Tag Archive | Family

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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Graphic Drawings

cyanideandhappinessdrawing” – Oh look, you drew something!
– Yeah, do you like it?
– It’s wonderful! [more gushing ensues] But… um… What is it?
– What do you think it is?
– I, uh, a representation of death?
– No, it’s a forest.
– Oh of course, I totally see it now! Right, and here’s a person walking through it!
– That’s a tree trunk. Maybe I’ll start over again.
– I’m sorry, I really did try to be enthusiastic.”

I’ve never been the most gifted person with colored pencils, pastels, paint, blood or any of those artistic devices used to create a masterpiece on paper, canvas, cupcakes, corpses or whatever. My family has always been artistic: grandparents, aunts, parents and even siblings have a certain magical talent to create these wonderful drawings that look like they could be in any art museum. They each have their specialty: still life, nature, surreal forms, architecture… And of course I have one too, one that requires great, well, nothing: stick figures.

You see, the drawing gene seems to have skipped me. Sure, when I was little I took great pride in being able to connect the dots to make a snowman appear or color in a certain amount of shapes without going over the lines, but my abilities seemed to stop there. My brother started showing promise early, concocting things like trains and dogs, while I was left drawing teepees (why you ask? Teepees are basically triangles. That much I can deal with.).

At this point you’re probably thinking to yourself “Nah, she can’t possibly be as bad as she’s making herself out to be..” First of all, if you really are thinking that, it means that my mind manipulation techniques are finally working and I can start putting my world domination plan into action. Secondly, shucks guys, you’re so nice! Thirdly, I forgot what I was counting for. I know that they say that practice makes perfect, and while I agree to a certain extent, I have to concede the fact that at a certain point, if it ain’t happening, it ain’t gonna happen. So instead of lamenting the fact that I have the drawing talents of Godzilla, I’ll keep  proudly drawing stick figures living in houses consisting of squares and triangles under a sun that lives permanently in the upper right corner of the page.

Why am I suddenly being so generous and forgiving myself for making a drawing of Mars look like a giant apricot? Because I can paint in a different way: with words. The Mostly Confused Teenager is my canvas, the keys on the keyboard my brushes, the posts my masterpieces (I have a weird notion of masterpiece I know) and you, fellow bloggers, are my critics.

So in conclusion, thank you for making me feel artsy. In return, I promise never to publish a collection of my drawings, for the good of the world.

Live long and prosper \V/

Sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

 

DANGER WILL ROBINSON *faints in horror*

panicMy parents have discovered that I have a blog [shudders uncontrollably]. What will happen to the world? What will happen to the Mostly Confused Teenager? What am I to do? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

And so I sit here, at my computer, desperately wringing my hands, wondering how in Holy Hell they found out. Did someone tell them? Did I leave the page open without meaning too? Why, o lordly cookie, why? I saw that they knew when I was standing next to my Dad’s computer looking at pictures of Mets’ rookies in dresses (please, don’t ask) when my eyes inadvertently widened and a wave of ice washed over me as the pink background of my own special hiding place appeared in his most visited sites. I stared in horror as I realized that this was practically the end of the world for me. Well, not really, but nearly.

I held out a month and a half without them knowing. That’s not very good is it? I’d like to point out that there are some things on The Mostly Confused Teenager that are inappropriate enough that I would never say them in front of my parents.  I mean as far as I know, no parent would want to read a piece their daughter wrote about erectile dysfunction. And might I also mention that I swear, say weird things and swoon over boys on here. This blog contains my secrets, it’s a place where I can say whatever the f*ck I want without repercussions. Well, within reason (I’m sure that if I wrote that koalas are sweeter than pandas some of you would come forward and yell at me). Now, just writing the word “f*ck”, even though I’m hiding a letter, makes me feel all guilty, knowing that my parents are going to read it.

So what am I supposed to do? Suggestions are greatly appreciated, because here I’m at a loss here. Should I ask them to respect my privacy? I don’t think they’d go for that, since apparently they can already be qualified as snoops. Or hey, here’s a wild idea! Mama, Daddy, since you now know the secret identity of a certain CT, why don’t you say something?

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Very Panicked Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: this is a very celebratory 50th post isn’t it?

Maths and Me

Maths and I have never exactly been best friends. How can I put this…  I am to math as Tim Tebow is to the position of QB (another example: I am to math like Taylor Swift is to relationships.)

Yeah, it’s that rough. I mean I’ve never had a problem with it in in of itself until the 8th grade. My parents always made me learn the notions in advance so that I wouldn’t then have any problems in class; it’s sort of as if they predicted my future math problems 😉 In 8th grade I missed several months of school and when I came back I realized that math no longer came easily to me and that I actually had to work, hard, to understand the notions. And of course, as a naturally lazy person, I didn’t like having to work to achieve my goals.

