This About Sums It Up

A Year to Remember

No. The answer is No. I will not sign your yearbook. Yeah, we had a class together. Yeah, I sat next to you for nine months (and for the entire month of May, you were probably wondering where I was). Yeah, we may have shared a few laughs (but come on, I'm hilarious that's inevitable). Yeah, I copied your worksheets and jacked your notes. However, this does not necessarily mean I have something sincere and heartfelt to write to you. Yet people insist that I do.

Things I wrote in people's yearbooks over the past couple days:

• Good Job, you didn't drop out
• Your hair is pretty entertaining and so is your monotone speaking voice
• I've known you too long
• I hope you do alright when you leave
• See you in ten years
• Your sarcasm exceeds that of my own

Now, clearly none of those things are very sentimental. But I'm not Nicholas Sparks.

A Kracken From the Sea!

Last week, my "student teacher" (from here on out, known as Monster) finished it's reign of terror (I mean, educational journey) in my Marine Biology class. Readers, a moment of silence for this joyous occasion...

For the past five months it has tortured us with it's overtly masculine bouts of seizure-ish yelling, forced group discussions, activity books, and endless powerpoint slides about who knows what. This person can only be described as...well, ballsy. Not only for it's unwavering nerve to stand up against 19 angry teenagers, but also the fact that I am not quite sure what Ms. Brown is packin' down there.

According to Monster, "you have got to be the most complaining bunch of teenagers I have ever seen in my life." Thank you! I consider complaining what I do best (Duchess of Complaining, if you will). And yes, I am mere weeks from graduating, so sorry I do NOT care about crustaceans and/or estuaries...KAPEESH!?

Monster was not only mean, rude, and inconsiderate...but she (??) was INCREDIBLY butch. When asked about our thoughts about Monster, a male in my class responded, "I would make a prettier girl than Ms. Brown."

Ahh yes, how I love brutal honesty.

Other comments included:

1. She has a terrible personality

2. I hope to God she doesn't reproduce

3. Wait, she wants to teach?

4. SHE'S GONE!!!!

5. I saw her at Busch Gardens once. Touching the horses.

6. She probably dates that other butchy student teacher.

7. What was her name??

All very constructive criticism, good work Marine Biology class. You never cease to impress me.

Also, shout-out to Mr. Heiser if he actually reads this.

"Young MAN, there's no need to feel down..."

Today, Britni and I decided to go to the gym (after engorging ourselves at Moes, but all things in moderation right??!). Now this is an amazing feat in itself. The fact that we will actually stop watching True Life (you shine, girl with two moms), get off ours butts, and collectively drive to the gym is incredible.

Hearing Lady GaGa's Poker Face for the umpteenth time on the way there only intensified the frustration that was about to occur. Pulling into the parking lot, I know it was unlikely we were going to get a spot. But I was still (surprisingly) optimistic. Minutes later I give up on the YMCA parking lot and go across to the York County Public Library to try an find a spot (after somehow managing to parallel park in a space smaller than my car), but I will NOT admit defeat. I find a spot at the library (why are all of you people here, anyway?) and we walk across to the gym. Attempting to sign in my guest, we stand in line for probably fifteen minutes. After judging the Poquoson skodees, it's our turn at the desk. Here is how this conversation went:

Me: "Hi, I would like to sign in my guest."

Overly-Tan-Fire-Crotch-Employee (OTFCE): "Oh, I'm sorry but there are no guests in the evening. Only during the day."

...uhm excuse me?? You're telling me I am only ALLOWED 3 guests PER year and I have to bring them between the hours of 6 am and 4 pm??

Noticing my immediate disappointment and anger OTFCE speaks up again...

OTFCE: "Well you can pay $10 for her and sign up for a...."

Me: "Yeah, no thanks, alright bye."

Seriously lady? I am not going to give you ten dollars so Britni and I can pretend to exercise. Besides, we spent all of our money on Joey combos at Moes earlier today so, sorry, I do not have enough cash to pay YOU for ME to sweat.

Also, while I am complaining about the YMCA...does the "A" now stand for Asian? It's like walking into China Town in that place. Get real!

So, Britni and I drive over to Coventry for a run.

This run is accompanied by overly friendly eight year olds, goose poop, the Lawsons (hey, ya'll!!!), and a car accident...what??

Yeah we were witnesses to a car crash. In Coventry. Way to go.

Doing our civic duty...we stopped running, watched, and unassisted.

In an outrage, Britni started shouting the constitutional rights and that "you better get their information if you want them to pay for that!!!" (Note: Britni has been in many accidents and therefore is clearly an expert on accident protocol).

Since we decided it was best not to help, we finished our run and got back in the car.

After this entire adventure was over, Britni had a epiphany: "It must be against God's law for me to exercise, because THAT, was ridiculous."

And YMCA? There IS a need to "be un-hap-py."

*Edit: Notice Handlebar mustache in video. Sweet lawwwd!

007

Today I went with Bobby (whom, for the remainder of this post, will be referred to as 'Bond') to rent his tux for prom. Bond was measured, tried on shirt and shoes, and ordered his tux in under an hour.

Now, clearly, I am neither annoyed by Bond (hi, sweetie!) nor the tux experience. What I am a bit perturbed by, however, is the fact that all males have this whole formal wear thing SO easy. If I had the luxury of going into a dress shop, giving them my measurements, telling them exactly what I wanted and then receiving everything in a nice little package...I would be ecstatic (and my self-esteem might also be spared, but that is another post).

Bond's prom attire quest involved one store, one Men's Warehouse Employee, one tape measure, one shoe, one shirt, one book of examples, and one salad stained shirt (oh, Momma Mills!).

