Let's Talk About Squiggles and Circles

There are a number of important things in your early life that you likely remember learning. You remember where you were when you found out that there was no Santa Claus. You probably remember learning how to ride a bike. You remember your first crush, your first slow dance, your first kiss, your first heartbreak.

But do you remember where you were when you first learned about "The Birds and The Bees"? Was it in health class when you were in the ninth grade, and everything was completely foreign to you? No, that's not likely - it was probably earlier. Perhaps you were an awkward thirteen-year-old who stumbled upon his father's poorly hidden x-rated DVD stash. No? Even earlier than that? Maybe you were a confused preteen who took bits and pieces of whispered school yard stories and formed them into an almost-coherent idea. What? You were younger than that?! Fine, possibly a nine-year-old who accidentally came across your German shepherd in the back yard taking advantage of the neighbor's purebred, prize-winning poodle.

If you say you were even younger than that, then you're lying. You're lying... or you're me.

Okay, ready?

My mother is an amazing woman. People will always say that their mother is the best mother - but those people are wrong. My mother is caring and funny and giving and sweet and just the most perfect mom that any person could ever hope for. She sent me to private school to be sure that I would have the best education that money could buy. She colored with me and took me to movies and baked cookies with me and answered any question I ever had as fairly and honestly and concisely as she could. She never babied me, but at the same time she treated me with more love than I have ever seen anyone give to their child.

So what was it, you ask, that led my mother into my room for an impromptu health class on that one night when I was seven? I do not have an answer to that question - all I know is this:

If I was not asleep, I was nearly so. Perhaps my mother had been out that evening, or perhaps she had been home and was on her way to bed - I do not particularly recall. Either way, she came into my bedroom and softly jostled me awake. I remember a small amount of commonplace mother-daughter chatting at the beginning - how had my day been, how was school going, things of that nature. And then, suddenly, we were talking about when a man and a woman love each other. Wait, what? Where did this come from? What did this have to do with penmanship and art class and carrying the one in math? And so, as my mother continued to explain that love was a beautiful thing and that it was meant to be cherished and respected, I tried to figure out why the hell I was up at one in the morning when I had a spelling test the next day. Slowly but surely, as I started to wonder what this was all about, words I did not understand began to come into play. Penis? Vagina? I know what love is, but I don't think I'm familiar with the concept of "making" it. Yet still she went on, and suddenly my incredibly active imagination started to form all sorts of horrifying visuals. My mother soon realized that I was forming my own opinion of what this act would look like and immediately took it upon herself to remedy the situation. Two minutes and a blue crayon later, I was looking at the most anatomically-correct stick figures the world has ever seen. "This" point point point "is the man's penis. And when a man and woman are in love, the penis goes inside here," arrow arrow arrow, "the woman's vagina. Then, the sperm comes out" squiggle squiggle squiggle "and goes into the eggs," circle circle circle, "and then a baby is made!"

Of course! The point follows the arrow until the squiggles go into the circle and then there is a baby!

See, even as an adult that sounds absurd. Imagine being seven years old and trying to figure it out. What is this witchcraft! What is this sorcery! Squiggles and circles do not a baby make! But I accepted this information for what it was, wished my mother a goodnight, and went back to sleep.

I understand that she was doing nothing other than trying to keep me informed and educated in all aspects of life. Perhaps she had seen a jarring episode of Oprah that stated that more and more third graders were having unprotected sex. Maybe she read an article in Good Housekeeping that suggested that girls between the ages of six and eight were 300 times more likely to get pregnant than they were ten years ago. Whatever the reason, she approached the situation with grace and class and taught me an important life lesson, and for that I am grateful.

Plus, you'd better believe this is how I'm teaching my kids someday.

A.D.I.D.A.B.U. (or All Day I Dream About Breaking Up.)

There will come a time in most girls' lives when a boy will break up with her for the first time. It will never be fun, and it will never be pretty. It will often leave her heartbroken with residual feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. Obviously, at one time in my life, this happened to me.

And, obviously, here's the story.

When I was fifteen years old, I had a free period in my day which I spent as an office aide. I filed paperwork and answered phones and wrote passes - and, most importantly, I delivered memos and messages to different classrooms throughout the school. Oftentimes I would find myself making deliveries in the cafeteria, or having to walk through it to reach classrooms on the other side. Early in the semester, I realized that my good friend Denny ate lunch at that time, so I would sometimes stop by and chat for a minute or two before carrying on with my business. Denny ate lunch with a group of people I did not know, but I started to become friendly with them as time went on. A cute boy at the table caught my eye from day one, but I was shy and had a hard time showing my interest. Thankfully, he was outspoken enough for the both of us, and we were good friends in no time. His name, for the sake of this story, will be Jean-Claude. Because that is an awesome name.

