Breathe In, Breathe Out, Breathe Deeply

Sometimes I wish my breath could be capped
in an empty glass bottle,
tied with a pink ribbon,
and cast off into the ocean.
Bobbing on the crests, dipping under peaks.
Just floating.
Minding its own business until a fisherman
from Greenland scoops it into his net.
Then the bottle is his responsibility. 

Carefully, his worn fingers pop off the cork,
rubbing the glass bottle with his elbow.
But it's too late.
He uncaps the breath tied with a pink ribbon,
sailing in salt for months.
Once the breath escapes it finds me.
Things have a way of getting back
to me.

I've been holding onto my own glass bottle,
blowing in tufts of breath
to tuck away for a time
when I can open it and understand what it all means.

What do they mean?
Greenland, tell me.

Skype Days

The following mini-conversations were reccorded by my potted plant.
Sitting on a ledge, obviously eyeing a plush stuffed Red Daisy I won at the fair, Mr. Player Plant pretended to be sleeping after being doused with the remnants of my Camomile Tea. However, that certainly was not the case, as fragments of my Skype conversations have somehow made it to the internet. For tutti. Everyone. Eat Pray Love. Just throwing in a shout-out for my homegirl Julia Roberts.


Recorded Conversations from Mr. Player Plant:

M: "Are you eating granola?"

Me: "No I already did. It's like the highlight of my day."

P: [inserts icon of teddy bear]
Me: *Punches teddy bear
P: Poor teddy

D: You met me just because I'm asian. Not because I'm the sweetest person in the world!
Me: Hehe, yes.

Dorothy Dolls

If one were to produce "Dorothy Dolls" I'm sure they would have the label "Made in China" tattooed on a pair of skinny blue jeans, slightly too short, mimicking reality (pants to leg ratio). The fine print would say "Do not mandhandle me." It is my catchphrase. But I am not a superhero, no way Jose. Just because an ancient plastic Roman Statue (Being International Dorothy Doll Barbie I named him Jose) comes free with me does not mean I am cheap, nor does it mean I'm trying to "reach out to my Greek friends across the ocean". We both know I have no friends so don't even joke. My publicist thought it would be good for my image. Not the no friends part, but the "reaching out to friends across the ocean". Tell anyone and I will stick a plastic pump in your eye.

The reason Jose comes free is because (whimpers) I get lonely in my box. Children run right past me in Toys-R-Us, straight for the Robert Pattinson dolls. I don't know about you, but who wants to buy a ManBarbie with retractable fangs who looks like he rolled in a tub of white-out? Anywho, the fact that Robbie gets sold out faster than burning hot JerseyShoreDolls does not frusterate me as much as this hairstlyle. I mean come on. Do I seriously look like this is real life? I think shaving the head and turning into BarbieBrittanysWackyShavedHeadFriend would be an improvement.

One day my prince will come, with his golden shiny locks, and then we will drive off into the sunset (aka flourescent light bulbs on Aisle 4). After basking in the glorious sunlight we shall eat a picnic of plastic grapes and styrofoam fizzy drink. Then, after a long afternoon of rollerblading on the checkout conveyor belt, PrinceBarbie and I will get married. (sighs) Such is the life of a Dorothy Doll.


Only four easy payment of $5.99!

Don't Call My Name: Krakow, Krakow

Dearest traveling personal diary ...
which is not exactly private, but could be considered private until the dreaded "Publish Post" tab has been pressed by a Polish fingerprint. Yes, only a Polish fingerprint from a Polish girl can activate this button to submerge it's contents into the realms of cyberspace. Oh, and just to narrow the field, the Polish girl's name is Dorothy. Use your imagination (insert Spongebob infliciton here if desired. In Poland Spongebob is simply a figment of my imagination, for I haven't seen the soaked sponge in these three weeks. Insert infliction once again. However, dirtied sponges are frequently sighted.)

Ahem. Dearest Diary:

Leisurely walking on a side street which connects to the Krakow Market Square has a mind-numbing effect. Shops aligned each side of the paved street. Some vendors selling vinyl purses, others displaying Italian wedges, and elderly ladies dressed in Babushkas shaving smooth strands off blocks of ocipek (for all matters purposeful: pungent cheese) surrounded me on this midday stroll. This is home. Shopping and eating. All day. Utter perfection.

Suddenly I heard a pretty boy [Side note: He is named "pretty boy" due to his resemblance of European soccer stars] shouting "Krakow, Krakow" from the fifth floor of a nearby building.  Despite the blinding sun, I looked up over my left shoulder and waved, with five long drawn-out thrusts of the arm. Of course, being polite, he waved back enthusiastically, probably satisfied his jublilant message reached at least one passerby. Such attention seekers these pretty European boys are. Tsk tsk. Always secretly vying for flashy red cards during World Cups.

 I took six steps. Wait, what was that? I heard his chanting once again. Can you spell "Attention", or better yet, shout it? But then it struck me. He was shouting "Krete [wlosy], Krete!" which means "curly" in Polish. My mother and father's fit of laughter ascertained that I was in no need of a hearing aid, or subtitles, which in Poland does not exist, much like Spongebob of the Square Pants. Obviously being the only curly-haired person for miles, I was flabergasted. A Eurpoean pretty boy picked me out of the mass of tourists, and was cutely ringing his voice throughout the street to receive an inkling of attention from the wearer of two mops of curly pigtails.

Now all six hundred sets of Polish eyes were on the only blonde curly-haired girl in Krakow. Flattering? I suppose so. Creepy? A little. Life changing? Well, I ended up changing my hair style that day to avoid him recognizing me after departing from a shoe store which I clumsily entered. Don't call my name, or call me by my hair, Pretty European Boy.

[Interesting fact of the day: When visiting a new church for the first time in Poland, sitting in a pew on the side of the cathedral yields the entire congregation intently staring at you for the first 40 minutes].

[Advice of the day: stare back!]

Psyched for Poland

In honor of my upcoming trip to Poland, here is a compiled list of actions which my ID swears "These are fabulous things for you to do, Dorothy." While flying amidst the fluffy white porous clouds, the following possible scenarios will be running through my mind at the pace of twenty steroid induced stallions rounding the corner gate. Things to do while in an airplane (did I mention this will be a 10-13 hour flight?):

1. Cry whenever a baby cries on the plane.
2. Disco dance in the aisle
3. Try to lead plane in song "Oh I wish I was an Oscar Myer Weiner"
4. Lead a bible study session in the back of the plane
5. Set up a stand selling my own diet soda cheaper than the airplane is selling it for.
6. Switch accents and see if anyone notices.
7. Organize my collection of bandaids.
8. Ride carry-on luggage down the aisle.
9. Stick a moustache to the bottom of my seat.
10. Look surprised when I find a moustache on the bottom of my seat twenty secconds later.
11. Carefully inspect the moustahce I find, sniffing it, writing down it's make and weight (thanks to my handy-dandy pocket scale) in my spiral notebook.
12. Put the newly-found moustache into the breast pocket of my sweater, with eyes darting every which way suspiciously.
13. Stroll up and down the aisles, asking if anyone wants to buy the rollex of moustaches.
14. Sell a moustache to a flight attendent. *

*Only do so if I can't determine whether the flight attendent is a male or female.