My prom attire quest involved four malls, nine stores, cranky dress employees, Krystle (an upside, I like her), every highway in Virginia, shattered self-image (...hmm this mirror makes me look fat. Oh, wait, no..that's thanks to Ben and Jerry), Chick-fil-A (also a contributor) and an entire day.

Although it took an entire day and probably a couple years off of Krystle's life (what? it's not like I'm impossible to please or anything...), my dress is now safely tucked away in my closet.

I guess I can finally relax...you know, until June 6th when I am flailing around (limbs freely independent of my body) with bobby pins falling out of my head and fake nails breaking off trying to get ready.

As for Bond? Well, I assume he will get ready in the same amount of time it takes me to put my shoes on and still look wicked hott.

Sucks Flags

Being in an honorary, made-up position (thanks, Mikie) in the SCA is pretty sweet. Free dance tickets, planning events, and the endless range of crap that I am able to get away with. So you might think to yourself, "Amber, that sounds wicked awesome. In fact, that seems like a rip roarin' good time." AU CONTRAR! In attempts to PUNISH the SCA, Mrs. Sassy (crazy) & Mrs. Pitchford (clinically insane) took the courtesy of giving us free tickets to Six Flags.

At the first mention of this trip, I was pumped. Awwhh yeah, a free trip, no school, and a few chill people I get to hang out with all day. But of course, as you may have guessed, this trip has been classified as ball-crushing (Ryan Cummins) with a side of the hottest effing bus oh my god dude its like 50 million degrees (Jeff Schurott).

First things first. I arrive at school at 7 am for field trip. What time did we leave? 8. THIRTY. How many times could I have gone to Starbucks and back in 90 minutes? Like, atleast, 7.

Once on the bus, I estimate that I will go completely nuts within the hour.

My calculations were wrong. It only took about 20 minutes.

After a rousing competition of Name Game and five minute tour from Jeff (your DC tour guide. Well, maybe not DC. Actually, just this bridge near where he used to live. Thoroughly enjoyed however, kudos), I fell asleep. As did my left arm. Waking up to the feeling of pins and needles was only intensified by Nicky B's rendition of Coldplay's Viva La Vida.

Stepping off of the bus, I was glad to be off the metal, muggy, moving (alliteration!) deathtrap. I then realized it was raining. And for the first time I was extremely disappointed in my choice of Northface jacket (what kind of fleece jacket doesn't have a hood? Get real Northface, I need scalp coverage!!).

A couple hours later and you can now call me Ms. Frizzle (see: Magic Schoolbus). However, Creepy Jeff Ride Operator from Ohio did not seem to mind (STOP talking to me...it's called harassment, man).

I have yet to comment on the sheer GHETTO-ness that IS Six Flags.

Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.

P.S. If you are sensitive to partial Racism, do not continue reading..

1. Ride Operator telling me: "If yas dos what imz gonna tellz yaz ta dooz then yalls be finez!" ....check.

2. Ride Operator 2 doing "The Stanky Leg" ....check.

3. Sam's comment, "There aren't any white people on that ride right now." ...check.

4. Extreme 80's-esque comic book decor ...check.

5. Overhearing Ride Operator 3 saying, "The brakes are broken again." ...check (wait, WHAT?!).

6. Overhearing fellow park-go-ers singing "HALLE BAAARRRAAYYY..halle berry.." ...check.

The bottom line here, folks, is that if you ever plan of traveling to Six Flags...reconsider. The rides are probably broken. Or "stuck". Or the park personnel will verbally violate you indefinitely. Or you will pay $15 dollars for chicken tenders.

The light at the end of the tunnel was 5:15. We get to leave.

Queue DC traffic, Amber's short temper, a 90 degree bus, and some involuntary nose picking (Chase, he didn't touch your brain).

Nearly 5 hours later and I am back home. Crankier than ever. But, really, is that such a big surprise??

Thank God for Milano Cookies (props to Jeff's Momma).

Senioritis

I have severe Senioritis. And no, it does not fall under the category of "Amber's Obscure Medical Conditions"... However, my teachers are not letting my Senioritis run it's course. Things I have to do this week? Mentorship board, 500 word paper, FRQ (GET REAL, Mr. Olivo. The AP Exam is over. And FYI, I never cared about your class anyway), and of course the never-ending, ridiculous amount of English prose I am supposed to be reading. Mr. Williams, please take note when I say, "You are so very old that you may very well have peer edited Mr. Shakespeare's greatest works."

I have waited four years for my time. My time to sit back, relax, and take endless naps in Gov't (which Mr. Levi has gladly allowed, mad props to your mad chillaxin skillz). Hearing the Freshmen, Sophomores, and Juniors squuuueeeeeee about watching Marley and Me and Slumdog Millionaire really makes me cringe. Actually, not even hearing them. Just the sight of them. Have you kids ever heard of Public Display of Affection? OH! Of course you have because you're making babies on my locker. ShooSH!! And really, do I need to push any more of you day after day before you get the point that, YOU are in my way. And everybody elses for that matter. Skedaddle!!

...Okay, despite the fact that I am rarely AT school, the time that I am there I would like to spend either a) watching a new DVD release b) shooting the breeze with the newly insane Nazi-esque librarians or c) letting my fellow classmates know just how VERY glad I will not be seeing them anymore once June 17th comes (and OH PS you guys, I do NOT CARE that you didn't receive your 1 or 2 or 3, etc. And No, I will not cut out a 7 for you because you lost yours).

Never fear fellow slackers! For there is a cure for Senioritis. What is it? Forging your father's signature to get out of school. Everyday.