Monday, February 27, 2012
It's just a little bit scary, too. Getting a door slammed in your face, risking fingers and feet? (Yes, we're expected to keep it open any way possible. Our school is hardcore.) That's bad enough... but what about gathering bottles from people who look like they just finished drinking them? (There is something seriously sketchy about someone who comes to the door wearing only one sock and an elephant hat. I mean, seriously, those are not made for grown men. At least choose something dignified like a monkey.)
And then there are your fundraising companions. You don't want to go alone... but you risk getting distracted from the purpose. There are also social considerations. Do you really want to be stuck with that girl who's always carrying around a notebook and never stops talking?...oh wait, that's me, never mind. Miraculously enough, I did find a friend who managed to come with me. Despite impromptu dance parties, talking to a boy who think corduroy pants are cool (that distracted us for a good forty minutes) and an amazingly cute cat, we managed to raise a grand total of... ten dollars.
I guess that means we're going out again tonight.
Monday, February 20, 2012
...or you might be mistaken for a Barbie. Lace gloves and curly hair? Also a bad idea. L'ordre du jour last night was black sheaths and stick-straight locks, with a blasé expression the cherry on top. In my bright pink tulle, I stuck out like a ballerina in a crowd of Goths. (Very stylish Goths. Only one person had black lipstick.)
Thankfully, the clothing on display was gorgeous enough to be an amazing distraction... It was actually too good. I was so distracted that I didn't notice the imminent approach of the Hairstylist Of Doom. (Capitals definitely necessary.) Before I could emerge from my fashion-induced haze, she had pushed me into her chair and was filling my hair with enough spray to gag an elephant. I think I passed out. (Another reason why I need to start carrying around a gas mask. The primary one is that it would scare people away, so I wouldn't have to worry about this in the first place.)
When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the scent of burnt hair. I was surrounded by showgoers who had lost their disinterestedness. Instead, they were all staring at my head while wearing the pinched expressions of people trying not to breathe. As I looked up, not one of them met my gaze; they all just backed away with fear in their eyes, like you would if you'd seen a rabid chipmunk. (There are a surprising number around here.)
I still haven't dared to look at myself.
For the rest of the night, whenever I walked near them, people began sniffing with a bemused expression. One woman, sneer firmly affixed, asked me what the name of my perfume was. I told her it was Cheveux Brûlés- she replied, "Oh, French- I should have known." and walked away. (Was that a slur? Probably. And we're supposed to be a bilingual country. I hope she tripped and fell off her penguin platforms. And yes, I do mean penguins. Her shoes were made out of about fifty tiny penguin figurines- so why was she laughing at me?)
And that's another thing. I could easily have been confused with a midget. There should be some kind of law against 5ft10 models wearing 6-inch heels. It makes us poor petites look like we belong to a race of dwarfs. (Now that I come to think of it... maybe that's why the hairstylist chose me. She just wanted to make me seem taller. Since I can still feel my hair standing straight up, I suppose she succeeded.)
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Why is it that, if one thing happens, about fifty have to happen all at once? Why does the universe work like that? In the past few hours, I have nearly passed out because of beer fumes (not what you think, I swear- the car was filled with bottles to bring to the dump, none of which I drank) had tea spilt on me not once but twice (and now have a lovely burn across my *cough cough* nether regions) been chased by an angry cat (what happened to 'girl's best friend'?) and had to wear a uniform that's a size too small because mine was covered in tea.
And it's only 8:30...
Monday, February 13, 2012
I would never want to be a teacher because it would make me feel old.
Sure, every girl dreams of being mistaken for older (who wouldn't want to be able to get their license/go out clubbing/hang out with those hot senior guys/all sorts of other fun things earlier?) but being called "Madame" ten times in one evening was more than enough. Apparently the oversized granny cardigan, thick-rimmed glasses, and messy bun were a bad idea- dressing for the part, but in the wrong way.
I have to admit, though, that the teacher voice I tried out- cheery and slightly manic, like an excited squirrel- didn't help either. I think I might have scared all the little kids away. Which wouldn't have been a bad thing, except I was supposed to be taking care of them at a school-organised babysitting event.
Now, I am not overly fond of children. Yes, they're cute... from a distance. Up close, you realise that hardened prison guards have nothing on fourth-grade queen bees. Two of the little girls that I was looking after were playing Junior Monopoly (I do not see the point of that game. I really don't. Why not go watch paint dry? It's just as fun, and educational too- you're learning about home repairs!) so I joined them, expecting to be asked to read to them or something equally innocuous. Instead, one of these girls, dressed in a mismatched princess costume, asked me what her gross return would be if she purchased the carrousel and, when I couldn't answer, threatened to pull my hair until I got a calculator.
It warms the heart, it really does.
If only the other highschools of the region could see us poor students volunteering like this. As the sole French school of the region, we're seen as the crazy party crowd. This probably is caused by our uniforms. We are, in fact, walking traffic beacons. No need for bus controllers when we're around; we stop traffic all on our own. Whoever decreed that schoolgirl costumes are sexy have evidently never seen the horror of a teenage girl dressed in an oversized yellow polo shirt tucked into a khaki skort that reaches past her knees accompanied high blue socks.
I'll leave you time to breathe after that horrifying image.
So why am I writing to you now? Because of a class at this same school. Now, you, sweet reader, are probably thinking, "Zia, why are you going there? Your fabulous fashion sense is just shining out of this blog. You could do so much better!" and then breaking into a cheerleading routine.
I answer, "Oh, dear reader. You are just so sweet. I'm relieved that my amazing qualities just shine through the computer like a ray of sunbeam illuminating your life! But actually, I like my school." Then I pause, allowing your disbelief time to die away. (Plus, I'm really enjoying the cheerleading routine. I've never seen anyone do the funky chicken quite like that.) "Going somewhere small has its advantages. Such as being allowed to have a class where your sole consistent task is, in fact, to keep a blog." (Ouch. That looked like it hurt. Maybe you should take some dance classes before trying to do a pyramid by yourself next time. How does that even work?)
Anyway, to make a long story short... well, as short as I can make it... I'm writing this for my Media Studies class, which I took because I thought it would be fun. (I just finished Physics. I think I'm entitled to a little fun. And all you people who say Physics is fun, you are LIARS. LIARS, I SAY. You should all be consigned to a prison filled with mutant squirrels who will chew on your toes. Or a black hole. That seems more Physics-ish.)