Oh, and my ID is also the "thing" which said "Stand up during the middle of a church sermon, expose your belly button to the freshly stale air, and climb onto the pew all while staring intently upon the priest, nodding every five secconds enthusiastically." My ID is out to publicly humiliate me. However, these requests are more reasonable. Ish. Reasonableish. Happy flying to all, and to all a goodnight!

Balls of Pearls

Monday mornings are mad rush days
Gym craze arouses Tuesday and Thursdays
Wednesdays you look like the camel’s hump
And by Friday you play “I cannot come in, for there’s a lump”.

Your precious neck
Always occurring a lump
Well what if one day
I squeezed that plump
Plump robust beating neck

A string of rocks
Seated intricately on my spine
After the mad dash of lipstick
Of curlers, of damp towels dripping wine
You lift mine tail to be seated upon a pale
Pale white-woman plump robust beating neck

Neighboring Mr. Law of the Ockets
Overtop the arterial vein
Clenched his clasp ever so tightly
“‘Twas an error” he snorted
Until Wednesday chortled “She looks like the camel’s rump”

Perhaps one day I shall grow balls of pearls
And choke that plump
Plump pale white-woman robust beating neck
Of the upper class working slut.

Honoring Family Feud-ers

"Quick, name something that can blind you."
"Umm, the sun."
"Already got that one."
"Sunscreen. Laser. Are you playing Family Feud again?"

"Name something a person may leave behind in their seat area after exiting a plane."
"A small child."
"No, hurry Dorothy."
"Read me the question again"
"Eh: Name something a person may leave behind in their seat area after exiting a plane."
"I love ponies"
"Come on! Only five secconds left."
"A small child"
"Gah! Time ran out. And I was going to say carry-on lugage"

Many of you reading this actually came upon my blog through facebook.
And in honor of you all who either play "Family Feud" or have fallen prey to the enticing chain of notifications you refresh your computer in thirty-nine seccond intervals to check, various facebook fanatic facts (using alliteration and I'm not yet even technically enrolled in AP Literature 'till the fall. Pat on the back? No? Nudge of the shoulder? No? Breathe in my direction? ... ) shall be sprinkled in the nooks and crannies of this losely written post. Well, nobody likes a tight sweater, especially when your sister's godmother thinks you still  have the seven-year-old body from last time you visited . . . nine years ago. At least she took into account I was a plump youngster. Where am I going with this? Ah yes, nowhere. Moving on to more important things before I get wrapped up in Chinese-made products (wrapped up. sweater. I made a funny). Facebook facts attack:

If Facebook were a country, it would be the fifth-largest country in the world, after China, India, the U.S., and Indonesia.
My take: If you arrange the first letter of each country's name, the only word I can come up with is Ficus. For some reason I am thinking that is a type of tree.

Syria, China, Vietnam, and Iran have banned Facebook.
My take: Then why are all four languages available in the options portion of the Account Settings? And pirate. Oh wait. This just in. The country of Pirate just banned Facebook.

Facebook’s fastest growing segment in the United States is women 55 years and older.
My take: At least facebook sends you virtual gifts ladies.

In the words spoken by a true Family Feuder: Let's be friends and end this post already (scroll up and observe the picture once more if you don't understand).
Sayonara !
Did you know Sayonara is a Japanese word?
Care to know how to say it in Pirate?
So would I.

Dieting Disaters

Dorothy: "My self control will beat you, galactic coma-inducing rich and moist triple chocolate chunk cookie."
Cookie: "Prepare to never face defeat."
Dorothy: "Aw, cookie, don't get down on yourself."
Cookie: "I feel so unloved. Please nibble my chocolately chunks."
Dorothy: "From the bottom of my heart I am sincerely sorry to make you feel worthless. Here, I shall nibble on your warm center." *Scarfs down all but three crumbs
Cookie (crumbs): "Thanks buddy"
Dorothy: "By the way cookie, what did you mean by 'prepare to never face defeat'?"
Cookie (crumbs): "You should prepare to never see your feet again. Muhuhahah. Fatty."
Dorothy: "No! I trusted you, deliciously moist friend. How could you ever betray me like this?"
Cookie (crumbs): "That's the way the cookie crumbles, sugar."

Needless to say, dieting has never been in the cards for me. Whether it be the depressed look of a lonely unloved triple chocolate chunk cookie oozing on the rack, or the sweet sorrowful scent of frosted pink cupcakes in a bake sale, their pathetic cries for love leave me helpless like a mosquito dancing in the mouth of a venus fly trap. Despite forceful reminders from the deep cavernous matter of mind that swinsuit season is rapidly approaching, one innocent nibble and I'm surely a goner.

In desperation to trim down my waist, I posed as a "surveyor" and asked around town for various methods which yield healthful results. Here is an interesting method I cataloged in the filing cabinet within my mind that I recently began implementing. And guess what? It works.

The Palm Diet
On this diet, you can eat anything you want...
... so long as it isn't bigger than the size of your palm.
Want to eat a palm full of blueberries?
Go ahead.
Feel the urge to scoop up some ice cream?
Use your hand!
Of course, results may vary (this is a cushion, if you will, just in case someone gains forty pounds through this method. I am now not liable to sue) if most of your palm servings consist of fruits and vegetables,
however, this method allows the most sweetest tooth to be hushed.

Dorothy's Advice Corner

Today marks the beginning of a new segment
on Piece of Personality Pie: Dorothy's Advice Corner

Feel free to leave a comment with a burning question
which I will quickly  (at the pace of a mutilated turtle)
respond to. Who knows... your question just may
end up on Dorothy's Advice Corner

Advice of the Day
- When walking in a dog park, watch where you step.

How I came up with this advice: A certain Asian friend who goes by the alias "Dorothing" was pondering, moping around, trying to scrounge up a line of advice to include in her own blog. Well, I was feeling guilty about ignoring my blog for about two weeks due to "various instances when I was experiencing an overwhelming lack of inspiration overload" (try saying that five times fast). I compared my blog to a malnourished, under-entertained, floppy eared puppy whose name is Fido (Fido is a ficticious name created ficticiously for a ficticious dog). Thus, the only natural thought progression was to give advice relating to canines. And what better advice is there than: watch where you step?

Seccond Advice of the Day
-When stumped, you can always google search "pictures of ugly dogs" for inspiration.

Footstepping Osmosis Jones

My family needs a doctor.
And who better fufills such a need than Dr. Dorothy Gal ?
Pulling from my extensive background in chemistry (classic science fair volcano) and biology (over-fertilizing a once fluroushing garden), I have concluded it is unhealthy to "fall asleep" everytime one hears approaching footsteps.

Along with my fancy title I shall say "Hear ye, Hear ye" to assert doctorly authority. So "Hear ye, Hear ye" it goes:
Yes, the root to this fainting disease must be located in the brain (gasps are heard from fellow colleagues).
I have found the source of the ticking! It is a pipe bomb, Harry.
Woah! How did that Harry Potter Puppet Pals reference survive editing? But alas, Hear ye, Hear ye, it has indeed. Moving along.

