The Puberty Chronicles

In the spirit of Get Mortified (worth the click), I have decided to do a series known as The Puberty Chronicles, for airing out some of the mortifying aspects of becoming an adult. If you would like to do a Puberty Chronicle of your own, please do. Or, if you would rather have me post it anonymously for you, I would be most happy to. (After I call all my friends and read it to them)


Part I: Middle School Moments
When I was in elementary school, I used to bite my fingernails. My mom painted my nails with some sort of stuff that tastes bad and is supposed to deter you from biting. The problem was, I used to like the taste, so when I was home I would suck the acrid-tasting stuff off my fingers, paint them again, and then suck them some more.

Just another saga in my endless stream of oral fixations.

Then came middle school and I had bigger problems. I forgot all about my nails and looking for pleasantly salty things to munch (I rediscovered this quest in college -- a tale for another day).

In middle school, among the mortification of budding puffies and glasses and waiting to menstruate, there were perms. Numerous perms. Once, my bangs were so hyper that I had to go in the girls’ room and wet them down. After I finished climbing the stall door a few times (for exercise, you know), I soaked my bangs completely and then headed over to the dryer to blow them dry. Alas, the dryer was not working, so I returned to class with soaking wet bangs, which I covered for the entire period with one flat hand. I’m sure nobody noticed.

Another thing I remember from middle school is that the basement level was called The Dungeon, and I never ever wanted to go down there. In fact, I’m rather certain I never did. My twin sister Twirling Girl had a class down in The Dungeon and that made her so very cool. And brave, too. She had all the cool stuff—classes in the scary part of the building, and a class trip to the World’s Fair in Tennessee! What did I have? An oversized dickie, a clog sprain, and an eraser I stole from Mr. Shaw.
I do recall that one of the somewhat exciting things about middle school, grade six, was that there were two eighth graders who would kiss (!) before they got on their respective school buses and went home. They were practically grown up, by the looks of them, and they would actually kiss goodbye just like adults! Wow! I used to time my bus platform arrival to try to catch this magical moment. More often than not, I missed the kiss and also my bus.

The low point of my middle school career was when I got caught throwing toilet paper at the girls’ room ceiling. I feel I have told this before … But anyhow, I had just discovered the joy of ceiling art via papier mache, when in walked the principal and caught me … wet-handed. There was no getting out of this one! Oh, the shame! The shame!!!!!!!!!!! I had to serve a school detention, and I was in this room with all these derelicts, people I had never seen before. Smokers, to be sure. AND the proctor read my offense out loud: Spinnerina M. Girl, throwing toilet paper at the ceiling. Vandalizing the school. Ah ha! Young lady, you may sit right here while you do your time. My red-hot face burned and my ears buzzed with the blood-rush of embarrassment and shame. I was one of them! These ... these animals! These bad, bad boys! I was deeply mortified.

But not as mortified as the time I heard that Beth, an eighth grader in my class, had gone to the movies with a 9th grade boy and he had stuck his finger in her hoo-hah! His finger. Fingers! Plural! Like you could even fit more than one up there, duh! EW! Why would anybody do that? Ever?!?!?!? Luckily, I was on to high school and I never had to hear the answer to that one.

I'm just going to apologize in advance. [*now updated with even more photos!!!*]

Photo Journey Part 2: The Middle Years

yes, so, I skipped some of the awkward years when I did my first photo-journey a few weeks ago. You'll soon see why. But a week or so ago I was organizing (if you can call it that) a photo box and discovered these tasty nuggets. Enjoy! (You'll want to click to enlarge. (Enlarging is thrilling!!!)

when sexy fails, try for "fun-loving"



This is me at the height of my pubescent greasiness.

Braces, acne, bad hair, semi-successful attempts at beauty.

I just posted this to cleanse your palate and remind you how cute I am. Was. Could anything be sweeter than TT hanging onto me, in her giant frilly dress, and me in my orange belly tank (age 5)?!? I didn't think so. These are assorted semi-cousins to the right. None of whom ever played John & Maria. Well, maybe now that they are married, they do. Just not with me.

I turned out OK.

Spinning Through the Years: A Photo Journey

Sorting through my parents' and grandparents' albums, I found pictures that I want to share. This was in the days before my new scanner, so they are photos of photos. The technology is primitive, but the motive is grand in scope. Perhaps by seeing who I was, I can understand who I am.

Could my parents be more fabu?!? I love that my dad is wearing his Beethoven sweatshirt. We still have it, somewhere. In this picture they are about ... oh, 12 years younger than I am now. OK, that makes me sad.
1969. Shortly after the first picture, perhaps only minutes later, we two were conceived. I am on the right. Notice how I am always holding on to the things I care about. Also, I am always making a face.

Circa 1970. My twin sister Twirling Girl does not return my affection with quite the same zeal. I believe there may be about four bunny slippers in this photo. My mama has great legs.

Circa 1971. The baking begins. We are very serious about our little pies. TG always has a hairdo and I look like a wild little boy.

1973. There are many important things going on here. 1. My back is to the camera because I am steering the boat! This is a very important job! It is achieved by pulling to the right and left on the railing!!! 2. My mother looks like a movie star; also, these sunglasses, which she has been wearing ever since, are finally back in fashion. 3. Tuuna Taco has arrived, and looks like a little doll. 4. TG is biting her lip is angst, an expression that she still makes often, and it breaks my little heart to see that familiar expression on her tiny little 4-year-old face.