Jean-Claude was the dreamiest thing I'd ever set my eyes on in New Hampshire. Sure, I'd had my share of love affairs in middle school, but those were just boys. It was clear to me that Jean-Claude was a man. From the way his backpack was covered in cool patches to the way he made jokes about sex a lot, I knew he was the man of my dreams. Eventually, I was making excuses to find my way to the cafeteria during my free period, and I was staying longer than I should have just to flirt and laugh with this charming gentleman. As the semester went on, I started to be more forward with my feelings - small hints at first, eventually making way for blatant admissions of interest. More often than not he would just laugh me off; lightly though, and without malice. But the flirting continued, and eventually I worked up the courage to ask him to come with me to my best friend's formal sweet sixteen. I explained fervidly that it would not be a date, and he agreed to join me without hesitation.

The day of the party came, and I went out of my way to look gorgeous. I wore a long, slinky dress, I did my makeup, I wore my hair down. I did absolutely everything I could think of to make myself look like a beautiful woman, and not like the goofy, jeans-wearing, lunchbox carrying tomboy that Jean-Claude was used to seeing every day in the cafeteria. Once we arrived, I started to make the rounds with him, introducing him to everyone he did not know. Some sort of courage had come over me, like nothing I had ever experience before, so in no time I was saying, "So-and-so, this is my date Jean-Claude. He is not my boyfriend, but don't you think he should be?" I laughed, he laughed, everyone laughed at how cute I was - until, with one introduction, he interjected and said, "Well... would you like me to be?" Oh, I thought my heart would explode! Yes, yes Jean-Claude! Not one thing in the wide, wide world would make me happier than for you to be my boyfriend!

And so it was. We spent the rest of the night dancing, and during the last song, he held me close and kissed me. It was everything I could ever have hoped for, and it was happening to me right then and there on the dance floor. I knew at that moment that I had found the love of my life, the man I would marry, the father of my children, the piece of my soul that I hadn't known was missing until suddenly I'd found it. Eventually, the party ended, and a few of us relocated to the house of an aunt so the night would not have to end. Jean-Claude and I sat outside in the dark in each others' arms, talking and kissing and being young and in love.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we became somewhat inseparable. I spent every moment with him that was possibly allowed. He often came to my house after school where we talked and napped and kissed and behaved in other inappropriate teenage ways. I continued to visit him in the cafeteria during school, eventually being asked to step down from my aide position for spending too much time out of the office. But it was worth it. He made me happier than I'd ever known I could be, and it was one of the best times of my life.

After we'd been dating for a month or two, my parents informed me that we'd be spending April school vacation in South Carolina with my grandparents. That meant I'd be away from Jean-Claude for a whole week, and I was devastated. He told me that he would miss me and he gave me his favorite cardigan sweater to bring with me on the trip. We said our goodbyes and I reluctantly left with my family.

I thought of him endlessly while I was away. I wore the sweater twenty-four hours a day in sticky, humid South Carolina heat. I wrote him a post card. I called him from a payphone in the middle of an amusement park, since it was the only place I'd been allowed any privacy - but it was so loud there that I could not hear him. I counted the hours, minutes, seconds until I would be back at home, and suddenly, the day was here. We pulled off the highway back into town sometime in the evening. We stopped at the supermarket before finally heading home to pick up a cake for my sister, because it was her birthday - but I could not wait any longer. I got out of the van and ran to a payphone and called him immediately.

He answered the phone, but he did not sound excited. In fact, he sounded sad. Sort of distant? I could sense that something was wrong, but I was terrifed to ask what it might be. I thought that maybe, if I just ignored the fact that he wasn't himself, whatever it was would go away and I would see him the next day and everything would be fine. I tried to say goodbye and that I would see him soon, but he cut me off and said the worst thing a girl in love can ever hear:

"I think we should stop seeing each other."

I was crushed. I physically felt my heart brake inside of my chest. I was certain at that moment that I would never love again. I don't even know if I tried to fight it, or if I just knew that it was done. All I remember is hanging up the phone and standing in front of the supermarket, all alone, crying. I sobbed as though someone close to me had died, or maybe even harder than that. Eventually, I realized that I was standing in the middle of a busy shopping center having a breakdown and that I would need to get back to the car. And eventually I must have, although the rest of that day is a blur. I remember being teased by my big brother, being consoled by my mother, and not much of anything else.

That was May 2nd, 1998. And that's the end.