At precisely 5:57 p.m. meandering into the dusty living room was I, with footsteps inaudible, even to the common household dragon. While stroking my corse black beard and trying to tweeze black tufts of hair from my detective moustache, there I saw it! Two lifeless bodies snoring at extreme registers were draped across the loveseat and armchair.  Mine eyes have settled on this scene before. However, trying to remain composed while peering at a snoring father and heavily breathing sister, decidededly I threw a dective mask overtop my gleaming name tag reading "Dr. Dorothy Gal: Doctor of Music, But Pretender Of Fixing People's Ailments". In times like these, I prefer to be called "Dr. D Watson: Dective Supreme".

Doctors make some of the worst detectives. They're convinced reasonable explanations exist for everything. But Detectives (deserving a capital "D") are people who think outside of the box; people who ask for cheese pizza with the queso on the side, hum songs with their mouths wide open, and chaze cheetahs in the zoo. Yes, they even put boiling hot ice cubes into  lemonade. Don't ask me how they do it... for I have not yet studied that chapter in my "Learn How to Be A Detective for Dummies" book. So, in my quest to hopscotch outside of the chalk boxes, I decided to join them in their sleep-fest; foiling their plan.

Church choral books contain useful advice in the form of song lyrics : "Long before the mountains came to be, and the land and seas were stars of the night." And now that you  are well aware of choir booklets which hold wisdom, I shall carry on with how my detective-ness won the gold. After carefully studying these two "specimens", I recognized a pattern. Any creak of the door, slight pound of a footstep, or jingle of keys sends Christine and dear father into an exagerated fit of  "snoresleep" (the medical term for their condition). By joining in on their "plan" to ignore conversing with yours truly, they became so befuddled that their expressions revealed their plan to annoy the beegeebees out of me before "Supercalifragilisticexpedaliosious" could come spitting from my mouth (Which is my Detective Catchphrase! You there! Halt! Supercalifrag... )

After receiving an award from the DorothyAwards company, I sat watching the sunset, eating a ceramic dish filled with heavenly maccaroni & cheese made from scratch. Editors Correction: made from a box. Proudly I displayed how fitting an entire fork prong into a single nostril is a breeze. Father was saying "Ew. Get it out of there". Christine was saying "You face will erupt in blood. Call Osmosis Jones". And all I could think was: My next mission as Dr. D Watson: Detective Supreme is to uncover the identity of Osmosis Jones.

Spring: An Epic Poem

S uper
P ooper
R ad
I can't think of anything for "I"
N omadic
G ladness

And the circle of life continues.

( I have been trying to write an incredible unbelieveable epic spring poem for about a week now, and the only inspiration I've had is a family tradition of mine: celebrating every holdiday/event a day early. For instance, it is March 15th, we better give Dorothy her presents! Why doesn't my family just move my birthday date to the 15th? Oh, and Christmas, we can hardly wait until Christmas Eve to bust into those presents. At the current rate we are going, I estimate that by the time I turn forty we shall be celebrating Christmas on November 3rd. Just in case something comes up. *wink)

So here is my seccond attempt at an epic Spring Poem:

Budding Blossoms
Sing Sweetly with Swallows
She Dances like a Dandellion
Who Celebrates Easter six days early
Because something might come up.
And then she plans out everything she does.
Because it is spring.
And this is how she learned to organize
When to wash the dishes?
How will she manage time to fold the blankets?
Polish the baubbles?
Watch the Mets?
Metropolitan Opera that is.
Such a great start
to such a wonderful Springtime
And such a potentially wonderful poem.
Ruined by talk of tradition.
I must keep the Polish torch burning.
And now this is no longer a poem, so
Adieu dear friends

House of Tan

Welcome to the House of Tan. This is Mr. Sun speaking.
May I take your order?
Please chose one of our fabulous sunburns you'd like to start off your session with that are sure to make you the envy of all your friends:

a) Shoulders - Live the life free of giving piggy-back rides.
b) Nose - Who doesn't want to look like they've been crying for hours?
c) Cheeks - Think of all the money you'll be saving on blush!
d) Back - That 'Aloe sticking to the back of a t-shirt' feeling comes free with this proceedure!
e) Whole Body - This is our most popular suntan for Europeans vacationing because of the blinding glow it exudes. Plus, you get the added bonus of needing to wear christmas clothes in the middle of summer with a legitamet excuse.

Thank you for signing up for one of our treatments.
To prepare for your session just come as you are, without sunscreen, and feel free to bathe in a fountain of baby lotion - it makes our job easier.
Embrace the burn.

While our company from Wisconsin was vacationing at my house,  I decided we should take them to the beach. Knowing the House of Tan resides at every scorching hot beach within a trillion miles, I lathered up on tubs of sunscreen, even coating places such as my inner ear canal and underneath my glittering fingernails.
To make a long story short, I escaped the wrath of the House of Tan's many sessions (a through e), but somehow I missed the flyer detailing a *Brand New Burning Place: Just Added* they swore to have stuck to my windshield wipers. Stupid bipolar wipers. Oh, and apparently the first visit is free.

"What is this new session?" you may ask.
"Why, it is no other than a sandal thong tan".

Here is their new advertisement for the sandal thong tan:
f) Sandal Thong Tan - You will be burnin' up on that dance floor long after the sun is gone!
And boy are they right!

Lady Gaga Fever

"You know that I want 'cha,
and You know that I need 'cha
I want your lovin' and I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance."

Just in case you live under a rock (and/or are wearing a child-sized Spongebob Halloween costume) I shall reveal a secret which poor souls like you do not know: the above lines are not my inner, most darkest desires suspended on your induvidual computer screen , but rather, Lady Gaga's lyrics from "Bad Romance". Hopefully you are not in a tight Spongebob Halloween costume, for I lost my scissors, and thus cannot cut you free. My fondest regrets.

Today I was google searching ways to make my beta fish immortal and accidentally stumbled upon an advertisement featuring a Lady Gaga Quiz. Intrigued was I by the "guaranteed" one million dollars in prize money and tempting junk mail which guaranteedly would be delivered to my email in thirty seccond intervals until I turned eighty-seven. My dreams of becoming a millionaire expired after reading the fine-print with my magnifying glass goggles (only 5.99 at Walmart). But alas, in my disapointed state I was thinking (which is a rare yet dangerous occurance, usually ending in an explosion of fireworks in my garage, or getting stuck in between a revolving door and the glass siding) and decided to write a mini-quiz for my limited yet faithful fan base. And don't cheat!

Here it is: Dorothy's Lady Gaga Fever (Ever-so-mini) Quiz.
1. True or False: At age eleven Lady Gaga attended Juilliard School of Music n Manhattan.
2. True or False: Lady Gaga would rather simply be called Gaga.
3. After all the different wigs seen adorning her head, what color is her natural hair?
4. True or False: Like Dorothy, she is also a Polish-American.

Answers
1. False: She was supposed to attend Juilliard, but her parents instead sent her to Covenenant of the Sacred Heart (a private Roman Catholic school). 
2. True: As seen on Oprah, Lady Gaga officially announced that she likes just "Gaga", and that her managers added the "Lady" part.
3. She is naturally a brunette.
4. False: Lady Gaga is actually an Italian-American. She certainly would have been even more successful had her veins been infused with Polish blood. Not to express a bias or anything.

