A stick of meat, a roll of duct tape, and a pygmy apple pie.
Today I over to my friend Mathilda's house and helped her prepare for her eighth grade trip. She's a year younger than me, and I went on in last year. She needed to borrow a dress or two to wear because the first two days of the trip they want you to look nice. I didn't know what she wanted, though, so I brought about thirty, half of which I haven't worn since I was twelve and was unaware I still had.
Then I dueled her brother with these sticks of foam about half the size of a pool noodle. I won, of course, because though he may be the noodle ninja, I am the noodle warrior. Then her friends called and said they were going food shopping for their trip (a concept I find completely ridiculous) but I tagged along and walked over to this teeny grocery store. Mathilda's friends obviously do not understand the concept of sarcasm, because when I suggested they buy a miniature stick of meat and a giant roll of duct tape, I was only kidding.
Later, randomly, Mathilda and I decided that we should try to go on vacation this summer with our friend Joanna. After realizing we had no money and no licensed driver willing to take us halfway across the country, we kind of came down from that cloud. We comprised with our ideas and formulated an ingenious plan. There's this water park near her grandma's house like three hours away and we thought it would be fun to go there some weekend this summer. Mathilda's mom kind of agreed, I think, so the plan is looking hopeful (:
I can't wait until me and my friends can drive. I am not looking forward to the actual driving part (a klutz like me will only triple the number of car accidents each year in this country) but rather the concept of not nagging a select parent to drive you to the mall, or drive you to your best friend's house who lives thirty minutes away, or drive you to a random elementary school in the middle of farm country to see a play by awesome people geared toward ten year olds, or drive your friend Joey home when you're not exactly sure where he lives and your other friends are screaming about Anthony Rapp in the backseat, or drive you home in the middle of the night from your best friend's weird catholic high school where you were stalking this hot guy while you're having a poptart fight in the backseat. Needless to say, I ask way too much of my parents. They're always happy to drive, but I can't wait until they don't have to escort me out of rather idiosyncratic situations.
Unfortunately, you can't even get your permit here until you're sixteen. Joanna and I will be 16 next summer, and Mathilda the following winter. Ergo, it's going to be quite a while until you see me and my friends on the road. I am looking forward to the day when I can drive me and my friends home at 11'o'clock on a school night from my friend's ice skating show where we were prancing around like drag queens and microwaving repulive vending machine cuisine and screaming at adorable yet terrified children dressed like bananas. I'm tired of trying to explain all of my random, nonsensical escapades to my mother.
However, I am very grateful for my mom and all the crap she puts up with. I know she'd be happier if she wasn't driving my impolite friends all over the tri-state area, but she's happy to anyway. I know she'd be happier if she didn't overhear conversations about Adam Pascal's pants from the back seat, but she happily tunes it out. I know she'd be better off if my friends didn't smash Nascar PopTarts into the car's upholstery, or lose teeth in the nooks and crannies, or spill Hot Fries all over the floor. Ok, I did half that stuff, but I'm happy my mom deals with everything.
Thank you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day!