063002I layed there, staring up at the ceiling. It had to be close to 8:00, I just knew it. And at that exact moment, my alarm clock went off. Groaning, I stepped out of bed, letting the soft gray carpet cushion my dainty steps. I slid the plastic switch to the left and the music stopped abruptly. I couldn�t find my glasses, so I stumbled through the blurry catacombs of my upstairs. It was mornings like these that I cursed my mother for giving me the genetically bad eyesight that runs rampant through her family. After a not-so-quick shower, makeup application, and blow-dry, Jack and I swung open the doors to Honest Don at 9:00 AM sharp and began our journey. Forty minutes later, we were there. We had reached our destination, our goal, our Holy Grail: Krispy Kreme. To quote Homer Simpson, "I was like a kid in some kind of store." Simply pulling into the parking lot made me giddy. I walked through the first set of double doors and it hit me. Flashing before my eyes was Pocahontas, singing "Colors of the Wind," surrounded by a cloak of swirling leaves. I had become Pocahontas, only swirling around me was the tempting scent of fried dough and glaze. I wanted back-up dancers to appear from behind parked cars and join me in a song-and-dance number. I had never been this excited about a food product before. Then a lady walked past me, bearing two boxes, which I knew contained two-dozen pieces of fried delight. I became hypnotized and immediately proceeded in robotic fashion through the second set of double doors and took my place at the end of the line. Being a Sunday morning, the store was full of families, easily on their way to or from church. Young children ran amok with white paper Krispy Kreme hats topping their ratty mops of hair. Parents patiently waited in line, eyes torn between watching their kids and the magic of the doughnut conveyor belt. A short, older man with graying hair stood in front of Jack and I, trying to figure out, with the help of his friend, how many doughnuts to purchase. "She has two kids, so that�s at least 6...better make it a dozen. And a dozen and a half for the people at work. And a dozen for myself to eat now, ha ha ha," he chuckled heartily to himself. This place was such a rare find in Minnesota that people actually stocked up on doughnuts, as sick and twisted as it sounds. I imagined his waistline growing as he spoke. Now I was the one chuckling. Slowly but surely, we made our way to the front of the line. I could almost taste the sugary, melt-in-your-mouth sweetness as the employee handed us our wares. Knowing these heavenly treats are best right off the line, we sat down at a table in the back. Jack placed one box in front of me, and one in front of himself. Simultaneously, we peeled back the covers and reached in. I could barely pick one up. The soft dough molded to my hand as if trying to save itself from its inevitable fate. With one bite, I was hooked. I gulped down the remainder of the one I was holding. Greedily, I snatched another from its cardboard home and devoured it. As I sat back and watched Jack finish his second doughnut, I began to feel queasy. I had reached my morning grease intake and put down my napkin. I glanced up at Jack and he shared the same nauseated look. It was time to go home. Packing up our treasures from our early adventure, we headed out the double doors and into the warm sunlight. 062702"Moving On Up" Ah, popularity. The word that drives throngs of teenagers, females especially, into abnormal behavior. After a stop at Abercrombie & Fitch, pick up a hot new boyfriend, fix the hair and makeup, drop a few loser close friends, and voila - they�re one step closer to insta-fame. But what fuels this inner desire to shed their previous skin and become a cookie-cutter sorority girl-in-training? Well, acceptance is one thing. You want family within the halls where you�ll be spending your next three years. In high school, regardless of the location, there is a complex system of social classes. You have your bottom feeders, your middle ground, well-liked individuals, and your pedestal gods and goddesses. What makes these people shine above the rest? They are very up-to-date on hair and fashion trends, are excruciatingly nice to adults, and look down on anyone who doesn�t share the same lunch table as them. But it�s the way they pull it off that makes others want in. Popular boys and girls have confidence and wear it proudly on their sleeves. They are the best of the best, and no one will tell them otherwise. Noses high in the air, they choose prominent locations in and around school where everyone will notice