I probably have the most dysfunctionally wonderful set of friends on the face of the Earth.
It's great. They make me feel so much less freakish. :)
Allow me to elaborate.
I'm in second grade. It's storytime in Mrs. Conn's class. We're reading some story about bears who miraculously talk and go to the circus or something, and I'm eating Sweettarts from the Grab Box, a wonderful invention made especially for frazzled elementary school teachers at the end of their rope. It's filled with candy and stickers and hazardous amounts glitter and Teenage Ninja Turtle action figures and McDonald's Happy Meal Furby's and Pokemon temporary tattoos to satisfy even the most ornery child in their midst and turn them into cooperative, silent, happy angels. Pretty much everything an 8-year-old could dream of with the exception of rainbows and unicorns, and sent every kid in her classroom into a blissful state of euphoria and happiness. It was like Barney's magic bag on TV or Mary Poppins's suitcase except it was real and was stored in a locked drawer in her desk. It was her secret weapon to get us to shut up. Instead of exploding into a fit of blind rage and attacking us unmercifully for our behavior, she would simply say, "Well, if you don't shape up, you won't get to pick anything from the Grab Box..." And, SNAP. The kid's quiet and repentative and ready to work. It was pure genius. Plus, she strategically let us pick from the box at the end of the day, so she didn't have to deal with us once the sugar rush kicked in and we turned from well-behaved students into sugar-high maniacs who relentlessly bounce off the walls until they become disoriented and absurdly angry for no reason at all. By that time, we were long gone from school and home safe and sound with our unsuspecting parents.
Anyway, I had been especially good on this particular occasion and so I had been awarded two rolls of Sweettarts for my stellar performance in the classroom. I was sucking on my second-to-last artificially-flavored treat when it suddenly got trapped between the roof of my mouth and the fixed metal retainer I had so tried to hide from my classmates. As all of the other children were listening to Mrs. Conn drone on about bears and fish and acrobatic monkeys, I desperately tried to dislodge the candy from my mouth with my tongue, then my finger, then the eraser-end of my Little Mermaid pencil. My futile attempts to dislodge it were, sadly, all in vain. So instead of waiting for it to dissolve from my own saliva like a rational human being, my second-grade mind thought it would be a great idea to alert my best friend Nicole to my predicament and come up with a ridiculous remedy that would only add to my embarrassment and mortify me for life while also preventing me from every being considered as a potential future candidate for someone's prom date.
I pulled her away from the crowd and showed her my retainer (which she said was "Cool") and told her that I had a yellow Sweettart stuck in the roof of my mouth. I was sort of talking with a lisp while also sounding like Gopher from the Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh because excess air was getting trapped in my retainer from the Sweettart and making it terribly difficult to talk. Of course, this only escalated the problem in Nicole's mind, as I was no longer able to effectively communicate without whistling and slurring my "S"s. My futile attempts to calm her down in my sad, whistling lisp were only frightening her more, so I resorted to frantic gestures in order to relay the problem. Now, Nicole was a helpless hypocondriac (bless her sweet little heart), and immediately decided that if we did not surgically remove the Sweettart from my mouth soon, I would surely choke on it and die right there on the carpet next to the Texas-shaped stain from this kid Kevin's "accident" at the beginning of the year.
So in a fit of desperation, we decided that the best idea was to flick that Sweettart out of there.
Well, Nicole didn't really want to stick her hand in my mouth, so I had to flick it first. After a couple good tries, we determined that because I couldn't see what I was going, I was only going to flick it down my throat and then I would surely die a slow and painful death by Sweettart. Therefore, Nicole overcame her fear of germs and heroically decided to take matters into her own hands.
By this time, our kid-whispers were growing more frantic and louder by the second.
Nicole flicked and flicked and flicked until her finger hurt and my mouth was sore, but we were working against the clock in an effort to save my life which we were 110% positive would end any minute. After about 5 minutes (which seemed like eons) of relentless flicking, I was feeling an ulcer coming on in my tender oral cavity, and so I ordered Nicole to give it one final flick before I graciously accepted my death.
Nicole couldn't bear to see me die, so she closed her eyes and that last flick her all. And what do you know? That sad little Sweettart flew out of my mouth and across the classroom, right into some kid's desk! Second-grade me and my best friend Nicole rejoiced over our victory and fist-pumped the air like we had just won the lottery. Needless to say, I owe Nicole my life for successfully removing the Sweettart from my orthodontia.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a true friend.
It's great. They make me feel so much less freakish. :)
Allow me to elaborate.