After that ever-so-mini-quiz I hope you now know even more useless facts about a celebrity icon, and will refrain from living under a rock or dancing in a Spongebob Costume. I'm just looking out for everyones' mental health. In the mean-time, click the PLAY button on my Music Toolbar and jam out to some Gaga!

Musical Cartoon

Yes, do take another look. Now which of our favorite scientists might this be modeled after? Any guesses? *insert odd, awkward wink here*

Invisble Ants

Can you spell Kansas? Backwards it spells Kans... oh wait, nevermind. I thought it was like the word "dad" or "Racecar". Moving on. This past weekend my family traveled to Orlando to visit with some friends from Kansas City (mind you, this was the day proceeding my Birthday Bash. Sweet Sixteen!).
We spent an hour driving up, with yours truly engrossed in unearthing every little facet the iPhone encompasses. However, once we arrived in the gated neighborhood my weary eyes sighed with relief, well, they sighed as much as eyes possibly can. Without mouths. So that makes no sense. But I swear they sighed.

Anywho, the traditional formalities ensued, saying "So nice to see you! It's been ages". Skip to about twenty minutes later after a complete tour of the lovely rented house, and there we see a grainy picture of a female figure about 5'9" sitting in the home theatre (yes, an eight-seater home theatre, equiped with movie attendee. just kidding about the attendee). Well, the parents of a darling young girl put in a "comedy children's movie" and left us staring at the screen. Five minutes later, after a scene which should have been described as "this is so-not a children's movie", all the fathers entered the theatre, shut it off before any more reel could be displayed, and my eyes sighed with relief. For the kids' sake. All twelve pre-mature eyes that could never un-see what was seen.

After this mishap, we decided to forget experiencing new things on their vacation (this was our friends from Kansas' spring  break), and agreed upon putting in "The Game Plan" featuring the Rock Johnson. Being the Disney nerd I am, I have thoroughly watched this exact show ten times before, so I was more intent upon memorizing the ceiling patterns than staring at the biceps of Mr. Rock. After about thirty minutes and two handfulls of popcorn, unknowingly I fell asleep. And what a much-needed sleep it was. Then I woke up, all alone. Well, not exactly alone.

Two bulging eyes were peeping at my through the doorway, bloodshot from who knows what (cough cough, alcohol). Then three more sets of eyes appeared and I decided to sit up and pretend like I so did not fall asleep (eventhough we all so know I did). When one wakes up, they are in a daze, right? Happens to everyone, right? Well, I was in the foggiest daze conceivable. Suddenly I heard my own voice singing some operatic aria in the background. Was I hallucinating? No. Mom brought my CD (by the way, would anyone like to by one? proceeds go to charity! Ok, now let's ditch this advertisement and resume with the story). All the parents were swooning over my chocolately smooth vocals while I sat there, dissociated from reality, with an blonde disheleved mess of hair, and crease lines on my face from where my head laid for the past hour.

Then I decided to be normal and walk down the two stairs the theatre was situated on and nearly fell. Not because it was dark nor slippery. No. My foot fell asleep. I am such a retard. With an afro. Who drifted to lala-land. Nearly fell down two steps. With a popcorn kernel in my bellybutton (how? I do not know the answer). True story. In order to regain some pride I sat right back down, had what looked like a lunatic battle with the invisible ants in my feet. My sister tried to wake me from my trance. Apparently I mumbled something under my breath, she asked me to repeat myself, and I nearly cried. However, somehow I magically floated to the kitchen to give the aura I am a somewhat functioning person.

I surely had a wonderful time, but man was I awkward. Trust me, it was an odd sight to see. So odd, in fact, I believe I may be listed in the dictionary for all synonyms of "weirdo". Yes, all 149 of them. Check it out for yourself, and buy a CD while you're at it! All proceeds go to charity! And yes, I do add irrelevant advertisements to go along with my life stories. Oh, and random spontaneous bursts of word bouquets! Ants, Movies, Belly Button Kernals, Toes!

Farewell Fifteen

An alarm clock went off in my brain.
I just realized today is my last day as a fifteen year old.
Actually, this is my last hour, and there is no alternative way I would rather spend the fleeting moments 'till my Sweet Sixteen than speaking to my adoring (humor me please) fans. Afterall, I am turing 16 on March 16th!

In honor of myself being born, I wish to write down the "last things I did today as a 15 year old":
I opened presents a day early (call it the "Gal Household tradition"). My sister wrote a birthday card on what appeared to be an over-sized toilet paper roll, with the sharpied words spiraling down in a cascade of shrinking text. Oh, and don't forget the poem which had so much potential until Christine decided to make it ryhme. Poor thing. Never had a chance at leading a normal life, untainted by forced rhymes and rythms. An iphone nestled in a purple/pink case, Fashion designer game for Wii, and bathroom scale were also bestowed upon yours truly from my family. You think the scale may be a hint?

Today I sat down with Frank Marshall (founder of Brevard's Has Music Talent) to do a 15-minute interview for Brighthouse Networks promoting the competition. I also sang "O Mio Babbino Caro", met an elderly lady named Dorothy who volunteered there, overheard ladies telling my mother I needed a chastity belt because I'm Oh-so-good-looking (imagine a bearded midget elf stroking my ego), and found out I scored the highest preliminary qualifiy scores of the competition - 338/400 I believe.

My "A Moment In Time" CD's came in today! The entire MYP Personal Project was officially done completely as a fifteen year old. From the reccordings to having four large boxes arive on my doorstep, I enjoyed it all at this current age. And that, my dear friends, deserves to be in a Priceless/Mastercard commercial. "Doing an MYP Project titled 'A Moment in Time', and literally completing it in a moment: priceless".

Other various "lasts" included: Jumping on my sister's bed in pitch darkness right before she was about to doze off, eat a fourth of an entire pizza, playing a Mozart song on the Piano (number 15 in my "Big Book of Everything mozart", or at least that is what the title should be), writing my final blog post, skipping dance for the last Monday, putting the last sulfur face mask on in dots around my face to pretend like I have been striken with a nasty case of the chicken pox, and thousands of other things including my final laugh of the night. And it shall be shared with you: Haha.

So please, if you have any stories to share with the world about my time as a fifteen year old girl (I included the word girl, not that I am worried I may change into a man once turning sixteen, but because I never told any of you readers my gender before). So yes, my final words on my final blog post ever written at my age: I am a girl.

And there you have it! The day in the life of an elderly teenager!

Seven Questions Sunday

Here is "Seven Questions Sunday",
with yours truly: Dorothy Gal.

1) What were your days like, as a child? Each morning at the crack of dawn I would drag my chubby little behind up the hill to fetch a pail of water. My brother Jack fell down. Squashed my paper crown I gave him. Then, to feel as if I were in a nursery rhyme, I came tumbling after.

2) Do you promote plagarism? Why no. I feel insulted you even asked that! To be or not to be: that is the question. You've got to push it [the english language] to the limit, in order to create completely new things. For, four score and seven years ago, I have never even so much as said another quote by any other person than myelf. But friends, please don't stop the music! Poker face. Jesse's Girl. That is all I have to say about the matter of plagarism.

