Trophy Case Gatorade Pegasister Day

Hello, everyone. Sorry for the huge hiatus from Mission Control, but finals season has begun, and I am very busy avoiding my homework and all. It takes a lot out of a person.

However, there is still much to report. Too much, in fact.

My lovely school won ten thousand dollars in some voting competition that turned out to be basically a lame car commercial. I don't know why the people with the money can't just show up in a big, black BMW and hand over the cash in an unmarked envelope, but for some strange reason, they decided everyone should go to the gym at seven-forty-five and sing the Norman Chrysler Jeep and Dodge jingle. Hooray, hooray.

So the gym was full of annoyed teenagers, unnecessarily happy cheerleaders, the Ironic Hipster Choir (me, and several other zombie-type beings), and the band, which has lots of other Ironic Hipsters who like to play the fight song over and over again to be annoying. Yay.

And then two people from Norman Chrysler Jeep and Dodge arrived, fully botoxed and laser-whitened, to hand over the big novelty check and force us to sing their jungle to the morbidly obese camera person. Even more Yay.

Then our principal announced what the ten thousand dollars we had won would be going to. Everyone, especially the girls, were really hoping that they would buy some bathroom stall doors, because a lot of the stalls are missing doors, and they put up some very transparent shower curtains as a makeshift. So we're all sitting there thinking, Yes, now I can pee without feeling like people are watching me.

But no. The money will go to fixing all the lockers, which is good, because a lot of the lockers are messed up: dented doors, no doors, malfunctioning locks, and so on. But they're also buying us a trophy case.

Lemme try again: They're buying us a trophy case.

THEY ARE BUYING A TROPHY CASE.

Why, why, why??

Yeah, because having a giant glass box in the middle of the school is really going to make the sports teams preform better. I see where you're going with this.

On the one hand, our debate teacher will finally be able to get all of those speech and debate trophies moved out of her house. On the other hand, HELLO. The teachers use the same bathrooms as we do. Do they not notice how awkward it is trying to pee with nothing but a paper-thin strip of fabric to guard you from the outside world!? I mean, seriously...

And to make my day even better, because life isn't interesting enough, apparently, I got half a bottle of yellow Gatorade spilled on me at lunch. And I went to the uniform closet to get different pants, and all the sizes were weird. I mean, what's with all the numbers? Small, Medium, and Large work just fine for me. By the time I had gone through the whole box trying to decipher the tags, lunch was over and my pants were pretty much dry, so there was no point in wasting any more time. But I still smelled sort of like Gatorade for a while-- at least, I felt like I smelled like Gatorade. I'm not sure anyone else noticed much.

Also, my sister and I have been watching My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

Why?

Because it's ironic. And because Friendship is Magic. And because everyone secretly wants to attend the Galloping Gala. And because... I have no life, and the vast majority of my friends exist in cyberspace. Which is probably the real reason... I learned that the female equivalent of a Brony is a Pegasister. *Sigh* I am resigned to my fate, but I really can't help it.



Rainbow Dash. Your argument is invalid.

The National Honor Society... What Went Wrong Here?

Hi! Sorry I've been gone for a while... Jeez, is it April already? My sinuses certainly think so.

I just got back from a big National Honor Society ceremony-- "big" consisting of roughly thirty people. Whoop-de-doo.

Now, there are a lot of things I absolutely hated about my old school. And one of those things was stupid, pointless assemblies. Luckily, we only had two stupid, pointless assemblies a year-- one for football, and one with a special speaker who always makes everyone feel bad and ponder the meaning of life and stuff. But as far as academics were concerned, they were spot on. We nerdy, study-hard kids don't exactly enjoy going on stage and displaying to the world our klutz-y awkwardness. So, they send you the little Honor Roll certificate in the mail, stapled to a coupon for Chuck-E-Cheese (I'm serious. Even in high school.) and that was it.

But at school now, ohhh no. It's all, "Here's a medal! Look at these symbolic candles! Oh gosh, do you want to have some disgusting, cold spaghetti before the ceremony for three bucks?"

Yesterday, they slipped these super-secret notes about the Dress Code on our desks in English class. No public announcement. No, a typed note saying ominous words like, must, skirt, and business attire all in the same sentence. I tried to wear high tops, but everyone looked at me like I was out of my mind.

Speaking of the dress code, here's a story you might enjoy:

I had a shirt, and I sprayed that stuff on it that makes it not wrinkly, because irons are hot and I have a tendency to injure myself around that type of thing. Obviously. So, the next morning, I stick my nice, not-wrinkly shirt in my backpack.

And it got wrinkly. Oops.

My mother said, "You're not wearing that shirt on the stage, young lady. People will think you are an urchin."

I am not even kidding. She actually used the word urchin. Then she marched me into Old Navy to get a not-wrinkly shirt, with forty-five minutes to go before the ceremony. We bought a shirt that was *ahem* textured. This is High Fashion Code for wrinkly. We spent, like, twelve bucks on it.

I managed to make my other shirt "textured" for free. All I had to do was stick it in my backpack.

Then we went to the book store, and my Wonderful, Glorious, Fabulous Mother bought me a Neil Gaiman paperback from the sci-fi section, and visit the Tolkien Shrine, in exchange for wearing a skirt and not complaining (much) about it. (I was sort of focused on the wrinkled shirt thing, soo...)

All that, and we still get to the school, like, fifteen minutes early. So we sat in the auditorium, and I went on stage and pretended to be a video game addict who seriously needed their inhaler, and possibly some Riddilin. And then people started showing up, so unless I wanted to be accused of needing Riddilin, I had to shut up for a while.

There was lots of standing in line. At first, I kind of thought the teacher (who looked, unfortunately, a bit like a very, very angry pit bull) was going to give us a Fight Club speech, about being the Same Decaying Organic Matter as Everything Else. But she didn't. She just told us that when the NHS President said, "Repeat after me: I, State Your Name," we were not to repeat "State Your Name" under threat of decapitation, and/or torture of the most severe and medieval kind. Tough crowd...

There was also a spaghetti supper. It was pretty gross in the spaghetti department, because it was cold. But they had cupcakes, so that was good. Of course, right as we were leaving the cafeteria, I slipped and fell flat on my butt. Because obviously being forced to wear a textured shirt and eat slimy spaghetti just isn't interesting enough. All of which is just to say, if your walking somewhere with tiled floors, wear shoes with traction. I went barefoot for pretty much the rest of the time to avoid further humiliation.

And then the speaker. What can I say? She was being introduced, and as soon as I heard the words "Cruise Director" followed by a long description of accomplishments such as being able to hold a drink and h'orderves without dropping them while shaking hands with the other hand, knowing when to wear white, and exactly what size purse you need for such-and-such occasion, the first thing that popped into my head was Emily Gilmore's face, followed by the words: WARNING! MID-AMERICAN BOURGEOIS AHEAD!

And everything after that is pretty much a hazy fuzz of mental sarcasm and outward fake smiles. I could practically be Vanna White when it comes to fake smiles. Well, Vanna White with braces, I guess.

All in all, I think I kind of prefer the lame, Chuck-E-Cheese coupon approach.

Goodbye, Good Luck, Good Riddance!
~Sarah
(Click Here to see five things I learned in my AP Euro Class. And a picture of Yoda.)