I'm in second grade. It's storytime in Mrs. Conn's class. We're reading some story about bears who miraculously talk and go to the circus or something, and I'm eating Sweettarts from the Grab Box, a wonderful invention made especially for frazzled elementary school teachers at the end of their rope. It's filled with candy and stickers and hazardous amounts glitter and Teenage Ninja Turtle action figures and McDonald's Happy Meal Furby's and Pokemon temporary tattoos to satisfy even the most ornery child in their midst and turn them into cooperative, silent, happy angels. Pretty much everything an 8-year-old could dream of with the exception of rainbows and unicorns, and sent every kid in her classroom into a blissful state of euphoria and happiness. It was like Barney's magic bag on TV or Mary Poppins's suitcase except it was real and was stored in a locked drawer in her desk. It was her secret weapon to get us to shut up. Instead of exploding into a fit of blind rage and attacking us unmercifully for our behavior, she would simply say, "Well, if you don't shape up, you won't get to pick anything from the Grab Box..." And, SNAP. The kid's quiet and repentative and ready to work. It was pure genius. Plus, she strategically let us pick from the box at the end of the day, so she didn't have to deal with us once the sugar rush kicked in and we turned from well-behaved students into sugar-high maniacs who relentlessly bounce off the walls until they become disoriented and absurdly angry for no reason at all. By that time, we were long gone from school and home safe and sound with our unsuspecting parents.
Anyway, I had been especially good on this particular occasion and so I had been awarded two rolls of Sweettarts for my stellar performance in the classroom. I was sucking on my second-to-last artificially-flavored treat when it suddenly got trapped between the roof of my mouth and the fixed metal retainer I had so tried to hide from my classmates. As all of the other children were listening to Mrs. Conn drone on about bears and fish and acrobatic monkeys, I desperately tried to dislodge the candy from my mouth with my tongue, then my finger, then the eraser-end of my Little Mermaid pencil. My futile attempts to dislodge it were, sadly, all in vain. So instead of waiting for it to dissolve from my own saliva like a rational human being, my second-grade mind thought it would be a great idea to alert my best friend Nicole to my predicament and come up with a ridiculous remedy that would only add to my embarrassment and mortify me for life while also preventing me from every being considered as a potential future candidate for someone's prom date.
I pulled her away from the crowd and showed her my retainer (which she said was "Cool") and told her that I had a yellow Sweettart stuck in the roof of my mouth. I was sort of talking with a lisp while also sounding like Gopher from the Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh because excess air was getting trapped in my retainer from the Sweettart and making it terribly difficult to talk. Of course, this only escalated the problem in Nicole's mind, as I was no longer able to effectively communicate without whistling and slurring my "S"s. My futile attempts to calm her down in my sad, whistling lisp were only frightening her more, so I resorted to frantic gestures in order to relay the problem. Now, Nicole was a helpless hypocondriac (bless her sweet little heart), and immediately decided that if we did not surgically remove the Sweettart from my mouth soon, I would surely choke on it and die right there on the carpet next to the Texas-shaped stain from this kid Kevin's "accident" at the beginning of the year.
So in a fit of desperation, we decided that the best idea was to flick that Sweettart out of there.
Well, Nicole didn't really want to stick her hand in my mouth, so I had to flick it first. After a couple good tries, we determined that because I couldn't see what I was going, I was only going to flick it down my throat and then I would surely die a slow and painful death by Sweettart. Therefore, Nicole overcame her fear of germs and heroically decided to take matters into her own hands.
By this time, our kid-whispers were growing more frantic and louder by the second.
Our frantic and hysterically comical attempts to surgically remove the Sweettart from the metal retainer at the roof of my mouth by the highly official medical procedure of "flicking" was obviously much more entertaining to my immature classmates than The Bearenstein Bears Go To The Circus or whatever story Mrs. Conn was attempting to read at the front of the classroom. We were attracting attention from our classmates at the back of the group who were giggling and so obviously failing at being inconspicous. In order to detract attention from ourselves and avoid getting into trouble with our teacher, we backed slowly away between some desks and continued our procedure.
Nicole flicked and flicked and flicked until her finger hurt and my mouth was sore, but we were working against the clock in an effort to save my life which we were 110% positive would end any minute. After about 5 minutes (which seemed like eons) of relentless flicking, I was feeling an ulcer coming on in my tender oral cavity, and so I ordered Nicole to give it one final flick before I graciously accepted my death.
Nicole couldn't bear to see me die, so she closed her eyes and that last flick her all. And what do you know? That sad little Sweettart flew out of my mouth and across the classroom, right into some kid's desk! Second-grade me and my best friend Nicole rejoiced over our victory and fist-pumped the air like we had just won the lottery. Needless to say, I owe Nicole my life for successfully removing the Sweettart from my orthodontia.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a true friend.
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