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.