Or maybe I was just super weird

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On Sunday Henry had to join me for errands. Our expedition entailed walking a total of maybe ten blocks, round trip, but some of us do not wish to experience the out-of-doors on what is supposed to be a relaxing Sunday when one wishes only to simultaneously play Minecraft and listen to Minecraft songs. Some of us, however, don't feel like going out alone to buy someone else underwear and socks only to return home and find out that some of us purchased the terrible kind. So some of us HAD TO GO.

There was yelling. Then I said I'd buy him gum and possibly a pack of Magic Cards if he was particularly great (translated by Henry: definitely Magic Cards, multiple packs, get your pants on before she changes her mind).

Out we went, and after finding the acceptable varieties of both underwear and sock, Henry decided he wanted Tic Tacs. I never buy Tic Tacs, I don't think about them, but while he was mulling over the flavors at the checkout counter I was filled with nostalgia: not for the candy, but the packaging.

When I was little, I had a thing for empty Tic Tac boxes. My mom bought the spearmint flavor, which was too intense for my delicate girl-mouth, but whenever I found an empty box I snatched it. I'd take it up to my bathroom, where I would spend far too long than is healthy playing. With the Tic Tac box.

First I had to remove all the labels, because duh. And then scrub it until the glue came off. But carefully, because you didn't want to scratch the box. Without the labels, I found the entire thing to be perfect. It satisfied me in ways I can't explain. That hinge! Did I open and close it, then open and close it some more? Why, yes. Yes I did.

And what did I do my beloved Tic Tac box, after I regarded its perfection? Well! I filled it with either 1) water, 2) shampoo, 3) a sludgy mix of water and talcum powder, or 4) Jean Nate After-Bath Splash. And then I poured it out, and filled it up again. If I had glitter, you can be sure as hell the glitter got in there. On one particularly heady occasion, I nabbed some food coloring and filled a couple of tic-tac boxes with various shades of tinted water. They were too beautiful to be disturbed, so I hid them under the sink for a number of years. I took them out on special occasions and held them up to the light.

It's not like I didn't have an entire room filled with toys.  But they couldn't equal the perfection of the Tic Tac box. Which, if I'm going to be honest, I'm still itching to grab, although I don't know why. What would I do with it? I don't even own any Jean Nate!

I was going to tell Henry this story while we were walking home, but he already worries about me. And now I'm telling you. But you understand, right? Maybe you're a little concerned, but surely you had something similar? Come on, now.

Warning: bag will contain body parts

I signed up for a figure drawing class, which begins this weekend. I like drawing the peoples but sometimes I put together their parts wrongish and render 'em all weird. And so: learning.

In taking this class I hope to overcome the trauma of my first and only other figure drawing class, which I took in seventh grade. I won an art prize, and the award was an afternoon workshop at the local college. They didn't call it "figure drawing," they called it "life drawing," so I, a twelve-year-old, naturally assumed they were going to put out a vase of lilies or a plate of fruit. Fruit! Flowers! Life!

There were no flowers, but they put out a fruit plate, all right. Fruit basket? What's the euphemism for man parts? Anyway. Twelve-year-old me walked into a class filled with sophisticated college kids and was confronted with her first naked guy. It was not how she dreamed it would happen, if ever she dreamed such things.

I soldiered through the class, but I don't remember a second of it. I only know I stayed because I would have been too scared to leave, knocking over my easel in the process, somehow colliding with the model in front of everyone, etc. I'm sure I behaved in a polite and professional and terrified manner as I tried to make sense of the shadows and contours I was recreating on my newsprint pad.

Fortunately I am now fully grown, and willing to draw any and all private parts that might be on display, as far as a class setting is concerned. (The teacher will no doubt wonder why I disregarded the rest of the body, but never mind.) As naked people fail to worry me, I've been preoccupied with how I was going to tote the materials required for the class-- materials that include include the largest sketch pad ever in the universe. The class is an hour commute and a couple of subway lines from my home. A plastic bag wouldn't cut it for this monster. I like to worry about things, apparently. But it turns out that of course there are tote bags you can buy for even the largest of sketch pads. At any price point. Of course.

I ordered the low-to-mid-range one, and this is the box it came in today. I got worried again.

Henry asked, "What's in that?" and I said, "My new purse!" He didn't seem surprised.

Compared to the giant box, however, the bag is not horrifyingly large. Above the bag sits my annoyed cat. Whenever a box arrives, she expects to sit in it. Why can't she SIT IN THIS GODDAMN THING.

(As you can see, her diet is going well, coughcough throatclearing.)

More soon, possibly with artistic nudes, but I can't promise they'll be tasteful.

Eighth grade all the way to senior year: in which I discover makeup and use a whole lot of it

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Thank you. Now. Here I am in eighth grade.

Derp.

But look how much happier I am! This was undoubtedly due to my brand-new nephew, who I got to see pretty much every day. He is now 28. I am crazy old.

And now…ninth grade.

Dorp.

Okay. First of all, the clothing. Is that a mock turtleneck? How dare I. Secondly, there is a shadow falling across my face that's giving me a unibrow appearance, which I assure you I did not have. That is a mock unibrow. Still, though, it's not good.

Eighth grade was less traumatic than seventh, and ninth was easier still. Tenth and eleventh were socially more exciting, and then things took a steep downturn (in every way) in twelfth grade.

Hello. I am wearing four shades of eyeshadow. My hair has been lovingly blown dry, strand by strand. Why yes, this is my mother's sweater from Ann Taylor. And my mother's necklace! I want nothing more than to look like a guidance counselor.