Last year I changed schools to come to the EABJM, where I am now. I quickly realized (through miserably failing my first test) that the level of my supposedly good school was nothing compared to what I was encountering here. In France we have 3 sections, S, ES and L and quite basically the people who have an average of 8/20 in math are not supposed to do the scientific program. Unfortunately it’s the only way to become a doctor so I’m forcing myself through it. I am the reason why there are too many people in my section and class. Am I making any sense at all? Ugh, I’m soooo tired.

So now I’m taking private lessons with a teacher from the school and while I silently curse my old junior high for screwing up my mathematics education I nod and repeat what she tells me. Then, on Tuesday, I saw math in a whole new light thanks to her. I’ve always seen it as a very concrete thing: the numbers on the board, the formulas to follow religiously. Suddenly it dawned on me: all of this was invented! In Ancient Whatever some dude sat down and said “I decree that 2+2=4. Also, because I’m too bored to think of anything else, 2×2 also equals 4. Bam, mathematicianed.” They say you don’t have a lot of imagination if you practice math as a living (do they? Really CT?) but that’s in reality excrements of an uncircumsized male cow! Suddenly the numbers were jumping off the board in front of my eyes, dancing in perfect unison. It was magical. Of course when I recounted this to my best friend she asked if I was high, at which point I responded that I couldn’t remember, which probably wasn’t the best thing to answer.

I’m still struggling past the domain of algorithms but I hope that now it’ll get a little bit easier. [My inner voice is telling me to prepare myself for disappointment]. But hey, if math is hard, so is life. I’ll just have to deal accordingly.

I can’t help but think of how ironic this whole situation is, seeing as how my dad is a mathematician who’s official title is “director of numerical algorithms”. Huh, didn’t see that one coming did you? You did? Oh, well then.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: I haven’t posted in two days! Aaaaaaaaaah the daily blogging ritual is broken!

Parents Dialogue #2: Disco

[Discussing the fine art of Disco Music] Dad: Really, if you want to make a disco beat just say ‘chunk ‘o chicken’ over and over again in a cool whispery voice. Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken… See?

CT: *stares blankly at him before trying it* Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken Chunk ‘o chicken.

Dad: No no no! You’re doing it all wrong! Frankly, it’s like pearls before swine here.

Mom: Oink.

 

Later I went to listen to a disco song and to my astonishment  recognized the Chunk ‘o chicken right away. Who’d have guessed? Not this girl, that’s for sure…

 

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

Parents Dialogue #1

Mom: So I had this weird dream last night…

Dad, keeping eyes focused on book: Hmm…

Mom: I was walking down the street and where there’s normally that big pothole there was a giant sparkling emerald lake with icy silver polar bears diving into it.

Dad, perks up and glances at her: Were there by any chance purple flamingos present as well?

Mom, surprised: Yes, yes there were!

Dad: I love you..

Mom: I love you too.

CT: ?!

 

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

SWAG

I have a problem with the word SWAG. In my biased teenagery opinion (I know it’s not a word, don’t patronize me for it) it is one of the most overused, silly words in the history of the past few years (I was going to go for the history of the Universe but then I thought about ‘whisternefet’ (meaning a sharp slap) and decided otherwise).

From a little research project on what my grandparents call “the Google” I found out that the term is an acronym for ‘Secretly We Are Gay’ that originated in the 1960s. The more common explanation to the word is that it’s a cooler way of saying ‘swagger’. Now personally I find that swagger is a very swag cool word in in of itself but there you go, today’s youth seems to think otherwise. Oh dear I sound like an elderly person bitching about the screwed up ways of the younger generations.

Most of the people that use SWAG (that I know of anyways) are deluded kids who think that they control their world and have an annoyingly arrogant demeanor and who don’t have any idea of the meaning.

Example 1:

“- YO DAWWWG, I ate Nutella by the spoon last week and now I’ve gained two pounds and my face has broken out.

– SWAAAAG”

Example 2:

“- I heard that they found horse meat in those ‘beef’ lasagnas that we get sometimes!

– Sh*t man, that is so SWAG.”

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NOOOOOOOOOOOO.

And so, while I wallow in the desperation of hearing my little brother call his hat super SWAG, I’ll wait for someone to explain to me the utility of such a word. My Dad for example, claiming that the term is not cool enough for his liking, goes around saying it backwards. GAWS dudes, GAWS.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager

PS: I really don’t know if SWAG is meant to be written all in cap locks, so forgive me if it seems like I’m shouting!