Illiteracy. It sucks.

When I was in first grade, I went to a new elementary school.

There were two schools for young people in my town, and there was always a war between the children attending them. There would be drive-by shoutings, and late-night graffiti on the sidewalk. We were a new breed of gang: it was terrible. Disgusting.

I went to the cool school.

They went to Dorkside. hahaha. Bitches.

Anyway, first grade was another touchy year for me.

Because I couldn't read.

That's right. The now twenty-year-old with wonderful stories and a blog made of awesome, a girl who can turn a phrase, and then whip it back into place.... couldn't always read.

Everyone else started in Kindergarten, but I was too preoccupied with love and evil teachers. So I guess I missed out on a bit of learning. Big whoop.

I always kept in under the rug that I couldn't read.

I feigned fear of speaking to get out of it; we'd be reading a book out loud, hopping from person to person and if my name was called, I'd duck my head and protest.

After awhile, the teacher ignored me.

No, she never offered to help.

After awhile, I got a little better.

Just enough that I could follow in the book and know which word was what.

Then the day came- popcorn reading.

For those of you who have never popcorn read, it's AWFUL.

The teacher picks a student who can read however little they want (normally less than a paragraph because reading out loud sucks royal Hippogriff.) and then they pick the next person to read.

Someone picked me.

The room gasped.

I started reading, slowly.

I was doing really well, actually.

Then the word hit me;

Island.

.... I said "izlind"

Everyone ROFLed.

I ran from the room crying.

My teacher called me in later, gave me a candy, and told me that I could only get better from there.

I didn't learn how to read right until the beginning of second grade.

And my teacher taught me to eat when I'm upset. sfksjldf

Thanks, teach. How many other lives have you ruined?

That story ends well though, dear readers.

Because in Middle School, we had this reading program we had to do. S.T.A.R.

We had to take the test twice a year, and it would tell us our reading level and then how many points we had to read each month. (Books were rated by difficulty. The easier, the lower the points, the harder, the higher.)

Every time we took that test, my classmates got between a 4th and 8th grade reading level and had to do like.... 12 points a month.

I always got 12th+ and had to do 40-50 points a month.

And I always rocked it.

Bitches.

I know,

I totally need to get on posting.

I'm being a little sluggish already this week.

But exciting news!

Since I just got a new scanner, I don't have to make pictures in Paint anymore!

So there will be ridiculous artwork of me as a child everywhere.

Awesome.

I think my next post is about literacy and lack thereof.

Excited?

Yes.

Perfect.

Kindergarten :: Teachers from Hell

*For protection, I will not be naming my teacher. She will be referred to as Mrs. DH (DickHead))*

When you think of elementary, kindergarten, and preschool teachers, you think of that pretty but slightly boho blonde fresh out of college who loves children but isn't ready to have her own, so she goes for a teaching job in a quiet town where she can have her own class of thirty.

No.

Not in this case.

My teachers Mrs. DH, and I got along very well for quite a long time.

I thought she was perfect.

Her hatred for me started during one mundane show-and-tell day.

She asked everyone to bring their favorite something from home. Now, what I brought was pretty awesome; I didn't bring it to brag, but that must have been what she thought.

Everyone came with Barbie dolls (of which I had many), their favorite football, or a book they liked to be read at night.

Not me,

I brought my favorite stuffed animal:

Yes. It was a six-foot orca whale. And I was damn proud of that thing. I curled up with it when I slept.

The kids thought it was pretty cool. It should have blown their minds, but they weren't very cultured, so I didn't blame them.

Mrs. DH on the other hand, she became hideously jealous of my orca. She favored him, petted him, stood by him. I could see her beedy little eyes watch him from across the room. She wrung her hands as if she was fighting the disgusting urge to take my whale.

That's a felony.

I was able to save him from her, but this was only the beginning.

There were small events during which she departed her anger and jealousy on me.

But there was one time that has scarred me until this day.

It's hard to talk about...