One day last year though, I received a text message from Jean-Claude. When I opened it, there was a photograph of a contract, which I'd handwritten. It said:

I, Cynthia Elizabeth Walker, hereby declare that you, [Jean-Claude Etc] are THE funniest person I know as of now, 8:00pm, August 17th, 1998. SIGNED: Cynthia Elizabeth Walker. WITNESS: Jean-Claude. PS - Oh yeah, and you're my best friend!

So maybe we weren't meant to be soulmates. Did I die when he broke up with me? No. Did I move on? Of course. I was fifteen. To have felt so strongly about such thing at such a young age is obviously silly now, but that doesn't mean it hurt less at the time. But I picked up the pieces and I kept moving. And I've been lucky enough to keep Jean-Claude as a friend. To this day, I still love him with all of my heart, because he is one of the best people I've ever known.

And I know now that a broken heart doesn't mean the end of the world. And I know now that I'm stronger than anything life can throw at me. And I know that I am amazing and I have nothing to worrry about. And for all of that, I thank him a lot.

Thanks, Jean-Claude. ;)

The Boy Who Almost Didn't Live

Sometimes I would just rather sleep than go to work.

That doesn't mean I don't like my job. It doesn't mean that I have a bad work ethic - it just means that I really, really like to sleep.

Once when I was about twenty-two, I was feeling especially adamant about this particular sentiment. I called work and requested to take the day off - and I was denied. "No no, we'll have none of that, please come get here at your earliest convenience." Oh, alright. So instead, I stated that I would be late, and I curled up and planned to take another few moments of sleep before finally heading in.

I had just started dozing off again when the phone started to ring. I wanted to so badly to ignore it, but instead I did the first responsible thing of the day, and I answered.

"Hello?"
"Yes hello, Cindy, it's person from work. People are calling for you and they say it is important. Here is a number you need to call. Thank you goodbye."

Oh, yes, okay, let's do that. So I called the number I had been given without any sort of knowledge as to who I was calling or why.

"Nurse's office."
"Uh. What. Hello?"
"Can I help you?"
"I have.. uh. No idea. What? Someone from work just called and told me to call you?"
"Is this Cindy Walker?"
"Uh. Yes?"
"Hello we have your brother here, bleeding from the head. Please come retrieve him."

Oh alright, let's do that too. Ben was in school at the time and had apparently injured himself somehow. Since my mother was in California visiting relatives and my father lived forty minutes away, my brother had suggested to the nurse that she call me. He also had assumed I'd be at work (since technically I certainly should have been) and had recommended that she call me there.

So I got up and got dressed and called my boss to let him know that I would be going to pick up my brother at school and that he was broken and I would be needing to see to it that he was repaired. It did not go over well, as I had already tried to take the day off without success, but I said "too bad so sad" and went to save Ben's life.

I arrived at the school and went into the front office where I recognized the receptionist. We made quick small talk, but I knew that time was likely a factor, so I cut right to the chase and asked if I might be able to head to the nurse's office to find my brother. The woman looked at me sideways and sad,

"Cindy, your brother has not gone to this school in many years. This is the elementary school, and he must surely be in high school now."

Oh right, that. I am an idiot. I mumbled some sort of feckless, illogical excuse and went on my way to pick up my brother at the appropriate school. Like I should have done the first time.

When I finally arrived at the nurse's office, I was received with scorn and diappointment - from the nurse. She explained to me that it was imperative that Ben get medical attention immediately, and that the numbers that we had as his emergency contact were clearly out of date, and what if this had been life-threatening, and don't I know the importance of updated records, and wait a second lady I thought time was a factor. Shut up. Give me my brother.

When we were finally alone and on our way to the car, I asked my brother to show me his wound. Apparently he had been shoved into the corner of a bleacher while playing matball, the world's safest gym class game in which large groups of people round bases in unison, and have a tendency to careen into one another while trying not to overshoot third, which in this case was the bleachers, which in this case had very sharp corners.

He slowly removed the damp, maroon-tinged cloth from his forehead and revealed a thick flap of skin hanging precariously above his eyebrow, bleeding violently everywhere for forever. I immediately had him cover it again and tried to stop thinking about it long enough to drive to the hospital.

When we arrived at the emergency room, there was a short line. We waited patiently for our turn, and eventually were able to make our way to speak to someone. The woman asked me what the issue was. I made Ben show her his head. She asked if I was his mother. I said no, I am 22, I am not the mother of a fourteen year old. She asked if I was his guardian. I said no, and I explained that my mother was out of town. She asked if there was a guardian who was not in California. I said that I would contact my father. She said good, and made us go back to the waiting room. They would not clean him up. They would not fix him. They would not even look at him until there was a guardian in the building. (They did, however, give us a paper towel. Oh hey thanks!)

