Parents Dialogue #3: Running

[Discussing my dad’s high school marathon team] Dad: They went running every morning. At like 5 am they would get up and go for a 10K. I tried to go with them once…

Mom bursts out laughing, continues to do so for 5 minutes while we stare at her: I’ve known your high school self as a smoker and a drinker, but never a runner.

Dad: Well now you’re just being insulting. The one time I went with them I ran 4K, but it was so painful that I couldn’t even eat breakfast afterwards.

Mom tears up

CT: Why that’s the distance Mom ran today, and she’s 29 [age has been changed to compliment my mom]

Dad: I ran it a lot faster than Mom does, believe me.

Mom: Oh come now, I run 1K in less than 8 minutes! I don’t believe you could do it in less.

Dad winks at her: Depends who’s chasing me.

 

Ladies and oranges, having been privy to a good deal of my parents’ stories about their lives, I am a firm believer that sometimes the past would do good to remain buried.

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours truly,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: So many things to say, it’s been too long and I have missed TMCT. But first and foremost, RIP Leonard Nimoy.

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Senioritis

I am a senior.
I have reached the ultimate grade.I am older than most every junior, sophomore, freshman, middle schooler and kindergartener. Well, older than every kindergartener for sure.
This is my year. My last year.
I am scared, I am nervous, I am excited.
I will rule the school.
I will tackle the unknown and triumph over the French education system.
I will survive.
I am a senior, and today my future begins.

PS: If that sounded cool, calm and collected, then I’m a better writer than I think. I’m a freaking churning ice cream maker on the inside!

Being a Lady

I take a huge bite out of the greasy sandwich I’m eating, instantly hiding it under the table, pretending that I don’t have food in the no-food school library. The librarian shoots me a glare that would make a bloodsucking mountain goat recoil in fear, but at this point all I can think about is eating before my afternoon classes start, so I shoot him my sweetest smile, completely forgetting that my mouth is full of tomato and cheese. His eyes widen in horror as I quickly gather my books and dump the rest of my lunch in the trash. As I pass the front desk I stub my toe in the doorframe and utter a string of swear words as he chuckles and looks away so I don’t see him laughing at me. Yeah, as if. Nice try dude.

Being the perfect lady has never been a particular goal of mine, but as I progress through life and have people say things like “No spitting contests. They’re so unladylike.”, it does force me to think of what being a lady is all about. So, without further ado, here is The Mostly Confused Teenager’s guide to being a lady.

#1: Be Respectful of Others
Some would call this first rule “be kind”, however I tweaked it purposely because in my humble opinion life would be a complete drag if you couldn’t tease people just a little bit. I guess that you could just implement the rule that teasing and ribbing (are those the same things?) are fine up until the point where you’re causing pain through your words. Now now, I can already hear your cries of protest: “CT, laughing at someone is always wrong!” Well, yes; but my wise sixteen year old self knows that some relationships are based pretty much purely on insults and fake-loathing and that those friendships are worth everything in the world. So in a short, babble-free resume: teasing = OK, one-way insulting = well… guess. Bad (duh.)

#2: Make Your Own Choices
You all know the meek “we can do whatever you want” type. I’m not talking about normal polite people who can easily go with the flow, but rather people like my mother. I love my mom to bits and would without a doubt jump off a cliff to save her (although I’m not sure in which circumstances this would ever take place), but she annoys me to no end by having no particular opinion about most anything. Ladies, if you want to do something, as long as it doesn’t involve insulting nuns in their presence, go ahead! Being a lady means being a person, and being a person means standing up for yourself and for what you believe in.

#3: Respect Yourself
This suggestion ties in with the previous one. A lot of people would say that being a lady entails having perfect hair and makeup at all times, having the posture of a telephone poll and dressing like a 1950’s housewife. I think that that’s cow poop. The basics are hair that doesn’t have capybaras living in it, a face that doesn’t look like a grizzly bear gave it two black eyes and no bikinis (or equivalents) in business meetings. Other than that, do whatever the hell you want, within reason! Respect yourself and, generally, others will respect you.

In short (yeah, ironic I know), being a lady means being yourself. There are no 100,000 commandments to obey to the letter; there are only a few guidelines to follow. Swear, get sweaty, eat pizza with your hands and get it all over your face… And most of all, have fun. Otherwise, what’s the point of being anything at all?