We were given a project to make a tipi.

She gave us a flat of cardboard, some sticks, a paper bag... and that's it.

We were supposed to rub and crinkle the paper bag until it was soft, and then wrap it around sticks to make the tipi.

She told us to go home and bring it in at the end of the week.

I went all out.

Mine was majestic.

Downfall.

I brought my project to school, hoping to get the praise and admiration my hard work deserved.

But little did I know, Mrs. DH had it out for me.

When she saw me coming, holding my cardboard set in front of me like the Queen's crown, she knew that I had exceeded her expectations.

She looked upon it, baffled by the glory before her eyes; my tipi was flawless, I had created a little fireplace, glued rocks and my Pocahontas doll on....

She ripped me a new one and sent home a note for my parents, who she yelled at for the greater part of the afternoon. She was angry that I had added elements not supplied by the school. It wasn't gradeable on a fair scale. She failed that assignment.

Moral of the story?

It doesn't matter how hard you try, because someone will always shit on your tipi.

Coming soon:: Illiteracy

Kindergarten:: Best Friends

When I was five, I had the best friend in the whole world.

Her name was Molly, which was a really tragic name for someone born in the 90's. I mean, really? Were they trying to rebel against past atrocities like 'Zowie Bowie'? I'm not entirely sure, as I was never able to have a face-to-face with those unimaginative assholes, but maybe they just had no clue what they were doing to their far-sighted daughter.

Poor Molly was one of those kids my ex, Tyler, and I kicked off the jungle gym for having ridiculous spectacles. These things covered the whole of her face. She wasn't in my kindergarten social class; she was a total nerd! (Note: This was long before I learned of my own nerdiness, though mine is very sophisticated, as I only fall for the good stuff like Doctor Who and Star Trek.)

But something made me pity this little girl. Maybe it was the extra pathetic way her face hit the splintery woodchips when we kicked her down. Maybe I could see past her appearance and saw the inner genius waiting to explode from her scrawny body. Maybe it was because she was one of the only girls in my recess group and my instinct to survive kicked in and I knew the girls had to stick together if they wanted to overcome the cootie epidemic.

Or maybe, just maybe... it was because she shared a cookie with me during milk time.

That was more likely.

Molly and I hit it off. After we split that homemade chocolate chip straight down the middle, we were inseparable. Even her atrocious overalls didn't scare me away now; we were in it together.

We told each other everything because we knew we couldn't be the best of friends until we knew absolutely everything about one another. i made her forget her insecurities and she began to be happy with herself. I made her more popular.

And then that bitch went behind my back and told my mortal enemy every secret I told her and they made fun of me until the end of the school year.

Moral of the story?

It's a mother effin' secret for a reason, dumbass!

If you don't want people to know, keep it to yourself!

Up next: Kindergarten 3 :: Teachers from Hell

Kindergarten:: Part 1

Oh, Kindergarten... it is a fun word, but not a very interesting place in life.
Unless you were super epic like I was. Yes, I can remember it as if it were only fifteen years ago...

Dear kiddies, back then- we only had half a day of school in Kindergarten. Now you're in it all eight hours; in my town you are, at least. For some reason they thought that was a good idea. But alas, just trust me- four hours.

I went in at 8am, out by noon. Oh, Lord, those days were glorious!
We had crafts, story-time, chocolate milk, and numbers. We even had a playtime (apart from recess) in which we could dress up and play 'house' (where you're married and have a home, not where you get a cane and limp around diagnosing people. Stay with me here). We could paint, sing songs... We didn't have a care in the world!


But there was something even more important than everything else.
You see, dear readers, I was a whole five years old.

And I was in love.





His name was Tyler. And he was the perfect man for me.
I remember when I first laid eyes on him.

He was.... probably like three effing feet tall with chocolate brown hair and matching eyes and a dark... mole on his cheek. Why, he was like a prince the way he colored his extinct dinosaur pictures. He ruled the school and every girl in our class... all four of them fawned over him like sexually-repressed private schoolgirls fawn over Justin Bieber when he flips his hair majestically to the side.