them, so someone doesn�t, god forbid, take their limelight. They laugh, they giggle, and they always have smiles on their faces. These popular kids make it seem so gosh darn appealing to be where they are, and they do everything in their power to keep it that way. It�s not easy to break into these groups. They all sweat and toiled to climb the social ladder since, like, kindergarten. I myself have witnessed individuals trying to climb. They become so wrapped up in their new persona that I lose pace with them halfway. Then, out of nowhere, you hear it. They screech by you, plummeting towards the ground below. And it only happens one of two ways: they jump or are pushed. Why then, year after year, do new people ignore the warnings and try to become something they�re not? They�ll tell you why. The fame. The glory. Popularity is like a rare antique. Everyone wants it. Everyone thinks they need it. Those that have it gloat and display it proudly. They think they�ve earned it, so let them be jaded for a few years. They will be working retail for the rest of their lives. 061902As we pulled into the parking lot, I could feel myself getting fatter. The deliciously greasy odor of ButterBurgers wafted past my nostrils. My body was in fast-food heaven. Since our parents were going out for the night, Jack and I were forced to fend for ourselves. Being the anti-chefs that we are, we immediately hopped into Honest Don and headed for Culvers. I stood facing the luminous menu. My eyes furiously scanned the blue words, trying to pick out anything that sounded half-way decent as we quickly approached the "Training - Please Be Patient" register. In exchange for our money, we received two paper cups and a piece of blue plastic with the number 28 on it - far from what I'd consider to be a fair trade. Jack and I ambled over to a cozy booth for two in the corner. Not long after we'd sat down, our food arrived: a hamburger basket, a cheeseburger basket, and a single scoop of Snicker Swirl, the flavor of the day. There was enough cholesterol on that tray to kill a small woodland creature. Hastily we munched, swallowing bite after bite of mouth-watering scrumptiousness. Being brother and sister, we could have cared less that our single scoop of custard came with one spoon, so we took turns digging in. Between the close-quarters of the booth, the sharing of germs, and the close age, I'm sure we were automatically labeled a couple. I should just wear a sign that reads "He's my BROTHER!" Surveying the damage, I put down my half-drunken cup of root beer and threw in the towel. Jack dumped our tray while I attempted to waddle towards the front door. I felt beyond full. I wanted to raise my fist above my head and shout "You beat me again, Culvers. Damn you, ButterBurger! DAMN YOU!" Attempting to leave the Culver's parking lot is an experience in and of itself. We waited with white back-up lights on, staring all passing drivers who chose to ignore us in the face. Crowded minivans full of rambunctious youngsters, soon to be the next Fatties of America, created a drive-thru line that stretched all the way to Montana. I hope they're watching, 'cause I'm going for it! I shouted in my head. An SUV barely squeaked by my back bumper as I slammed on the brakes. Thwarted yet again. I backed out a few more inches before deciding it was as clear as it'll ever be, and slammed on the gas as Honest Don spun out of the spot. "Impending death...not today," Jack chimed from the passenger's seat. Waiting to turn onto Galaxie, we looked at the car in front of us and simultaneously saw the same thing: a "got Jesus?" bumper sticker. We looked at each other and didn't have to say a word. We silently shook our heads in unison. Pulling up to the stop light, the car door of a brown out-of-date Park Avenue swung open. A greasy man's head stuck out and he spit. An eruption of "SICK!" spewed from our car. Who was this 'Spitting Joe'? Where did he come from? Why did he keep spitting? At the next light a half-mile down the road, he did it again. But this time, after shutting his door, his arm moved out of the open window. He seemed to be drumming out a beat with his fingers. Jack was sure he was listening to Kiss: "Okay, watch, watch - 'I want to rock and roll all niiiiight!" look, look! It fits!" And at that moment, the green arrow switched on and we headed home, Spitting Joe only a distant brown dot on the horizon. 