a parking lot proposal

I have a love/hate relationship with my bio class—it can be truly entertaining at times, when the whole class gets off-topic and we participate in discussions about Harry Potter, 2012 or Ned’s Declassified during long blocks. Then again, it can drag on miserably and leave me with a profound dislike of enzymes and biomolecules.

Today, however, was an extraordinarily eventful class, starting with the awkward question, “Hey, Hoffman, are you going to propose to your girlfriend?”

About twenty sleep deprived freshman went dead silent (which never happens) waiting for our teacher—who acquired his first teaching job this year and doesn’t have the best reputation for discipline—to react to such a personal question.

Instead of reprimanding the speaker about the boundaries of appropriate conversation, Hoffman got a strange look on his face and demanded to know where he’d heard that from.

With a nervous laugh, one girl in the front row admitted she’d overheard him mention something about a ring in the hallway before school, assuring him she hadn’t meant to and really, she wasn’t a stalker, please don’t be mad.

Hoffman gave an awkward sigh-laugh and then smiled at us. “Yeah, guys, I got engaged over the weekend,” he said, prompting the twenty sleep deprived freshman to burst into applause and catcalls.

The guys all squirmed uncomfortably and the girls leaned forward in their seats, demanding the full story, displaying the same affection commonly used for baby rabbits, puppies and chick flicks.

Our bio teacher went on to explain that the ring was a family heirloom that had belonged to his mother and he’d visited with her family for Thanksgiving and asked her father permission the night before—warning all the guys in our class to do the same when they proposed, which made them squirm more and the girls smile wider—and on Black Friday, he and his girlfriend went to Kohl’s to buy a vacuum and he got down on one knee right there in the department store parking lot.  

“But what did you say?” one girl gasped, clasping her hands eagerly, because we’re girls and this is what we do—we eat up cutesy stories like this, we “ohhh” and “awww” until we’re hoarse and daydream about our own weddings when class gets too boring.

“That’s a little personal,” Hoffman objected, reddening, but told us anyway…

Jill, you are my best friend and I couldn’t imagine spending my life with anyone else. Will you marry me?

The collective, anticipated awwwwww! arose and made our teacher turn maroon, instantly regretting he’d told a classroom full of fifteen year old girls exactly how he had proposed, but we congratulated him profusely and he thanked us sincerely, but announced no, we would not be invited to the wedding.

At lunch, when I gushed to my friends about it, they wrinkled their noses. “A parking lot? You serious? I woulda said no if my boyfriend popped the question in a parking lot…”

I gave some generic answer while they explained to me about how their engagement was going to be on the beach, or in Paris, perfectly sweet and perfectly romantic and perfectly fake enough to be the plot of a Nick Spark’s sob story. Privately, I made the firm decision I’d chose a parking lot over a French beach any day…at least it would be real, instead of something plastic and Hollywood, scripted and filmed and force fed to teenage girls, driving this idea of Disney Prince perfection into their brains. At least it would be unique, instead of something stolen right out of a rom-com, with candles and rose petals and some caramel-coated profession of love.

As we shuffled out of class after the bell sounded, one kid called out, “You think she’s hot, Hoffman?”

“What do you think?” Hoffman shot back.

happy (late) thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving in my town is a pretty big deal. Most all of the hype centers around the annual football game against our bitter rivals, the Raiders. We’re told it’s one of the oldest football rivalries in the country, a fact the game announcers and teachers are never hesitant to repeat.

Our pep rally on Wednesday was a thing of beauty—over a thousand kids decked out in blue and gold, clapping and singing and screaming. Admittedly, most of the aforementioned verbs were being demonstrated by seniors—us freshmen had to sit on the floor and we got maybe half the jokes the MCs told. We were generally intimidated and thoroughly awed by such rambunctious display of school spirit. Apparently, this gush of unity propelled our team to victory, because we won 20-17 in an overtime nail biter the next day. It was gratifying to see so many heartbroken Raiders in the parking lot, especially after witnessing a tense chant contest between some hardcore Rocket and Raider fans during the overtime period.

Thanksgiving, is of course, a holiday of food, football and gratitude, so here is my thoughtful little list of all the things in my life I’m grateful for slash couldn’t live without (I enjoy writing out the word ‘slash’.).

-My friends I’m sorry for the cliché, but my apologies don’t make it any less true. I am blessed with truly extraordinary friends, none of whom I could live without. They know my weaknesses, know my strengths, make me laugh, pick me up and keep me going. My friends are also amazing therapists and have saved my sanity more than once. You guys are my air and my everything and I love you all to death.

-My family Another cliché, but what sort of person wouldn’t give thanks to their family? At the very least, they are responsible for your existence. My parents are, of course, frustrating, but they’re selfless and hard-working and loving. My siblings are loud, annoying and immature—but then again, they are funny, endearing and supportive. I’m also fortunate enough to have a wealth of cousins, aunts and uncles who are never stingy with their praise or hugs. I may not always show it, but I love my family.

-Music I’m one of those kids who spend their free time crawling through various youtube links and falling in love with underground bands. Music gets me through my day. It is universal. It is expressive. It is soothing. It is exciting. It is loud. It is beautiful.

-My bed. This may sound creepy, but I love my bed—it is fluffy and purple and queen-sized. I read, write, think and dream there. Needless to say, I’ve gained great naps on that oversize pillow as well. I realize that not every kid in the world has a bed—no, you’re not allowed to get on my case for sounding like one of those Sponsor-an-African-Child infomercials—so I’m lucky that I have such a wonderful and dependable place to sleep every night.

-Dance. I take Irish dance lessons—shut up, I have a whole rant you’ll most likely hear later—and I couldn’t be more thrilled or dedicated to it. I’ve become completely obsessed with the subculture Irish dance has. I love the friends I’ve made, I’m proud of the awards I’ve won and the competitions I’ve attended and the great leg muscles I’ve acquired during my five years dancing. I’m lucky to be so passionate about my pastime, and grateful for all the support I get.

And thus my corny Thanksgiving themed post ends J

so my blogging career begins...

I’ll just go ahead and pose the question you’re asking—why was I self-centered enough to start a blog about my painfully average life?

The answer’s really very simple—I talk far too much and I like to write. The former is nothing new—I am, after all, a teenage girl. I would like to say that I do not conform to the hour-long-phone-conversations-about-absolutely-nothing slash texting-almost-every-waking-second stereotype, but then I would by lying. My brother says I get honesty points for admitting the fact I depend on my cell phone. However, my brother also claims potatoes are religious objects, so his opinions are not especially valuable to me.

The latter is actually an understatement. I do not simply like to write—I adore it. In the third grade, I wrote my first novella about four girls who found a secret passage to an underground town and embarked on a quest to defeat an evil lord with the aid of their flying horses. I like to think I’ve improved since then, but who knows? I’ve written short stories, novels, personal narratives, vignettes, but I’ve never been able to keep a diary for more than a month or two. When I go back and read them, my diaries contain multiple misspellings and a lot of uninteresting complaints. On the other hand, I don’t want to write about made-up characters all the time, because they aren’t real and I could use some serious doses of reality. That’s where the blogging comes in (I hope I’m making sense…)

So, ladies and gentlemen, I present you with this laughable little blog of a mediocre teenager’s twisted thoughts. Enjoy!