3) Are you sputtering out random Shakespeare quotations and song titles? The question is: are you not sputtering out random quotes and song titles? Ok. You've dragged it out of me. I may have been looking on wikipedia for some cool quotations to use to boggle your mind, Mr. Crazy-I-Think-You-May-Be-Invisible-QuestionAsker-Man.

4) Moving on. How how was your weekend? I actually had an overall lovely weekend, thank you very much. On Friday I sang "The Laughing Song" for the Evening of the Arts at my high school (which went quite well). Then on Saturday I managed to wake up at 8:30 to teach some piano, hop in a car to voice  lessons at 12:30, then cross town to piano lessons from 1:30 'till 3:00. Writing down such an eventful day just nearly killed me. I've been holding my breath for five minutes. Woohoo! Does air feel good or what?

5) And Sunday, how has Sunday been treating you? No fair!

6) Excuse me? I don't understand. Sunday gives you treats, but cheats me out of them? Never has this so called "Sunday" given me so much as an ice cream bar. Not even the cheap variety your grandparents buy at WinnDixie! Nope. Nada. I am dispriveleged! And shriveling up inside. I am a hungry, ill-treated, not-given-a-treat child. How depressing! You know what? I'm calling the cops. Someone must have stolen my treats from my front porch or something. It is the only reasonable explanation.

7) Let me try again. How was your Sunday? Plagarism! You, sir, just plagarised! My mother asked me the same exact thing this morning


And there you have it folks! The third "Seven Questions Sunday" with Dorothy Gal. Tune in next week for more spectacular hidden secrets unraveled!

Drama Horror Stories

While listening to fellow Drama I / II kids stammer out the lines to "The Crucible", my wandering eyes infused with the ghost of boredom bounced around the tiled room until landing on a stack of papers. Not a hefty pile of blaringly white pages. But rather, if we were at IHOP, the stack mine eyes layed upon would be considered a short stack; not too big, not too small, just enough to scarf down in one sitting while maintaining that "I cannot believe I ate so much butter" feeling. Anything aside from following the stuttering mini-actors-to-be seemed more appealing at this moment in time. Salem witches just don't suit my fancy when children need to sound out each word greater than five letters. You get what you pay for; Public School Education.

Anywho, I picked up the cover page and read the bolded black print: "Mother Drowns Own Babies and Asks for Police to Find Them". What on earth? How did this get there? I further scanned the paragraph detailing the morbid account. Oh joy, perhaps I would have been better off listening to emotionless witches in "The Crucible", but it was too late already; the papers made me read on. Have you ever heard the tale of the beheaded Fortune Teller, or what about the Son Who Murdered His Mother And Boiled Her Remains (it was one hot story. No pun intended)? After reading six or seven of these dreadful accounts I decided to play sleuth and discover the origins of this short stack of depression piled ever-so neatly.

However, before I could play Nancy Drew (and preferably buy a manacle hanging by a gold chain), fellow classmate JD looked up from his spout of feverishly writing an English Literature Gothic Assignment (due literally two months ago) to tell me to stop shifting through his papers. Ah! The agony! My eye, my eye! It has fallen out onto the table! Nevermind, nothing poked my eye out. I just decided the ending to this story deserved a better ending. I suppose having morbid news articles prove as inspiration enough when writing a gothic literature story, along with entertaining a bored student sitting in her dull navy chair, fixating on others butcher the English language. Let me finish by saying two words even the readers in my drama class could pronounce: The End.

Barack The Boat

Taking into consideration The Presidential Battle of the Bands, oh, "Presidential Election" is over, I think people have put aside their avid temperments over political jokes to hopefully enjoy this video, no matter which side your wagon is situated.  Enjoy this, fellow Barack supporters and fellow un-Barack supporters.

Whether you think our nation is daintily sailing on the white foamy peaks or quickly taking on water, let's hear it for Baracking the Boat! HUZZAH! Just don't rock the boat. It's not cool.


 

What FCAT Means to Me

Once a year public school children have the honor of taking the blessed FCAT (perdon, 'los f gatos', para todos mis amigos quien hablan solamente en espanol). And guess what? Our favorite worldwide school pet is rearing its face tomorrow and Wednesday to grace us with its presence. Since I was half asleep, drudging through the school day as if I belonged in the movie "Zombie Land", somehow the part of every teacher's lecture detailing what subject content the FCAT will involve for my grade level flew through one ear, danced around for a bit amongst the hollow cartilage, and then escaped leaving me with no recolletion of this ever happening in seven class periods.

This lack of alertness I speak of was due to my quest to finish (en realidad, yo empece escribir el proyecto el domingo, pero yo lo hice antes de La Navidad) my Personal Project Essay Sunday night. Which I absolutely did not procrastinate on. Not at all. No questions asked. Hello IB friends in Africa if you are reading this! Can I hear a whoop whoop for Africa? Three cheers for multiculturalism!

And now, some FCAT entertainment unearthed from the caverns of my imagination.

- Everytime you hear the word "FCAT" do you picture Garfield eating spaghetti?
- Have you ever typed in "FCAT jokes" on the Google search engine to find something interesting to say in your blog, only to find nothing.
- Did you ever wonder what it means to release test questions from prior years? Do they let cats run wild, have a parade, and sing FCAT songs in celebration of answers from 2007 being announced?
- After researching on the Florida Department of Education's official website, I noticed this in the section labeled "feedback": "How do I obtain a printed score report for the FCAT?" Well, I suppose they teach you how to use avogadro's theorm, memorize every planet known to man (and his dog), however, nobody taught the simplw skill of using a computer printer to print out their scores. Sheer brilliance! But at least we know pi is 3.14 and that's all that really matters in life, right?

MPA Is to Blame

Yes, on Day Two I failed to write a blog.
Do not rub it in.
But, I had a good reason!

On Friday night from the moment the final school bell rang throughout the barren high school halls until 11:30 p.m., I happened to be situated at Herritage High School with fellow choristers, observing the national "holiday" of MPA. What is MPA, you ask? Well, MPA stands for Music Performance Assessment. It is basically a choir competition that is not competitive (no feelings are allowed to be hurt. otherwise the "men" would cry). Half the time I was portraying the role of supportive audience member whose job was to ignore a snotty child dropping glitter on the floor every two minutes as if she had terretts behind me, while the other half of the time I could be found standing against light green walls that smelt like butt. Mixed with sweat. Walls emitting an odor which probably could be found at Home Depot called "Butt Sweat Green". They have a name for every color. Guess what? The color "white" paint does not exist. And now, back to my excuse for why I failed on the seccond day of my quest to write one blog/day.

Three days prior to the competition I was forcasting a "Good" rating with a 40% chance of "Excellent" blowing into town for our choir. Mrs. Baldino either bribed the judges with tuna salad sandwiches or we lip-synched to our program unknowingly, but we managed to pull out two Superior ratings and one Excellent (which rounds up to a Superior, in case your mathematical mind is deficient). But in all fairness, Mrs. Baldino deserves to see the fruits of her labor be commended. However, the sightreading room equated to a complete and total trainwreck. Mrs. Baldino had the *yucky* face to wipe away any doubt that we had fooled the judge even before critiques were given. Friends who are reading this, please do not sing any random pitches while sightreading just to make it seem like you are adding to our choral sound. Just don't. Don't. Thank you very much.