My father eventually showed up after nearly an hour (since he needed to get out of work and drive forty minutes to where we were) and they finally let us into a room. We sat waiting in the room for another long, drawn out period of time, but eventually a doctor came to see what all the commotion was about. He cleaned the wound and stated that it would indeed need stitches, and asked me if I wanted to see it now that it was not swimming in a pool of grossness. I said yes and then OH HEY BEN'S SKULL. I mean, oh, right, Ben's skull. That's normal.

I watched the doctor inject my brother's forehead with novocaine out of the hugest needle I've ever seen in my life, and then I listened to them talk about baseball while he sewed medical thread into Ben's face. I did not watch that part. Eventually, it was done. The doctor bandaged the wound and it was time to leave.

We said goodbye to my father in the parking lot and I drove Ben home. We laughed about how he would have his very own lightning-shaped scar on his forehead when all was said and done.

And then I went to work.

A blog about pee.

If you are a woman, then you will know what I am talking about, probably from the get-go. If you are a man, then sit back and relax while you learn some things about women you may or may not have known.

Alright.

When you are a small child, there will come a time when you are forced to use a public restroom. Parents are required to teach their children the rules and regulations of these often rancid places. For fathers, this lesson is simple enough - stand. pee. flush. Mothers, on the other hand, face a more difficult choice. Which method will you use when it comes time to teach your daughter to use a public toilet?

There are three methods that are most common in these circumstances, and they are as follows:

1.) I like to refer to the first method as "regular." The regular method consists of sitting on the toilet and peeing. No prep, no worry. Oftentimes, people fear that this method is unsanitary and dangerous. With an average of less than 1,000 bacteria per square inch however, nothing could be further than the truth. Less than 1,000 b/si is the guideline that most doctors use to qualify a surface as "sanitary" - which means that you're better off eating off of the toilet seat than you would be eating by the sink faucet (which holds, on average, 50,000 b/si.)

2.) The second method is the "toilet seat cover" method. I feel like this method is overrated, really. First of all, fewer and fewer public restrooms are stocking disposable toilet seat covers, which makes the whole process sort of a nusance - the only alternative is to line the seat with squares or strips of toilet paper before sitting down. As Americans, we already use over 7 million trees' worth of toilet paper annually - it seems as though maybe we could take a break and cut back on any excess restroom paper consumption. Now, assuming that you are absolutely sold on the idea of covering the seat before you sit, consider this. If there is any moisture on the seat before you start, it is going to seep through the liner once the pressure of your bottom has been applied. Perhaps you've thought of this, and you're doubling or tripling up on your layers. Is that to say that you don't even remotely shift during the whole of your stay on that public toilet? Because if you budge, even a little, the odds of your bare bottom touching the bare toilet seat are pretty high. And once bottom touches seat, do you know what happens? That's right, nothing. We've talked about this.

3.) The third method is the one that bothers me most of all. It's called the "hover." Apparently, there is a school of thought that assumes that hovering, or squatting, over the toilet seat is the best of both worlds. No need to line the toilet seat with paper, but still no need for your ass to touch the seat itself. However, hovering is in no way an exact science. Messes are easily made in these instances, which can prove to be largely uninviting to the person who next uses that stall. Unfortunately, there is also a subclass of hoverers that I like to refer to as "fucking disgusting." These are the women who perform some sort of spraying maneuver during their trip to the ladies' room, causing urine to cover the seat, the floor, and any other nearby surfaces - and then leave without cleaning up. Although urine is a sterile substance, and dealing with it is luckily not an unsanitary activity, it is still relatively rancid to have to wipe someone else's pee away before being able to comfortably use the facilities. Please be considerate hoverers - you are not the only person using this restroom today. Oh, and PS. Since hovering over the seat doesn't allow your bladder to relax fully, it may not empty completely. Residual urine in your bladder can breed bacteria, which can lead to urinary tract infections and, over time, incontinence. So cut it out. Really.


This has been my note about pee. If you know either a toilet seat cover user or a hoverer, please share it with them. Not only will it save them time, and possibly protect their health, but it will keep me from ever having to sit in hover pee by accident ever again.

Thank you.

War and Pizza

Here is the attendance policy for my high school:

During any given quarter, a student may accrue up to five absences from any class before he/she will earn an administrative failure for that quarter.

a. Three tardies will be counted as equal to one absence.

b. Being more than 20 minutes late to class will be counted as equal to one absence.

Here is a fun fact about this policy:

It didn't go into effect until the year after I graduated.