...

Uh.

Anyway. Our names fit together alphabetically, which was proof that the two of us were meant to be. I remember the way we climbed on the jungle gym and kicked the nerdier kids off so we didn't have to look at their over-sized 90's glasses.

My mother knew that I loved him, but she never said anything to slow down the romance. I mean, we sat together during recess in the tunnel and talked about robots. Surely she was aware that it was getting serious and that I was on a very dangerous road towards heartbreak.

Everyday, before we went home and I was forced to leave my dear love behind for way too many hours, our teacher would send us to the hall in pairs to get our backpacks. Tyler was my backpack buddy.

As we walked into the hall, my overly-romantic, Disney-obsessed heart was racing. Today was the day. This was the day he would officially ask me out.

As we stood in the hall silently, we both reached for our bookbags. Mine was a lovely princess bag... and I think his had something to do with football, camo, or something else hideously boyish.

He turned to me.

I turned to him.

And then he said it...

"Fee, will you be my boyfriend?"

...

Wait, what was that?

BOYFRIEND?!

In a state of confusion and filled with the need to be loved, I said yes.

I don't know if he was just nervous or if my frilly dresses didn't 'fool' him, but for some reason, the man of my dreams thought I was a boy.

That day, I went home and cried to my mom.

Less than a week later, it was over.

...And I had already carved 'Tyler' in the wood of our kitchen table with a ballpoint pen.

Moral of the story?

Don't fucking carve the name of your Kindergarten crush in the wood of a very expensive dining table! ESPECIALLY if it doesn't belong to you!

Soon to come: Kindergarten:: Part 2. Best Friends and Teachers from Hell

My life is so normal, it's super weird.

I have tons of funny and awkward stories to tell.
The thing is that I don't exactly know where to start.
I guess with the general birth scene. Well, you can imagine how that went; lots of my mom cursing in a Catholic hospital and my granny shushing her because there were nuns around.

If they are hanging out for childbirth, they'd better get used to it.


And then there I was, a tiny, fricken' quiet baby girl. Awesome. Much better than a boy, fo sho. My parents can vouch for that, since my older brother was a demon. He used to pour mom's shampoo down the drain, write on walls and mirrors with her mascara, jump on ketchup bottles, scoop pudding out of the big bowl with his fingers in the middle of the night. Dick.

Well anyway, back to me being the perfect child.
My brother is seven years older than me. My parents probably waited because they were afraid they would unleash another evil. It took about seven years for them to realize that a sibling would ruin him and be the ultimate revenge on his stupid ass.


What thinkers.


I don't remember much from when I was a baby, which is common; they didn't have many stories either. I slept a lot, cried little, and was generally the greatest thing to ever happen to this cursed family.






That's right, they like football. I dig on hockey now and then, but any other sport makes me cry. Unless it's the winter Olympics, then hells yeah!


Anyway, they thought I would save them, but really, it turned into an epic battle between my brother and I that would last twenty years (as I am twenty now and it's still on-going). Bravo, mum, pa, Bravo.


Soon to come: Kindergarten. Oh, what a ride that will be!

I'm serious, Kindergarten was the craziest year of my life: fights, crushes, dragons, flamethrowers... those were the good days!

This. This is a post.

You've probably seen it a million times; someone starting a new blog.
New blogs, old blogs... they are awesome no matter their age.

Cooking blogs suck though.
Or blogs about puppies.
Screw them and their puppies!
This is a place for AWESOME.

I'm going to be telling you, my very invisible readers, about awkward and amazing things I've seen and done. I might even illustrate a bit.
Who knows.

But let me tell you, you'll know more about me than my own mother.
It'll be like the Truman Show all over again, but in flashback mode and with a less-awesome lead.

I'm snarky, loquacious, and nerdy; you can call me Fee.
Welcome to the ride.