GRAVITY OF THE SITUATION)Broken? What's wrong with it?
M: I don't know, it JUST TURNED OFF! WHILE I WAS DRIVING IT!!!
D: Well open the hood and--
M: I don't know how to do that. ALSO, I'M AT 37TH AND WHITAKER, IN THE DARK--GETTING OUT OF THE CAR DOES NOT SEEM LIKE A GOOD IDEA!
D: (poorly concealed sigh)  You're fine.*describes how to open the hood*
D: Now wiggle the left battery post--
M: Said: (trying not to cry) Wait, still opening the hood. Also, what on earth is a battery post?
M: Thought:Also, I hate cars! Just come and get me! Maybe Uncle Chip would have been a better choice for the phone call! He would already be on his way to get me!

At this point, a wonderful young man pulled over to help me fix the car/wait for my unconcerned father to get his behind in the car and come get me. (BECAUSE 9:00 AT NIGHT IN THE GHETTO IS NO TIME TO TEACH A 17 YEAR OLD GIRL HOW TO FIX A CAR OVER THE PHONE DADDY!!!) This act of chivalry was summed up for me in one sentence. "I saw a little white girl alone in the hood, and thought I'd better stop." Yes, yes you should have. Thank you. I was especially grateful when the drunks at the neighboring gas station started getting loud. Dad arrived, fixed the car in about 32 seconds, and followed me home. I learned how to wiggle the left battery post on a less stressful situation. All was well with the Acria.

Now I am driving a different car, one with both air conditioning and a radio. But it too has problems. The other day it refused to start at Kroger. But (with the help of the first phone conversation) I fixed it. No one was quite as impressed with me as I was, but never mind. I fixed a car, and didn't freak out. Adulthood, here I come.