Thanks to this fact, I didn't go to school much my senior year. I didn't like math or science, I had a ton of study periods throughout the day, and my first period French class was way too early for me to care about. What I did love though was my last class of the day. Senior Humanities Seminar was new for my senior year, and it was a two-period class that encompassed history and English, was taught by two teachers, and was fantastic. I nearly dropped it after the first day, because I hadn't done the summer reading, but the teachers gave me a chance:

"If we promise that not doing the summer reading will not cause you to fail, will you stay?"

Well, when put that way in front of my entire class, I couldn't very well leave. They might as well have said "If we promise you that we will kill this baby if you leave, will you stay?" So I stayed, and it was one of the best academic decisions I ever made. The class was very small, and it had a very intimate feel to it. The structure was very open, and heated discussion was not only allowed but encouraged. We had a lot of serious debate, but we also laughed a lot. We read and we read and we read, and we wrote and we wrote and we wrote. It was the class where I first read Hesse, and Kafka, and Tolstoy. Oh, sweet Tolstoy.

We read War and Peace as a class over the period of a month or two. I loved every sentence, but even still, I found it to be a bit much when added to the rest of my workload. (You know, the pile of uncompleted assignments that I wasn't working on because I preferred playing Final Fantasy IX.) The teachers were not oblivious to the fact that we were busy seniors - they knew that we all had our plates full, and so they decided to reward us for our efforts. It was announced that, at the end of our harrowing Russian literature experience, we would be granted a pizza party. A War and Pizza party.

It was simple. Basically, once the book was done, the teachers would somehow find a way to order pizza into the building. (We should have had it delivered. The class was just inside the back door of the school, that's what we should have done.) Each of us was responsible for bringing an extra dish, and we would spend the last two periods of the day eating and talking about battles and love and catty Russian women. What could be better?

The day crept ever closer, and all we could think about was how fun War and Pizza would be. I signed up to bring something simple - maybe cookies? - because I knew I couldn't be trusted to bring anything more substantial. Finally, the day arrived, and miraculously I was in school in the morning. A friend from Seminar saw me in the hall after first period and asked me if I was ready for the party. I smiled and said that I couldn't wait, but I think you know that of course I wasn't ready. I hadn't brought cookies to school, I'm never prepared for anything. So I did what I was good at. I forged a note with my mother's name that said I had a dentist appointment, and I brought it to the principal's office after second period. Protocol stated that I should have given the note to my homeroom teacher, and at that point I would have been given an early dismissal pass. However, high school students are forgetful, so the secretary gave me a pass to leave at the beginning of fourth period, and I was on my way.

I went to my third period class and instead of paying attention to my lazy-eyed chemistry teacher, I thought about how I didn't want to leave school alone. That would have been boring. Then I remembered that my sister had fourth period lunch, and I decided that I was going to make her come out with me. Jenny was not the type to skip classes, so when I walked into the cafeteria and presented her with her counterfeit note, I could suddenly smell fear on her. I explained that I would go to get the car while she took the note I had given her to the principal's office. She disagreed and insisted that if she was going to do it, I was going to have to go with her. So we walked back to the office where I had already told the secretary my "oops I forgot to give you this" story, and I told it again, but this time for my sister. For some reason, I thought it would be entirely believable that we would both have forgotten to hand over our notes on the very same day. The secretary eyed us up and down and said, "You girls aren't trying to skip class, are you?" I could hear Jenny behind me, fighting an audible whimper, so I loudly replied "What! No we're just forgetful it is hilarious!" No, that is not hilarious, I am terrible at lying. Miraculously though, she wrote Jenny's pass and sent us away with a bit of an evil eye, but I didn't care. We were free!

We walked to my car and Jenny didn't say a word. I tried to get her to admit that she was having a good time, but I think she was fighting off the urge to cry or vomit or physically abuse me. I tried to explain to her that she was only skipping lunch, but still that didn't seem to make her feel better. By the time we got to the supermarket, she was ready to have American-Gladiator-style pugil stick fights with me, throwing me to my metaphorical death (or slight discomfort) on the metaphorical padded mats metaphorically below. (This is a metaphor. There were no pugil sticks or mats or deaths.)

I went into the store, and while I felt bad that Jenny was upset, I felt great about the fact that I was not in math class. Math was bullshit, cookies were delicious, and sometimes you had to make your sister leave school without permission. In my eyes, it was the way of the world. So I paid for my tasty treats, I went back to the car, and I took my sister back to school. I had her back before her lunch even ended, and I sent her on her way. She walked down the hall to her next class, head down, defeated. I had destroyed her sense of moral fiber, her personal sense of righteousness. I had ruined her in the course of forty minutes.

Thankfully the cookies were delicious.

Happy Festivus or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Everyone Equally

Normally I blog about funny or touching stories from my past, but I need to step away from that for a minute to talk about something that's really been bothering me.

