Brunette Bombshell?

So, I went to the dark side--so Darth V. of me, I know. Here's the thing: I have a bald patch in the back of my head due to non-stop bleaching and years of Sun-In streaking. (Did you ever use Sun-In? Did you, huh? That's the WORST lightening product on earth, FYI, and 7th grade in the girls locker room was the last time I sprayed that junk in my hair.) Anyhoo, my hair dresser Kim J. told me that the only way I could get my locks looking like Angelina J's is by using a semi-permanent, non-peroxide hair color, hence, the darker shade of hair.

I like my new dark hair, but one of my homies hates it worse than no Sponge Bob on Sundays. He said, "I don't know you anymore; you're not even my mom." To this I replied, "I'm still your mom, even with this hair." Then he began crying, and I scooped him up and gave him a big smooch on his forehead. And then he said, "Now you're my mom again." Kisses solve everything, don't they?

P.S. Of course I can never have Photo Booth all to myself. As soon as I snapped the above picture, my homies crowded into my photo shoot and hogged all my glory. Payback is the worst.

Substitute Teacher

Yesterday I substitute taught the kids in room F-5, and I may have behaved like Miss Viola Swamp. By the end of the day I had a pulsating headache, and here are the reasons why:

1. All 15 boys in the class asked to go to the bathroom, multiple times. After 20 bathroom passes, I quit counting. I remember hearing somewhere that you can never say no. So, since it was my first time teaching, I didn't want to get fired for letting Anthony Clepper wet his pants. Next time I will reward kids who wait until the allotted bathroom break times. Cash prizes, maybe?

2. They peeled old scabs and then asked for Band-Aids to treat the fresh blood oozing from their miniature sores. 3 kids did this.

3. One student told me, and the rest of the class, a story about how his mom was screaming her head off at his dad for drinking too much the night before. Then ten other kids joined in with stories that had nothing to do with the properties of a rectangle. Next time I will bring my director's clapboard. Cut!

4. They used their rulers as light sabers, and while I was scouring for the grammar worksheets, they built the Empire State Building out of pink pearl erasers.

5. They told me the teacher keeps her math book in her desk, and when I looked in the desk,

they said, "Just kidding. It's not really there." I taught math sans the teacher's edition--very dangerous for an English major. Plus, I forgot to wear my dress shields, and all that math made me perspire from head to toe, and also in my underarms. I had armpit tacos until lunch.

6. At the end of the day one girl announced to the class that I was the best teacher they've ever had, and this bit of news brought a tear to my eye. I think I was exhausted by this point.

P.S. I split the zipper in my hand-me-down jeans while I was shimmying them on this morning. Not a good feeling.

Fiasco #2

Yet another Facebook fiasco. I'm the one in the middle, in case you were even wondering. The yearbook department published this hideous picture in the yearbook, and when I got my copy, I covered the picture up with a KROQ sticker. I hated it and hoped I'd never have to look at it again. But as some of you may know, Facebook hunts you down like an angry ex-husband and makes you pay for all the stupid you've done. Cha-ching!

The girl on the left was my best friend (Do you love her hair? She'll never go bald like me. Back then I had to use all of my hair for my bangs, and I used to just stare at her curly locks and wonder what she had done in heaven to deserve all that hair.) Anyhoo, we were all nominated for Freshman Princess, and the girl in the red dress won. She was beautiful and very popular and nice and kind and all that kind of junk. And for your information, she is currently using this picture as her profile pic. She hates me, I think.

I borrowed my dress from a good friend and rented the cream lace jacket from a bridal store. Mi Madre and I searched all over Southern California, looking for something to modestfy my spaghetti strap dress. The jacket was a happy compromise since I was just fine with wearing the dress as-is.

P.S. My best friend wouldn't even need a jacket to cover up her shoulders. She could just use her hair as a shawl. Lucky.

Mormon Boys

Next week mi Madre is heading to las montanas, so she can teach the young women in her stake to sing it like the Mo Tab (and Beyonce). She's the very best at getting the girls all revved up and musical, so that's why I told her that she had better teach her campers the song mentioned below (a Camp LoMia fav). Here's a video and the words, just in case you're like mi Madre, and you are in charge of teaching the young women to belt it like they mean it.

I like Mormon boys, and I cannot lie.

You other sisters can't deny.

When a boy walks in with his scriptures in his case

and a smile upon his face, you get a date!

A celestial mate.

But wait!

He's goin' on a mission, havin' you wishin'...you had a man,

Someone to hold your hand!

Deacons! What?

Teachers! What?

We don't like your features!

Your brothers are hot, and you are not!

So give us some righteous Priests! Huh!

P.S. The looks of disgust that my homegurl throws at me pierce me to the core. I had better enroll in some "How to Be Cooler" classes. She thinks my Vanilla Ice rappin' skills stink like beef and cheese. Or maybe it's just my whole personage that offends every bone in her body. The church is still true.