Here, photo evidence that I never brushed the back of my head; a fact I have alluded to but never shown. Do not be fooled by the jauntily placed barrette! Also, rubber boots and cats were important features in our formative years.

The small gnome in this photo is actually TT, my baby sister. I am clutching her because I am very protective and she is my special project (she still is). This birch resides at my grandparents' farm, and now that granny is in a care facility I may never see it again. I didn't know I would be sad about this until just now.

The Official Child Labor Uniform for lawn care is Toughskins™ and piggytails. I still wear both when I rake acorns in my new back lawn. I believe that in my lifetime I have picked up approximately 483,902,331 sticks.

The living room and basement were the main rooms for play and for photo-taking. Here we cradle our Child Comfort Objects of choice. I don't know why TG has that doll; she should be holding her koala, Nipitiri, which was her favorite toy. I am holding Lumimõmm*, a very special bear whom I still have (in a bin somewhere) and for whom I made a very small quilted vest. I know what you are thinking! Say it. Say it!!! TT of course has the omnipresent Dressy Bessy, who followed her (and I suspect helped take some of her tests through) high school. *Lumi=snow mõmm=the sound a bear makes

Christmas was all about singing carols with the cousins. This would be about 1975. Check the go-go boots on cousin #2! I am in the red shirt, flanked by cousin #3 and TG. At the time of this photo we have not yet discovered the game of John and Maria. That piano in the background is going to be in my living room in about 2 weeks.

We all thought my uncle was the greatest, funniest dude of all time! Cousin #2 struggles not to laugh, but cousin #1 is not amused.

Circa 1976. We are all wearing handmade vests and/or sweaters here. Wait ... I think TG might be wearing a vest made of the same fabric as the vest I made for Lumimõmm. Let me go check ... yup. Wow, I never realized that. [By the way -- that bin is full of some great stuff. Watch for a future post on it!] I also love that TT has her knees up inside her brand new sweater, and that my dad is dressed like Carl Sagan.

My grandparents' cider press was one of the best things they ever bought. There is nothing better than foamy cider straight off the press. Here, I am sampling for quality. TT watches my every move, for she recognizes that I am wise beyond my years.

All right, so I skipped documentation of middle school entirely. The Babe Years really do deserve their very own post, do you not agree? Here the three sisters demonstrate their love of all things furry; this is taken in the "back 40" of my grandparents' farm. Notice the similarity in posture between me & TG here and in photo 3. TT looks a little bit lost without me holding on to her. I must remember to make up for that next time I see her.

School of Life III: The Mortification

This series of posts, entitled School of Life, is intended to highlight some of the experiences I have had in my teaching career, for which my schooling did not prepare me. Many of the stories & events you will encounter in this series may seem too enormously strange to be true, but I assure you that they are all true, and I lived them all.

You know how things happen sometimes? Things of the body? Oh, what am I talking about ... fluids, gases, impulses, injuries? Stuff like that. Things you don't really want to happen in front of people. In my opinion, these types of things are especially bad when you are surrounded by hundreds of adolescents. The possibilities for bathroom-wall folded-note lockerside gossip are endless in middle school. I just don't want to be one of those teachers that there's a story about in future years, like my high school teacher who had an epileptic seizure in front of her class, or the teacher who meant to squeeze out a toot and ended up shitting his pants. True stories, according to stall 3 of the 2nd floor girls' room.

Some things I have tried to avoid, like the way I refuse to wear tan pants because I never want to accidentally have camel-colored camel toes. (Don't ever search that term at work, OK?) I wear a tank top under my blouse in case I lose a button. But some things have happened.

I have lived to tell. And now, you will know.

When I was teaching high school chemistry, a female student and I had to pass each other across a narrow space. As we passed chest-to-chest, the peaks of our breasts touched. There was no way to pretend it didn't happen. So I just said "ewwwwww" and did a full body shudder, and she laughed, and we never mentioned it again. At least, not to each other. ooh! I almost forgot the boy who did a face-plant into my left tit, running down the hall. He rounded a corner, and there was a soft cushion right at eye level. Oh. My. G.

Once, I completely shredded a pair of panty hose so badly that I had to remove them. Under my long flowing skirt, I was completely commando from 9 AM on. As exciting as this may sound, I was pretty paranoid all day and stayed away from drafty places.

There have been times I have had to use the toilet so badly that I have feared having some sort of accident. You can't just leave a room full of 13-year-olds unattended.

Ever use a public restroom with students in stalls on either side? Not fun. How about the teacher using the bathroom on the Boston Trip tour bus? Not cool.

I've told this one before, but ... 10 years ago, I was teaching high school and sharing a room with a woman who was in charge of the Senior Homecoming Float. Hence I thought nothing of it when I saw a scrap of fabric lying in the middle of the floor. After the students had gone, I picked it up and discovered, Holy Crap, this is underwear. Holy Crap, this is my underwear. I had had a pair of undies stuck inside my pants leg from a previous wearing, that had worked their way out onto the floor of my classroom of sophomores. To this day I wonder at what point they were hanging, hermit-crab-like, half in/half out of my pants leg.

The list goes on and on, more so when I start adding everyone else's stories I know. The teacher whose thong was hanging out the back of her pants when she sat at her computer. The PE teacher who broke his fly and wore a pair of girls' sweats from the locker room until he could go home and change. The foreign language teacher who called his whole department because he dreamed he had a snow day. Not a bodily thing, per se, but still mortifying! And I'm not even touching the stuff we hear on the news.

What's the most mortifying thing that ever happened to you at work?