Last week, I saw a Facebook status that said:

"There are a lot of countries that don't say Merry Christmas, if you don't like saying, or hearing Merry Christmas, take your ass to one of those countries!! If you have balls, Re Post!! and MERRY CHRISTMAS AMERICA !!!!!!! Love it.....!!!!!"

By yesterday, the hate had been stepped up a notch:

"We Can't say 'MERRY CHRISTMAS' anymore,We Now Say 'HAPPY HOLIDAYS !'We Can't call it a 'CHRISTMAS TREE', We Now Call It a 'HOLIDAY TREE,Because it might offend someone! They call it 'CUSTOMS',We Call it 'TRADITIONS'.This is 'OUR COUNTRY!' If U Wanna Live & Work here have Some RESPECT! If U Dont like it, GO HOME! If u agree with this, PLEASE post as ur status. OH, By the way.. ☆°◦※◦°MERRY CHRISTMAS!°◦※◦°"

I don't understand what it is about this that people think is okay. Let me be perfectly clear. I completely understand why some people might be upset that it is no longer considered politically correct to say "Merry Christmas" - but that is also not what bothers me about these posts. Specifically, it is the implication that it is individuals from other countries that are causing "Happy Holidays" to become the standard December greeting.

Here are some facts:

• In the United States, according to a 2008 census, only 75% of people classify themselves as Christian (which is down from 87% in 1990). This means that one out of every four people in the United States would classify themselves otherwise - Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Scientologist, Jehovah's Witness - the list goes on. Also, a staggering 46% of Americans between the ages of 18 and 34 indicate that they have no religion at all. What is important to note here is that Christianity is declining in America, and the use of "Happy Holidays" in place of "Merry Christmas" is not meant to be demeaning or disrespectful - quite contrarily it is meant to be all-inclusive, showing respect for whatever beliefs an individual might hold.

• Here are some more statistics: 78% of Caucasian Americans identify themselves as Christians. Interestingly enough, 84% of Latino Americans and 85% of Black Americans classify themselves as Christians. So, judgmental Caucasians, look out. It's clear that you're not quite Christian enough. It's okay though - when the Latino Americans and Black Americans start telling you to "go home" for not being Christian enough, you can probably just hop a boat back to Ireland or Germany.

• Which other countries are we talking about specifically, I also wonder. Because here's a pretty good sized list of countries that celebrate Christmas: Armenia, Australia, Austria, Bangladesh, Bosnia, Brazil, Bulgaria, Canada, China, Colombia, Czech Republic, Denmark, England, Ethiopia, Finland, France, Greece, Georgia, Germany, Hungary, India, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Ireland, Italy, Japan, Lebanon, Lichtenstein, Malaysia, Mexico, Moldova, The Netherlands, New Zeland, Nicaragua, Nigeria, Norway, Pakistan, the Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Russia, Scandinavia, Scotland, Serbia, Singapore, Slovakia, South Korea, Spain, Sweden, Taiwan, Ukraine, Venezuela, and Wales. In Pakistan, choirs go from house to house singing carols, and the family of the house invites the carolers in for Christmas treats. In Japan, gifts are left by the pillows of children, and Christmas cake with strawberries is common celebratory fare. In Colombia, candles and paper lanterns adorn streets, sidewalks, balconies, porches, driveways. The traditions might differ, but the holiday is the same - so suggesting that people "go home" makes no sense to me, when so many people in so many countries are already celebrating the holiday in question.

I'm not trying to debate whether or not it's right to say "Merry Christmas" - I never was, and I never would. As Americans, it is our right to say and do what we please (within the confines of the law, of course). That's what's great about being an American. So when you say "Say Merry Christmas or go home", that's actually one of the least American things you could say. Living in this country means that you have the freedom to believe what you like and the right to be granted respect from others regardless of if they agree with you. Just remember, there are Americans who celebrate Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and Winter Solstice. When they wish you "Happy Holidays", it isn't because they're trying to demean or dismiss the importance of Christ in your life, but it is because they are trying to be gracious by recognizing that you might celebrate one of any number of things.

Lastly, and most importantly, is this. Christians, you do not own December. You just don't, it isn't yours. You have the right to celebrate Christmas, and every other person - in America and in the rest of the world - has exactly the same right to celebrate what they choose. Do not fault them for it.

So, on a personal level, say "Merry Christmas" if you want to. But if you work for a business that requires you to say "Happy Holidays", or if you receive a card this week that says "Season's Greetings", just accept it. As it turns out, the world is bigger than just you.