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager

PS: On the 3rd of August 2014, TMCT turned one. Happy Birthday to the best little blog this girl could wish to run!

Mini CT’s Dream Jobs

Copyright: The Sticky Note Addict

Copyright: The Sticky Note Addict

Cookie dough taster.
Television watcher.
Bed tester.
Book reader.
Swimming pool tester.
Pizza taster.
Trampoline jumper.
Stuffed animal trainer.
Pepperoni eater.
Unicorn rider.
Chocolate taster.

These are the jobs that young CT wrote in her diary about. Agreed, she was wacky, but she was also a dreamer.
And as she wrote in her loopy childish handwriting, all of these must be exercized in a purely “preffeshenol” manner.

And you know what? Someday, older CT is gonna accomplish every one of these dreams. Yes, even the unicorn one, doubters.

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

 

The Post About Toes

My toes lie dormant for most of the year, nestled in warm fuzzy socks and hidden from the cold by thick furry boots. Much like groundhogs, they hibernate until they feel the soft breeze of spring tickle them during a night when they were violently kicked out from under the covers. And that, that is when they wake up and start demanding what they feel is rightfully theirs: freedom.

From all of you out there freaking out because I’m implying that my toes have an independent thought pattern, calm your over-enthusiastic horses. I’m not saying that my toes suddenly start moving all by themselves and ask the brain if they can break up with my body just to pitter-patter away on their own adventures. I like to think that my toes love me far to much to ever act on the great threat of 2011 (don’t ask.), so don’t y’all go chopping off your toes in fear that they’ll decide to discover China without you. Seriously, don’t, you’ll look like a wounded ostrich when you walk around.

I, being the generous and fair goddess that y’all claim me to be, give them their freedom earlier than most. Roughly translated into human lingo, this means that by March I can be seen prancing around the streets of Paris in my favorite pair of flip flops, gathering stares of disdain from most, awe from some and admiration from the rare few. I mean I have nothing against normal shoes, I wear sneakers and flats like everyone else, but there’s nothing quite like that first day when you walk outside, wiggle your toes and feel the raw air on your feet.

Having feet free of the constraints of suffocating socks and shoes is a part of summer that I love and that I would have a hard time living without, which is part of the reason that I could never thrive in Siberia. That and I don’t speak Russian. Now I know that some people simply can’t take off their shoes and walk across a lawn or a beach barefoot. Ladies, gentlemen and aliens, you are missing out. There are few feelings more enjoyable than having sand filter through your toes or letting your feet sink into a shaggy carpet of juicy green grass.

So (I feel as if I’m in a commercial, advertizing some natural health enhancer thing), take off your shoes, let your toes breathe, and walk through the grass. Well, except if you live in the city, in which case don’t, because the grass is covered in a thick layer of dog piss. Side effects of walking barefoot through an urban park may include fungi, disgust and consequential barfing. You are forwarned. Peace out.

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: Am I the only one who’s been having some trouble with WordPress lately? My notifications don’t always show up, my reader won’t load… It’s the weirdest thing.

An Open Letter to Summer

Dear Summer,

You’ve been here for twenty days already, and yet you still fail to make your presence known to us. Yes yes, I know that here in Normandy we’re not supposed to get high expectations about your three month visit, but we still have some hopes come the 21st of June. We can give you a couple weeks to settle in, but then you’re supposed to warm our hearts and souls (and, um, skin and hair, but those parts are slightly less romantic) and make us sing with joy at being able to run through the fields and lay in the grass laughing. Instead, you appear to be being bullied by the other seasons, thus depriving us of some much needed alone time with the giant apricot in the sky.

Today when I got up, I put on shorts and a t-shirt and trudged into the bathroom to brush my hair and do other stuff that you don’t need to know about. About 156 seconds later I emerged from the room looking like I had just come from the Arctic Circle and had only seen wolverines for the past fifteen days (you heard me: a wolverine. Not nearly as muscly as Hugh Jackman, more of a Ron Weasley type (because a wolverine is a weasel. Get it? Yeah I find myself smart). Gosh, I can’t remember what I was talking about… Oh right, I was cold). I dashed back into my room and changed into pants, a long sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt.  Summer, it’s the 11th of July. Even for our harsh climate, frostbite inducing weather is not normal.