I look like I have it together, don't I? And yet I was an emotional mess, dabbling with self-harm, panic-attacking like an old pro, screwing up academically, and engaging in disciplinary shenanigans all the damn time. No one believes that I got suspended from school, but oh, it happened. (Okay, it was in-school suspension. BUT STILL.)

I was pulled, if not from the brink, than from some less fortunate conclusion to my school years by an assortment of dedicated, amazing teachers: teachers who listened to my dumb problems; who pushed me to work; who suggested I pursue writing and music; who yelled at me when yelling was called for. My parents had to love me, I thought, so I could discount their opinions, but having these unrelated-to-me adults take an interest got my attention. I was pretty lost for a while, there. I don't know where I'd be without them.

The teachers listed on DonorsChoose can and do change lives, and they can make even more of a difference with a little help. If you've enjoyed this series at all, please donate. It doesn't have to be a lot! Remember, all your donations will be matched. The matching offer is only good until the 26th, so hurry. Thanks.

The best of school, the worst of school

For the next two weeks, I'm participating in the DonorsChoose Blogger Challenge. See the end of this post for details!

I know, I KNOW, I missed yesterday. My work got out of control. Also a lemur attacked me. Just like that! On the streets of Park Slope! Who knew there were lemurs lurking in the trees? Or even just that one?

Lemurs, by the way, go for the face.

Today, as penance, I will cover sixth AND seventh grade. Which is just as well. Because Seventh Grade Me makes me sad, and I wouldn't want to leave her alone in a post all by herself.

First up: sixth grade.

Many teeth removed! Retainer in! Braces: coming up! Oh, mouth.

Sixth grade was my best year ever. My teacher was Mr. Reilly. I loved him. LOVED. He was kind, he was smart, he encouraged me to write and I wrote all the time. I have boxes of writing from that year. Weird-ass stories about death and drunk people (and sometimes people drinking themselves to death), and he never once asked me to rein it in.

Mr. Reilly made one mistake, which was to let me pursue independent study. (Sound familiar?) In an effort to encourage me in both art and writing, he had me embark on an ambitious project wherein I would create an animated short about a wacky character who, I don't know, did things. Fell a lot. I don't remember what the short was going to be about. Because I DIDN'T DO IT.

I don't really know how I would have done it, as I had no idea how to animate, but somehow I conned Mr. Reilly into thinking I had it all under control. He sent me to the library every day to continue my Secret Project. This might have only gone on for a few weeks but in my mind it was the whole year. After checking out some initial drawings and the basic storyline, he left me alone. Left alone, I opted to 1) read books, and 2) read more books.

When he discovered what happened, he didn't penalize me. I think he realized it was his mistake, and also I probably got more out of all the books I read than anything I could have created.

Mr. Reilly showed me that I was a writer. He will always have a special place in my heart.

And then I went to seventh grade, where my heart shriveled and died! (Only for a while.) (My heart came back to life.) (I have a zombie heart, is what I'm trying to tell you.)

Before I show you my class photo, which I guarantee you is one of the saddest sights you will ever see in your life, let me tell you a little bit about this year.

In sixth grade, I was among the oldest group of kids in a relatively small school. In seventh grade, I was at the bottom rung at a junior/senior high school that combined the school population from two different towns, so even my own grade was filled with strangers. The school I attended went from 7th grade to 12th. This covers a wide range of ages. My first day on the bus to the high school, I sat next to a guy who had a beard. He told me a story about shooting at a dog who had been rooting through his trash.

This was not a public bus, mind you. He was a fellow student. A bearded fellow student. Whose car had broken down so he was forced to take the bus. Where he claimed he owned a gun. If he was to be believed, which he probably was not, but I didn't know that, because I was fucking TWELVE.

My first day at the giant school of terror did not get any easier. Oh: my grandfather had suffered a massive heart attack the night before my first day of school. So my parents were preoccupied, and we were all sleep-deprived. And then I made a bearded friend.

We had lockers, at this school, and somehow I was overlooked when they were distributing those, so I carried around all my books on the first day. Period after period, I accrued more and more books, challenging my balancing skills well past their limits. This didn't sit well with the general school population. The next day I asked my mom for a bag, and she handed me a paper bag. I can only assume she didn't understand the request, because guess what happens when you carry a shit-ton of books in a paper bag? The bottom of my bag falling out in the hall did not make me look any cooler than the day before.

Nothing got easier in the following days and months, even after I was given a locker. I was frequently accosted by my peers who were trying to be "nice" and offer advice on how I could make my face less weird. Then there were other girls who suddenly, out of nowhere, wanted to beat me up. I don't know when they passed out the memo that seventh grade was the grade for Girl Fights, but everyone else seemed to know it. Or my face just filled with them with fury and the need to yank some hair.

(I never did get beaten up. I always talked my way out of it. The closest I got to brutality was a group of girls ganging up on me out in front of the school, grabbing my LeSportSac and mocking its contents. I had a stupid brand of light-blue eyeliner, which they smeared against the brick wall. Also: a Snoopy pencil case, which they regarded with derision, and then returned to me.)

Okay, so here's the face you get when you combine all of these things.

I look like I had just come off a three-day crying jag. I probably had.

Seriously, school photographer? Could you have tried a little bit, even a little, to help me out? Maybe encourage me to pull my shoulders back? Coax the merest hint of a smile? I look like I've just been pulled from airplane wreckage.

As hard as this picture is to look at, at least I have an accurate record of my emotional state that year. Is it any surprise this is the year my anxiety disorder showed itself? I just want to wrap this kid up in a blanket and get her out of there.

Share your true tales of awkwardness and beat-uppery. I'll be over here, drunk-dialing my therapist.

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