Love in the time of Procrastination

When I was in elementary and middle school (and, honestly, on into the rest of my life), I was easily the world's most gifted procrastinator. No matter how much I loved to read, or how well I tested, or how much teachers liked me, I still could not seem to grasp the concept of completing homework on time. Report cards constantly came home with "assignments missing" and "incomplete" and "your daughter isn't doing what she's supposed to do" all over them. It got to a point where, even though my grades were good, my mother had to start reprimanding me for not completing schoolwork on time.

Worksheets and textbook chapters and vocabulary were bothersome, but generally I found my way through them. I could whip through a phonics lesson in five minutes and receive 100%, but for some reason I could not ever bring myself to appropriately prep for long-term projects. You would think, given the fact that they were "long-term", that I would have been more likely to complete these projects in the time allotted - however, you would be hilariously incorrect. As it turned out, I was even less likely to complete these projects on time! This is because, as best as I can figure it, there was so much more to do, but I was equally uninterested in doing it.

And so, without further ado, I present to you three real-life examples of procrastination in girls: age ten.

#1.) When I hit the fifth grade, class structure suddenly changed. No longer did my day consist of eight hours in the same room with the same people and the same teacher. I now had eight separate classes each day, taught by eight different teachers. Enter: Dr. Rossi. This man was large and loud, and not only did I dislike him because of his undesirable personality traits, but he also taught science. Oh, how I loathed science. Imagine how I felt then, when this big, fat, awful man told me that I would be required to do a science project! Not only that, but I would be almost entirely required to complete it on my own time. Since my science class was now only 40 minutes long, it needed to be spent learning science. Well, fast forward to the day before this project is due. I estimate that I had had probably two weeks to work on this project, if not significantly longer. I say two weeks because that is the absolute shortest amount of time it would have been, and still, doesn't it seem like it should have been enough to research and complete a science project? Yes, it does. But, it wasn't. So I do what I am best at and I say to my mother,

"Mom, I need to go to the library. Today. To finish a project that is due tomorrow that I have not told you about until now."

Needless to say, my mother brought me to the library. (Thanks for not existing in my home yet, internet. I really appreciate it.) I remember spending at least an hour going through books of science projects, and the panic that was rushing through me as I realized that they were all really complicated! But then I found it. The most perfect science project of all. It was informative, it was educational, and most of all - it was easy. Here's what I needed: a string and a spoon.

I went home from the library with the certainty that this would be the best science project ever performed. I whipped up a quick paper about whatever the hell the project was supposed to be demonstrating (something about sound waves), and I gathered my spoon and rope (a jump rope, I remember. My mom said "Will that work?" I said "Sure, of course." She said "Do you want to test it?" I said "No, it will be fine!"), and I packed my bag and I went to bed.

The next day in class, I offered to go first. I hated when I had to speak in front of the class, and I just wanted it to be over and done with, so I walked to the front of the room with my report and props in hand, and I read to my classmates what I was about to present to them. Then, once I'd finished reading the paper, I asked for two volunteers. I asked one to hold one end of the string (jumprope) up to his ear, and the other to hold the other end up to hers. I then tried for what felt like an eternity to wrap the spoon up in the center of the jumprope. The purpose of this experiment was to show that the soundwaves would travel through the rope and up to the ears of the volunteers, but here is what you might not know: jumpropes are pretty thick. Good luck getting one to wrap tightly around a tiny metal kitchen spoon. So, the volunteers stood dumbly on either side of me while I dropped the spoon on the ground several hundred more times, and then I gave up and said I was done and it was over. Verdict: Good thing I wrote a great paper, because somehow I managed to pass that one.


#2.) That same year, in English class with Mrs. Masotta, the project was slightly less involved and slightly easier to plan for. You might think that this means that I was able to prepare better than I had for the science debacle. Hilariously enough, you would be so wrong! I was actually even less prepared! I know what you're thinking. How could I have been less prepared than a jumprope and a kitchen spoon at the last moment? Well, I will tell you.

The project was this: memorize a poem and recite it in front of the class. Bring some sort of prop with you that goes along with your poem. And that's it! Do you want to get a great grade on this project? Then recite Frost and bring a two way street sign. Want to pass, but don't give too much of a fuck about the thing? Then recite Poe and bring a stuffed bird (preferably black). Oh, if only I'd taken the Poe route! But no, I had to do things my way, which meant that I had to wait until the last possible second to create my plan of attack.

The poem that I chose was by a wonderful man named Shel Silverstein. It was called Eight Balloons, and it was a romantic tale of eight balloons escaping out into the world and popping while doing things they'd never been able to do before. It spoke of balloons adventuring to the sun, and of balloons falling in love with porcupines. It told of escapades involving crocodiles and sizzling bacon and playful children. It was full of prop-friendly imagery, and yet somehow I was not able to get my act together in time to take advantage of it.