In this spirit, please show the following advice (by which I mean orders) to Winter, Spring and Autumn:
Winter; you have no right to butt in right now. You know we love you and your snow and holidays, but this isn’t the time. How would you like it if at Christmas Summer didn’t let you make it snow anywhere in the Northern hemisphere by turning your snowflakes into rain? Not good huh? No. So leave June, July and September alone.
Spring; you bring hope and color with you when you come, but now we don’t want to just hope anymore. Don’t push your timeline on other people, it’s not nice.
Autumn; as much as I love you, it most certainly isn’t your turn yet. You have the least right to impose yourself on Summer because it’s your time to shine afterwards anyway. Stop being hyperactive and trying to steal Summer’s months of glory.

Guys, it’s raining, I’m cold and about as tanned as a dying walrus. Will someone please send me on vacation to some exotic island already?

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: Upon re-reading this post, it seems necessary to indicate that the giant apricot in the sky is the sun, since you aren’t all sociopaths who can read my mind. If you are, then you people have really great covers. Although… they do say ‘stranger danger’… I should stop writing now.

The Kardashian App: Kill Me Now

WARNING: THIS IS A RANT. ENTER WITH CAUTION, AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Have you ever wanted to ask Kim Kardashian for advice on relationships, beauty, health, fashion or style? Why yes Apple Store, it’s all I’ve ever wanted in my life, thanks for asking.
Watch as Kim strikes her signature poses or blows you a kiss — even locate your closest Sephora to find her new perfume! I assume Kimmy’s “signature pose” is lying on an examination table in her plastic surgeon’s office, talking on her phone and making bad choices. Oh please, let her do that on our screens! As for locating the closest Sephora, that probably implies that 1) the application is stalking you, and 2) that your ensuing conversation with the salesclerk at Sephora will go something like this:

You: Hi, so ohmygod, I was playing the Kim Kardashian: Hollywood app, and like Kim told me that you were near me and that you had her perfume, so um since I’m sort of addicted to the Kardashian’s makeup I was like ‘holy sh*t yes’ so I got in my convertible and I drove here like, really fast.
Salesclerk: [shocked silence. Symptoms may include open mouth, wide, unblinking eyes and a vacant stare]
You: No but seriously I like have the twenty dollar nail polish and the fake eyelashes and everything.
Salesclerk: [slowly regaining consciousness] I.. um.. yeah, one of your eyelashes is stuck to your cheek.
You: Oh gosh silly ole’ me, I’m not very good with the glue, I kinda get it all over myself. So the perfume?

I gotta say guys, applications like these are slowly making me lose faith in humanity. I love technology, I really do: I marvel at my phone telling me that it’ll be raining in Normandy for the next year and a half, or that the Mets finally won a game, or that I’m ten minutes from home in normal traffic conditions. Honestly, living in a world without apps on my phone seems mightely boring (although granted, that might just be because I’m an Internet obsessed teenager), but the apps have to at least be useful.

A Kim Kardashian app teaches its users (who I’m guessing are about 99% women and 1% men) that it’s better to live in a fake, superficial world than in the real one. Sure, the real one is filled with unpleasant things such as, to cite a few; the alarming disappearance of cookies, deadlines and/or alarm clocks but these daft everyday annoyances are part of who we are and what we have to deal with. As a player, your celebrity’s problems are horrible boyfriends and bad makeovers. Boo-freakin-hoo. I understand a little light hearted fun; I downloaded the app myself and giggled at its stupidness with a couple of my friends, but looking over the reviews and some articles on the Web, I realized the horrible extent of people’s addiction to this crap. It needs to stop; people need to focus on things that are more important rather than spending hours on end squinting at their phone’s screen and wondering if they have enough imaginary money to buy that leather jacket Kim’s been telling them to or if they need to invest real money to buy fake cash.

I wish I didn’t care. I wish I could be CT, aloof and uncaring, laughing off stuff like this. Yet I do, and apps like these really get to me. In between the Kardashian app and the Yo app, I don’t know in what direction this world is heading. I think I’ll go watch all my favorite characters get killed in Game of Thrones now, and try and forget about the people moaning because their pixel avatar’s hair isn’t growing fast enough.

Live long and prosper \V/
Sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

Bibliography: some Polish nutcase