Then, the icing on the cake to my MPA experience was being locked out of Heritage High School with my pal Mariah while a man on the phone whom we made eye contact with walked slower than the dead, surely teasing us in his mind that he was warm and we were, well, not. This little game carried on until someone swung open the door in my face (she will not be named nor described, for her stoic characteristics and rigid personality would surely compromise her identity). Oh dear, I've said too much.

Now you see why I could not come home to write a blog post.
While dealing with an earache (Otitis Media - I self diagnosed myself in Chemistry earlier Friday afternoon), a room smelling like sweaty butt, and two trips to two different Wendys (no I am not a fast food pig. I just decided that I wanted a frosty after I was done with my chili. Preferably unmelted.) I managed to maintain acting like a normally functioning human being while in public. All my creative effort was used up by the time I got home at 11:30 p.m. So this is why I failed my mission for one blog/night.

But at least you could relive this experience with me.
And that is what counts.

I Loathe An Itchy Sweater

This is a SLAM poem dedicated to my itchy sweater foolishly purchased (by none other than your's truly) at the Our Saviour's Fair earlier this school year. Please read with enthusiasm, and rythm (snapping as if you were in a cafe is allowed). That is, if you are not rythmically challenged. If you are, please read silently in your mind.

I Loathe An Itchy Sweater

I bought you for a quarter.
The worst investment of my life
Your fibers shed onto my skin,
I feel like a freakin’ feline.
I’m sure five years ago you originated on an Alpaca farm.
Those animals spit at passing people.
Oh yeah!?!
I spit on my sweater.
How I loathe thee itchy sweater.
Why was I drawn to you? Oh, so many reasons why.
The musky smell. The faded colors.
The unidentifiable stains. Calling my name.
Dorothy.
Oh what the heck. My grandma made me buy you.
Oh cursed grandma.
How I loathe thee itchy sweater
I threw it into the stench of the boy’s locker room. It lived.
I insulted it in multiple languages- Tu eres gordo. It lived.
I ran over it in Drivers Ed. It lived.
I soaked it in chemicals during the chemistry lab. It’s alive.
I bought you for a quarter.
The worst investment of my life.
I decided to enrich my investment,
Stopped at the Alpaca farm,
And bought the sweater a bride.

New Challenge

I, Dorothy Gal, am accepting the quest to write one blog a night.
Will she succeed? (insert dramatic Bum, Bum, Bummmm here)
The only way to find out is check back here everyday!
Once the clock strikes midnight, I should have posted another new blog.
Who knows how long this quest will be pursued.
I suppose until the end of time.
And no, that is not 2012.

Seven Questions Sunday

Here is "Seven Questions Sunday",
with yours truly: Dorothy Gal.

1) What are some of your crazy dreams? Well, last night I dreamt that I was a puma sleeping on a rock, with a blanket made of baby's clothing splattered with mud keeping my large frame warm on display in the zoo. But in comparison to what I could have dreamt, I wouldn't exactly define that as "crazy". I believe the adjective "peculiar" or "interesting" would fit the glass slipper in this situation.

2) I was refering to your goals in life, rather than bizare recollections. Aren't we a little snappy today, Mr. I-Didn't-Have-My-Morning-Starbucks-Yet Negative Pants? Although your lack of interest in what I dreamt last night is disheartening, I will now tell about my lifelong goals for the sake of my very limited, but undoubtedly devoted and slightly imaginary fan base. And I'm not referring to the rusted spinning blades attached to my ceiling. My dream is to become an opera singer. My anticipation for the day when I go to college for music has grown leaps and bounds this year. I can fathom no other profession then performing on a stage for the rest of my life. The satisfaction and adrenaline rush one gets after exposing themselves as artists is exhillerating. However, I've always had this inkling of passion for musical theatre. Who knows which way my life will twist.

3) Who is your favorite star? Is it alright if I have more than one?

4) Sure, I suppose so. I must admit, I've always had this thing for the Little Dipper. I mean, they are like a band of brothers rocking out in the sky. Unfairly, the Big Dipper always gets the recognition, but my lil' homies take home the cake in my opinion.

5) I give up. Can I quit my job now? Excuseizzle me. This blog does not have the budget to employ an ungrateful Question Asker. You're purpose is to stimulate questions that will get my readers to know seven more things about me each Sunday then they were aware of a week ago. You are now banished from this blog post. Poof! Voila! Hasta la Byebye! Scamoosh! Adios! Don't let the door hit you on your way out!

[ten minutes later]

Come back, come back! I am nothing without you! Please, I beg of you. I shall double your salary and throw in a beef jerkey! Just ask another question and pretend like none of this ever happened.

6) Alright, next question: Have you ever been treated for being bipolar? Define "treated".

7) What question number are we on? That would be seven. As we say at the end of a piece, 'el fine'.


And there you have it folks! The seccond "Seven Questions Sunday" with Dorothy Gal.
Tune in next week for more spectacular hidden secrets unraveled!

Ski Retreat

Tourists Have Invaded

Have you ever taken a stroll and seen one of them?
Typically found crowded around a Ron John's sign or a fire hydrant (do not ask me why they congregate around fire hydrants. I just observe, not judge), one of these couples can be spotted wearing broad-rimmed glasses with either high tube socks, jungle themed fanny pack, khaki pleated shorts, or a combination of the three plastered onto their sweaty bodies.

Obviously tourists, they compulsively reach into their never-ending Micky Mouse beach totes to whip out a disposable camera and snap a shot in front of a "landmark" such as a dumpster. And when they catch a glimpse of an actual landmark, they have an anxiety attack over having no more film on the camera roll. Why? They wasted memory space documenting their trips to the Public Restroom and the beach-themed display window of the Dollar Store.

Last, but certainly not least, you can be one hundred percent positive you have seen one of them if they have a sparkle in their eyes just from seeing the faded motel signs or wind-blown dying palm trees.
Unlike us, they deserve to be living here: in paradise.

Story: The Birth of Pedro

"Push!"
"I am pushing!"
"Well push harder!"
"I am pushing harder!"
And out popped the seed of life, quite literally: Pedro
In celebration of Pedro's life, I shall inject Spanish tendencies into this turkey of a story... the only hispanic flair being in mentioning Pedro's name (imagine a rolled "r" that goes on for centuries).

To fully understand Pedro's importance, we must first venture back to the past and land on Mrs. Ebersbach's Portable's porch. And no, Higgi is not sitting on the porch in this memory. In a few words stitched with kindness, Mrs. Ebersbach was having a particularly emotionally draining day.

At the crack of dawn, student eye witnesses reported seeing Mrs. Ebersbach and Mrs. Miller flailing their arms and sprawled across the unsanitary cement floor of C-Wing. With flapping wings, a sickly bird captured their attention and they quickly saw to it that the bird (possibly stricken with bird flu. No pun intended) would rest in a silk scarf laying on top of a plastic white bin for safe keeping. Then after all the excitement, Mrs. Ebersbach decided to use the faculty bathroom, but that's another story in and of itself.