061602Saturday, I attended a bridal shower for a girl I knew in high school. That was a little...weird...to say the least. Not that going to bridal showers is weird, they just become weird when the bride-to-be is under 20. When I walked in, I was reminded of the previous summer. White balloons were tied to the mailbox and lined the banister inside Aimee's house. Flimsy cardboard Paper Warehouse decorations were sporadically attached to walls. A table in the kitchen, covered with a white and pink tablecloth, showcased a day's worth of cooking. The centerpiece of the table was a white cake with random frosting flowers adoring it and "Jason and Aimee" scrawled in the best cursive that can be achieved using only a store-bought tube of blue icing. I felt like I was at a graduation party for a school whose colors were pink and white. The thought wasn't all that absurd since the guest of honor was about the age of a high school grad. We played the traditional shower games, ate food, and watched Aimee open her presents. While Aimee opened gift after gift, it became clear that neither Aimee nor I was of the marrying age. Bath mats, pot holders, a roasting pan - those gifts couldn't be any more boring. Watching Aimee feign interest in receiving them made my insides hurt. After she opened her last present, I made a beeline for the door. I thanked her for inviting me, she thanked me for coming and for the gift. I made a mad dash to my car, rolled down the windows, put on my pink sunglasses, and blared Britney Spears from my speakers. I decided at that point that I'm never getting married. 061402For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be an elementary school teacher. That was before I actually sat down and thought about my interests. On a particularly boring day in my eleventh grade study hall, I took out a piece of blank notebook paper and drew a line down the middle of the page. The left side was topped with a plus, the right with a minus. I titled it "Teacher." My first plus was "Likes Children," followed by "Summers Off." I found myself staring at the blue-lined page, nothing else coming to mind. A panicked look crossed my face. I moved to the minuses. "Same Thing Year After Year, Little Pay, Bratty Children, Teacher Conferences, Kids Never Age/I Only Get Older." The list went on and on. After the smoke lifted from the furious scribbling of my pencil, I pulled back and looked at the page in front of me. It was 2 to 17, in favor of the minuses. As I reread my arguments for the minuses, I came across a common theme. My babysitting days had long passed, and I no longer had the love and tolerance I once possessed for young children. I knew what I had to do. I flipped my pencil over and let the eraser work its magic. Only one plus remained. I couldn't be more excited about the career path I've chosen. As a freshman, I was accepted into the University of Minnesota's School of Journalism and Mass Communication, a feat not commonly accomplished by first-year students. I begin my second year of college in the fall and I'm well on my way. Little does the world know it's a part of my plan to get ahead of the competition as quickly as I can. Mwahahaha. One day, I plan on writing for the magazine, Cosmopolitan. I don't know how long it'll take me to get there, but trust me, I'll get there. I plan on getting a job at a local magazine starting this fall. And the funny part is, I don't care what job they give me. I could be working in the mail room, spending my days wheeling around a letter bin, and I'd be as happy as a clam. I just know how important it is to get into the building. Once you're in, the rest is easy. Speaking of easy, I started work for my mom on Monday. Like all normal people my age, I have a full-time job over the summer. But unlike most people my age, I work for my mother. My 40-hours-a-week job is spent in my own home. Now, I know, I can't complain. I don't have to drive to work, I get time off whenever I need it, I can talk back to my boss, blah blah blah. It sounds like I have the greatest job in the world, right? Wrong. I work for my mother. Try to get that part into your head. Some can't tolerate being in the same room as their mother for more than ten minutes. I, on the other hand, not only get to live with her, but also get to hear her tell me what to do every other second of the day, and not as my mom, but as MY BOSS. On the flip side, I do work with two cool guys who always try their hardest to keep me sane and calm me down when I'm about to blow a gasket. It really isn't all that bad though. I just make it sound a lot worse than it really is to try and rack up some simpathy points. Honestly, no one can comprehend what it's really like. You think you know, but you have no idea. Welcome to my world.
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