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!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.
"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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
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."]
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):
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.]
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."]
Sunday, February 21, 2010
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!
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!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
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!
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!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 15, 2010
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.
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!
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!
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