So here is where Pedro comes into play. After relentless minutes of trying to convince Mrs. Ebersbach to adopt Bird Flu (my name for our feathered friend), our persuasiveness worked to no avail. After relating the sorrowful news to my dear friend Gabby on our stroll to drama class, she had a sudden brain spark, as you will. Well, Gabby had created a ficticious pet named Pedro to be used if this situation ever materialized. Who knows how many "To Be Used If _____ Happens" senarios she has... let's not question her ingenuity. Just be grateful her creativity birthed Pedro.

"And who is Pedro?", one may ask.
Why, he is a blade of grass.
With needs!
Perhaps tomorrow I shall post Pedro's List of Needs.
A leotard, being one of them.

Practical Musical Quote

      If your lifeguard duties were as good as your singing, a lot of people would be drowning.

Words Are Infuriating!

Think of the twenty-six letters that make up our alphabet. In case a five year old is reading this blog, I shall list the alphabet now for you, in alphabetical order.
A-B-C-D-E-FG-H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P-Q-R-S-T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z
Now, imagine all the word possiblities twenty-six mere letters can form. Just thinking about it conjures images of rich ying yang pudding swirling in a never ending pit, blown by a wireless fan, hanging upside down from a flower planter in North Carolina. Don't ask me why. It just does.

After realizing the magnitude tiny letters have over communication, it is no wonder why some people feel empowered to using every single word they are thinking of during one conversation. Hey, it's their prerogative. Afterall, pudding overpowers my self control against sugar. Don't ask me why. It just does.
But, have you ever realized grown-ups have an inability to express themselves in fewer words than are written on the graying paper of the New York Times? They will deny it.
However, when asked by a parental unit why you are late for a curfew, you give a meager response of  "I don't know". Then, they spring like cheetahs on the prowl, frusterated out of their witts over their childrens' lack of clarity. And the greatest part is they don't even realize their own ambiguity.

Wake up and smell the caffeinated coffee, elders! You are the main culprits. Oh, curse thine alphabet. And here are two short stories I shall tell, using nearly all twenty-six letters we all love dearly.
(names are crossed out to remain somewhat anonymous):


1. Mr. M
Student: Mr. M, excuse me. Are we having a quiz tomorrow (asked ten minutes before the end of class)?
Mr. M: Uhh, ehhh, I think we will see about that (in a weird inflection only Mr. M can produce).
Student: Oh, ummm ok I guess.

[This little skit takes place EVERYDAY, during EVERY CLASS. How ambiguous must he be? It's not like an upcoming test is a deep, dark secret which needs to be kept from us IB students. We eventually need to know if we're having a test the very next day, preferably before the bell rings! Just say one of two words you learned as an infant: Yes or No. I believe in you... you've had 65 years of practice.]


2. M Dog
M Dog: Let me write an elaborate Word Document full of fluff so that the message you want sent out is misinterpreted and then we can do the same thing again five more times until they get it right.
Me: Sounds lovely.

[Why can't people understand that when dealing in the "show business" you must detail things explicitly and easily enough for even a monkey to understand? Perhaps I'm simply hurried, but I don't waste time. When one has (insert everything I do here), then frankly free time is inexistent.
Sorry if I may be curt, but I prefer to say "You misspelled #2" rather than "If at all possible, could you double check the spelling on the seccond line from the top because today I was just pushing my grocery cart in Publix and realized the word "rabbit" is spelt with two 't's', not three."]

Seven Questions Sunday

Here is "Seven Questions Sunday",
with yours truly: Dorothy Gal.

1) What instruments do you play? - Many people do not know this but I actually play six instruments: the piano, the violin, the organ, the voice (yes it is in fact an instrument, the most accurate one at that), the reccorder, and the nose. However, if the question was "What instruments fo you play well?" I most likely would provide a shorter list. Namely, the piano and voice. As far as the nose is concerned, you will just have to ask me to play you a tune in person.

2) Of all the cheesecakes in the world, which is your favorite? - Vanilla Bean cheescake from The Cheesecake Factory is the bees' knees! Just one bite and I feel like a dove has inhabited my body and brought me on a magical journey to dance among the clouds, with an olive branch swinging between my molars, while singing along during an angel's performance on the harp. Basically, my reaction to Vanilla Bean Cheesecake is pretty ordinary. Wish it was more interesting.

3) Do you have any pets? - Yes I do. A precious white maltese named "Precious".

4) Did you name your dog? - Psssh of course I chose her name. Why... do you not like it?

5) Were you under the influence while naming your puppy? - Excuseizzle me Mr. Question asker. I was about six when I named her. It was either "Precious" or "Snowball". Which would you have chosen? I'll fight you. One more smart remark about my dog's name and I oughta' [Editor removed the remainder of this interview].

6) Alright, let's ask a safe question: Which actress do you admire most? - Firstly, I must begin, my infatuation with this particular actress develped when she was on SNL (Saturday Night Live). You all know who I'm talking about; my gal Amy Polar! Holla'! She is a fabulous comedic actress and her performance in "Baby Mama" left me in stitches. Literally. After watching it I went to the hospital. My dog drove me. I cut my finger eating vanilla bean cheesecake with a spork.

7) Are you a compulsive liar? - Why would one ask such a silly question? Of course I am. Ocassionaly. Only when my alter-ego is not consuming my being. Of course I'm not! How rude. I'll fight you. I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Question asker. I oughta' [Editor removed the remainder of this interview].

Editor's Note:
The Editor is not real.
I had an interview session with myself.

And there you have it folks! The first "Seven Questions Sunday" with Dorothy Gal.
Tune in next week for more spectacular hidden secrets unraveled!

Opera: Definition

Opera is when a guy gets stabbed in the back, and instead of bleeding he sings.

Oh Where Is My Retainer?

Christmas time marks the season for candy canes of peppermint, gallons of hot chocolate which will be drinken by lovers wrapped in cashmere blankets, and the start of my innate ability to dislodge metal from my pearly whites. How romantic of Christmas?

Lost Orange Retainer

Owner: Dorothy Gal
Reward: Two nickels and Four Flinstone Vitamins
Decription/Characteristics: Neon Orange, Contains googly eyes trapped in plaster, Painted-on black grin, Ridges where teeth belong, Most likely has a thin layer of saliva protecting it

While sleeping, my subconcious mind apparently rips out my retainer from the dark matter in my mouth and thrusts it upon my silky bed covers, only to leave me confused and weary when the sun rolls around in the morning. At least my childhood dreams of becoming an explorer are fufilled. At 7:00 a.m., before getting dressed for school, I search under, above, through, around, near, next to (insert more prepositions here) the wooden posts of my bed to find that stealthy retainer. But this morning, I failed as an explorer.

Here are my top three possibilities detailing what likely happened to my retainer:
1) I ate it.
2) My sister stole it because she's jealous my retainer has a face and hers are stupid.
3) It was posessed by a medicine man I glanced at on my trip to Mexico two summers ago, grew feet from a magical potion recipe written by Severus Snape in my Harry Potter book, bungee jumped of my window sill, volleyed itself from a leaf on the mangrove plant into the brackish water of the river, and is now allowing barnacles to thrive off of it.