Instead, I remembered that the project was due that day while I was on the bus on the way to school.

Well, of course I panicked. There was not any way in the world that I was going to be able to both whip up props and finish memorizing the poem before English. So obviously I set my focus on the poem itself. There was always an excuse to be found as to why I didn't have props with me - but there would be no getting out of it if I didn't even know a single, simple, rhyming sixteen lines. When I got to class, I sat quietly at my desk, paying attention, but not too much - trying with every fiber of my being to blend in and not be called up. If I could just get through class without presenting, I could go home and get everything I could ever need to get an A! I would come back to school the next day with a dozen balloons, a stuffed porcupine, several small babies - hell, if it meant I didn't have to recite my poem in the most unprepared manner possible, I would even bring a live pig to the school and slaughter it into bacon myself. I sat quietly thinking these things to myself, and then I heard my teacher say, "Alright class. We'll be doing today's presentations in alphabetical order, starting at the end of the alphabet."

Oh, guess what, that's me. So I guess that's it then. I got out of my seat, and I walked to the front of the classroom.

"Eight Balloons, by Shel Silverstein.

Eight balloons no one was buyin'

All broke loose one afternoon.

Eight balloons with strings a-flyin'

Free to do what they wanted to.

One flew up to touch the sun.

Pop! -"

At the word "pop", I swung what appeared to be my empty hand into the air. The poem continues in such a manner, with each individual balloon popping along the way. Each time I said "pop", I swung my hand out in front of me. I finished the poem, and I returned to my seat. I dreaded the sound of the bell, because I knew that my teacher would stop me on my way out to discuss my lack of preparation. The time came, and I gathered my things, and I was stopped on my way out the door. She said, "Cindy, you can't do a prop project without props." At that point, I sheepishly held out the earring that I had been holding in my hand throughout my presentation. (It was a troll earring. I remember the hair tickling the palm of my hand.) Verdict: Apparently my teacher was impressed with my ability to spout Silverstein, or she just felt bad for me, but somehow I passed this one, too.

#3.) Lastly, this time in sixth grade, I had to read a biography of my choice and do a book report. Then I had to dress as the person that I'd learned about and present the report in character. That was easy enough, I thought at the time. I loved reading, and any assignment that required writing was almost a guaranteed A, so all I had to do was make sure that I did my report on someone who was easily imitatable. For some reason, to a ten-year-old me, that meant: Marie Curie. I don't know if I was like, "Oh, let me pick someone really complicated to possibly impress my teacher and hopefully get an A with many pluses following it!" or what, but it must not have been too tricky, because the reading and the writing aren't particularly memorable to me. What I do remember (as though you haven't guessed) is getting up for school the morning of the presentation and realizing that I was in no way prepared to be Marie Curie.

I was running late that day, which meant that I missed the bus and my mother had to take me to school. Luckily, I remembered the report just before we pulled away from the house! Unluckily, I did not own a labcoat or any other scientific paraphernalia. My mother gave me five minutes to run into the house, find something acceptable, and get back to the car.

I ran into the kitchen in a hurry. Surely there must have been something beaker-esque that I could use to pull off this scientist charade. However, my time was running thin and I was rifling through my cabinets and coming up empty-handed. I decided I needed to take a different route, so I did the only thing left that I could think of. I ran into my mother's bedroom and I got her bathrobe. It was a white terrycloth robe that was pretty well worn and had existed in my home since I was a tiny baby. It was old and it was faded and it was oversized, even for my mother, so it nearly swallowed me whole. I wrapped this robe up into a ball, shoved it into a plastic bag, and ran back to the car. My mother asked me if I'd found everything I needed, and I told her I thought I would be okay, and then she offered me a pair of sunglasses before she started driving.

"If you can get the lenses out of these before we get to school, you can pretend they're glasses. Scientists wear glasses."

Thus was born my Marie Curie costume. I stood up in front of my class, enveloped in this enormous graying robe, wearing empty oversized lenses, and I talked about radiation and Nobel Prizes and other scientific phenomena. That time I even got applause, but I think that's because the teacher started it at the end of each presentation, and the class knew that they were meant to join in or else be sent to the principal's office. I was never spoken to about the awfulness of my costume for this project - I think I was just assumed to be a poor child, and therefore I had done the best I could, for which I received an A with at least six pluses.

The moral of the story, boys and girls, is that procrastination is not the answer. Get your work done on time, be prepared, and take pride in what you do. Or, if you're going to procrastinate, at least be really good at it.

Thank god I am really good at it.