Pompous Circus Tent--I mean, Pomp and Circumstance...

Ok, so as a friend of mine pointed out to me, I haven't posted in about a week and a half, which for the youtubing/facebooking/tweeting world out there is like, a millenium.  It's partly been because I've been lazy, but it's also partly because I've been out in sunny SoCal for my brother's graduation.

Let me start off by saying that everyone should have their graduation in southern california.  I understand this may pose some budgeting issues for the east coast schools, but I promise you it's worth it.  When I graduated from Bryn Mawr, it rained so hard that everyone's shoes sunk into 6 inches of mud and water.  They had to put down cardboard (which most likely originated as a pile of moving boxes in some senior's dorm room) so that we wouldn't drown on our way to our seats.  And for those of you who are unfairly endowed with silky straight hair, let me fill you in on a little chemistry equation:  curly hair + H20 = unlimited quantities of frizz.  It's not attractive.

Anyway, as I was saying, the weather was perfect for my brother's graduation.  The ceremony was in the afternoon, but of course my mom insisted on going early to stake out good seats.  I'm pretty sure that at one point she was thinking about camping out at the graduation site, but a sleeping bag wouldn't have fit into her suitcase for the plane-ride over, so she nixed that plan.  She settled with showing up a few hours early so she could reserve our three seats--needless to say, my dad and I chose to wait until just before the ceremony to show up.

The ceremony was nice, if not a little boring (but aren't they all?).  But I did come away with an important lesson--my family and I are amateurs when it comes to celebrating.  Our first rookie move was that there were only three of us.  Looking around, there were groups as large as 20 people who had come for just one graduating senior.  What the hell?  This isn't the Duggar Family.  Who's paying for all those plane tickets and hotel rooms?  Who even knows 20 people that care about the fact that you're graduating college?  I sure as hell don't.  Our second rookie move was that we neglected to bring the kind of noise makers that are generally seen only in sporting arenas.  Every other student's name was met with an ear-piercing wail from an air horn.  I even saw one guy with one of those soccer noisemakers, vuvuzelas, that have gained so much notoriety.

But not my family.  We didn't travel with a posse.  We didn't bring a police siren to the ceremony.  We're just a few Canadians who show their pride with a smattering of polite claps.  And then we apologize for something.  While eating a tin of maple syrup.

Seriously, though, I'll cop to the fact that there were definitely a few times when I got a little teary.  I mean, come on, it's my baby brother and he's all grown-up.  Sniff.  It feels like only yesterday when we were...  (CUE CHEESY MOVIE MONTAGE)

• cleaning the entire third floor of our friend's apartment with only an old rag and a bottle of windex.
• riding our bikes up and down Waxter Way
• building worlds out of lego pieces
• spending saturdays at Bolton Hill swim meets (and eating all the candy and tacos-in-a-bag we wanted)
• spending 10 hours in a minivan, riding up the coast for family vacations in Nova Scotia
• walking home from school
• driving (ourselves!) home from school
• filling all of our spare time with NBAC swim practices

(Ok, I tried to make the list longer, but apparently I have the memory of a 90-year-old woman.  Yeesh, I can't even come up with a sentimental walk down memory lane.  Pathetic.)

All right, enough with the sap.  I can't handle all this sweetness.  It's giving me a toothache.

You'll go blind doing that

So I'm sitting at the front of the room reading a book aloud to my class.  Kids are in a big clump on the floor, sitting or lying down in whatever position is most comfortable for them.  It's one of my favorite parts about being a teacher--everyone's quiet and calm, totally immersed in the story that I'm reading, really enjoying themselves.  I guess I didn't count on just how much enjoyment some of the kids might get out of it.  I'm in the middle of a page and I look up to see one little boy lying down with legs spread out and his teenie weenie sticking out of his sweatpants.  Oh lordy.  I mean, he's not waving it around or anything, but he's definitely enjoying himself, and it takes everything I have to just keep on reading like nothing is happening.  Because when it comes down to it, these kids are 5 years old.  They're...curious.  And they don't realize that it's not exactly a school-appropriate activity.  We had a kid last year who would spend all of rest time quietly humping whatever mat he was lying on that day.  It got to the point where I would do everything I could to avoid touching his hands, cause who knows where the hell they'd been.

Look, it could be worse.  ...Ok, well, I can't really think of anything else right now that's worse than a front-row seat to some kindergarten self-love action.  But hey, it comes with the territory, along with getting coughed on, getting sneezed on, mopping up accidents on the bathroom floor, helping a kid wipe his own butt, and cleaning up the mess that comes with a bloody nose.

I know I say this a lot, but seriously--I REALLY DON'T GET PAID ENOUGH.

What's my age again?

Today, one of the girls I babysit said to me, "you look like you're a 5th grader in those clothes."  I was wearing a tank top and jean capris.  I wear that exact outfit all the time.  Great.  I'm surprised she didn't ask me if I got my clothes at the Baby Gap.

And let me tell you, this is just the last item on a loooooooong list of things that serve to remind me how much I apparently look and act like a little kid.  An abbreviated version of that list is as follows:

1. There are kids in the elementary school that I work at who are taller than me.  Do you know how hard it is to get a kid to listen to your directions when you're looking UP at him?  It kind of kills your authoritativeness.
2. A couple of years ago, I went out to dinner with my boyfriend and his family.  When his parents ordered a champagne for the table, my boyfriend's younger sister (19 yrs old at the time) didn't get carded.  Guess who did?
3. I have always been told I look cute.  Cute sucks.  Cute is for little girls in pigtails.  What 20-something wants to be cute?  
4. I cry at everything.  The 4-year-old I babysit cries less than I do. 
5. The parents at school think I'm one of the students.   

Look, the list goes on and on.  But here's the kicker--even though I'm always pissed when other people take not of my not-so-desired youthfulness, there are a lot of times when I do actually feel like a little kid.  I look around in surprise and I think, "Ok, a grown-up is coming to take over soon, right?  No one would leave me here in charge of everything.  I'm just a kid."  But no one ever comes.  It's just me.  What's up with that?  Either let me look like a kid and actually BE a kid, or let me look my age and be a grown-up.  Ok fine, I'll keep the baby face, as long as I get 6 or 7 inches added to my height.  It's only fair.

Seriously? No really, SERIOUSLY?!

So I'm wandering around the internet when I happened upon this gem:

Apparently, couples all over the country are on the verge of divorce due to the stankness of their farts.  Did you know about this epidemic?  I sure didn't, but I'm so glad to hear that someone has been working hard to come up with a solution to this silent but deadly threat to the sacred bond of matrimony.  If you go on to the website, you can visit the "testimonials" page, which I can tell you has (very) limited praise for this miracle blanket.  And it's stuff like "It must be working because I have not woken myself up since I started using it!" Wait a minute--your farts are so rank that you wake YOURSELF up at night?  Hon, I'm thinking that's not normal.  You should probably see someone about that...