Personally, my money is on number one. We shall know in a few days.
If on the off chance it is not swimming in my intestines and you have seen it, please call you local animal euthanizer because this neon orange retainer is a monster without its cup of coffee!

Defeated Decorators

At the start of seventh period this afternoon in the Library, one could find my contorted body sitting Indian-style on the musty blue carpet, very much on edge. Nervously my eyes shot back and forth between three long rows of cakes labeled as either 'Theme', 'Character', or ' Book Cover'. While scoping out the competition, only one solitary thing occupied my mind at exactly fifteen 'till three: "Book It Bake It means war. No more nice Mrs. Cupcake. I pulled out the big pans for this competition. Some major cake butt will need to be iced after I'm done tearing up the judges' table." Confidence was breaming as I looked back and winked at my Wizard of Oz cake.

I lost.

"Blasphamy!" I pugnaciously declared. Not only was there a tie for first place in my category, but also a three-way tie for third place. And guess whose cake did not win any of the six possible places? Mine. No need to rub it in. I know eactly what went askew. The evil cake spirits cursed my cake because an indecent little man was held captive under the Pamprin Medicine box I decorated as a house. Since I was acting as a villian towards an inanimate object, the cake spirits made my cake invisible to all judges, and uberly appealing to students. While lying on a retro chaise lounge with my psychiatrist (who happens to be a midget created by my imagination), we both agreed that it's the only reasonable explanation for our failure. Phew. And to think we might have lost because the cake wasn't really all that good. Glad I realized the truth!

This little bump in the road for my quest to dominate the cake world will not hold me back. Adoring fans, please do not fret. I will still pursue my dreams of winning a Book It / Bake It competition. This eensy weensy (insert 'yellow polka dot bikini' song from the Yoplai commercial) set-back has only made me more aware of the discipline which needs to be implemented to reach my goal: To win a pize of $10 written on a check with my name on it! To do so, I will spend one million dollars in supplies (heavily equip my kitchen with the most foul tasting fondant known to man-kind), create a strict regimen of baking at minimum two cakes per week modeled after book covers, and hire Julia Childs to train me in the art of speaking in a high headvoice. With all that, I shall be well prepared to bash next years' competition and take home the $10 I've always dreamed of calling my own.

Am I bitter?
 No.
Should your bittersweet chocolate cake be scared next year?
Oh yeah.

Story: My First Piano Recital

Let's get this out of the way:
1. No, I am unfortunately not a piano prodigy.
2. I was not a reading prodigy either.
3. After reading the title of my song, you will realize you were a fool for even contemplating I was a piano prodigy.

Keep those three bullet points in mind as the story unravels (hopefully into a cute anecdote about my childhood). So cute, in fact, you may feel the urge to hurl. When doing so, I suggest you aim for a trash can rather than the recycling bin. The recycling bin in your computer, that is.

 Picture a regular-sized auditorium, a high school auditorium, with plenty stage space to put on a full-blown production, nevermind enough room for one solitary piano with a spotlight center stage. Three judges composed of piano teachers were located downstage left, with stale looks devouring their faces. Now take this image and magnify it twenty times larger! You have entered the mind and eyes of a child. Green eyes, to be specific. I was around the age of six or seven when this story takes place. Please sit back, relax, and enjoy my breakthrough performance into stardom.

Vividly I remember that day. My piano teacher had entered me into the Clavinova Piano Competition (the youngest category and lowest possible ability level). But that didn't lower my morale! No way Jose! When you're six, all one cares about are pigtails and boogers. That's all. Honestly. I wouldn't lie to you.
Well, the competition took place during the daytime hours. Before I was set to perform "Old MacDonald" on the piano (refer to bullet points 1 and 3), my teacher was allowed to walk me onto the stage, sit me down in front of the digital piano, scoot the bench until my belly fat was suffocated under the keyboard, and pat the pleats of my dark red velvet dress saying "You'll do fine. Just have fun, and don't get nervous." Then we went backstage, waiting in the wings.

"Next up is Dorothy Gal. Age six. Playing "Old MacDonald". Please welcome Dorothy." Of course polite applause could be heard from the audition along with the rumble of oxygen tanks from the senior citizen section. I skipped to the chestnut piano bench, sat down neatly so my dress would not crumple, and nearly spazzed out with my eyes flickering every which-way. "Oh golly pajamas", I thought. Where is the "on" button? Immeadiately a puddle of tears were on the brink of spillage as I ran off into the wings to retrieve my piano teacher. She laughed at me. Then she turned on the piano. And Old MacDonald was echoing throughout the auditorium. Embarassed? Oh yeah.

Not only did the judges find my "skit" (not really a skit) hillarious (I was so terrified I almost wet myself), but they also awarded me seccond place for the entire category. The funny part? One of those three judges ended up becoming my current piano teacher: Dr. Sharpe.

From that day on, I knew I was destined to become a peformer.

Presidents Can Bake, Too

Drop it like it's hot. Unless, of course, you are balancing a cooling cake pan on two oven mitts you recently realized were on backwards. Oh, the joys of baking!

On this particular Monday morning in the United States (child predators must be having a field-day. That narrows down my location to an entire country. Happy searchings.) government employees and students were given the day off from school in observance of President's Day. Thank you Barack Obama for the self-conceited holiday. Every wonder how President's Day was instituted? It probably went something like this back in the 17th Century:

Mr. President: Oh dear, our military is being defeated! Our horses are bein' shot! What shall I do?
Mrs. President: Honey, when I'm stressed I just take a "me day" and get a mani/pedi. Would you like me to call the other country and tell them you are too pooped to fight today?
Mr. President: You know what, you're right. Today will be "President's Day" hereafter. Can you make me a pedicure appointment for 3:30 with Tammy? Sounds good.

Thanks to the first slightly feminine President who enjoyed getting his feet scrubbed, students can now stay home on February 15th. I'll take any excuse for a holiday. And to begin my festive President's Day mood, I woke up at 7:30 to bake a cake. Not any ordinary cake: A Book It / Bake It Cake. What is that? Well, in the Library Media Center each year the librarians host a contest where students bake cakes that represent books. Mariah (my partner) and I make a cake modeled after "The Wizard of Oz" (a fitting book considering my name is practically identical to the sparkling red slippers' wearer).

On Saturday evening I pre-made the sheet cake (Funfetti!) so we could devote a full 2 1/2 hours to designing it today. A winding yellow brick road made of yellow cereal outlined with yellow icing started by the crime scene (the murder of the witch via Tornado-stricken house) and wound up on the front steps of the Emerald Castle. Coconut shavings dyed green represented the grass, an old box advertisting Pamprin was covered with frosting to depict a house, and my face was plastered onto a carboard cut-out of Dorothy about 3 times the size her body in comparison. Those are just the highlights of the cake. Plus, a Polly Pocket doll may have been vandalized underneath the house (hopefully the librarians don't see what clothing we graced poor polly with). The permanent marker is a dangerous thing for a dirty mind.

Hope we win a prize tomorrow. Or escape detention for a defaced Polly Pocket. No worries though, I'll simply declare tomorrow "Dorothy Day" to escape a war between administration and artists. If the President can do it, why shouldn't I be able to? God Bless the USA!