Classic Literature, Irony and Girl's Camp--AKA, my Summer so Far

You just know this is going to be epic. Not.

So my summer starts off with a phonecall. Not a good phonecall, as in one from my best guy friend--who I think has managed to lose my number yet again--but a crappy phonecall from the senior class president. It went something like this:

Me: "Hello?"
Her: "You're in the band, right?"
Me: "Er, yeah...?"
Her: "Well, we need you to play at graduation Friday morning at 8 am at the college so ifyoucouldprettypleasecomeitwouldtotallymakemylifeplusdidImentionyou'llfailbandifyoudon't?"
Me: "Okay..." Needless to say, that last part was very, very hard to understand.

Turns out, she blackmailed us. We weren't really gonna fail band, so I walked out. (Of course, lucky duck that he is, my aforementioned best guy friend fails at clarinet--and therefore, life--and got to leave early. If he had stayed, I would've too. Not that it would've mattered since I'm the Sydney Carton to his Lucie Manette. More on that weird analogy later.)

The next week, I had driver's ed. This was invented many centuries ago by the Marquis de Sade. It's just as useless now as it was then, even though they didn't have cars back then. (Well, they did have carriages.) And worst of all, I had the two biggest nincompoops it has ever been my misfortune to know as classmates. And one of them sat right behind me.

I sped through all my assignments in order to read my book. (A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. If you haven't read it, you're missing out.) And every time I got to a really good part (which usually involved either something hilarious, something important and/or--most importantly--Sydney Carton) Moron 1 would tap my shoulder. "Hey, is this right?"

Me: "Yeah, it is. Shut up now. I'm reading."
Moron 1: "How can you read?"
Me: *My what a guy that Gaston! Ha ha, BATB moment! Oh how I hate this guy.* "It's easy. There are letters, and the letters form words, see?"
Moron 1: "I know how to read, but how can you read that book? It's so long and the words are tiny!"
Me: "It's fascinating."
Moron 1: "What's it about?"
Me: *A hot guy who's pretty much exactly like me, well, exactly what I would've been like if I was a man in the late 1700's...* "Er, it's about the French Revolution and the human condition in London and Paris, hence the title."
Moron 1: "That sounds boring."
Me: "Read it and see for yourself."
Moron 1: "No thank you. I don't think I've ever read a book all the way through in my entire life."
Me: *Do you know how much I hate you right now? I would clock you if this was a hardcover and Bundy wasn't staring at us.* "Really? Not even Dr. Seuss?"
Moron 1: "Not even Dr. Seuss. I've had books read to me before."
Me: "Whatever. Please let me read. It's a really good part."
Moron 1: "What's happening?"
Me: "A trial."
Moron 1: "What's so exciting about that?"
Me: *Shut up, moron, I'm reading!*

There was a similar conversation to that every day. Fortunately, he had the sense not to say anything while I was sobbing after the last chapter. (He hadn't seen my tears during the last six chapters, fortunately.) But that could've been because he was working on his test still.

But wow, that was an amazing book. Madame Defarge was made of pure villain and strong female character win. ("Tell the wind and fire where to stop, but don't tell me!") And Sydney Carton was that freaking awesome anti-hero-to-hero archetype that makes me totally swoon. (Unfortunately, he's exactly like me. Does that make this narcissism?) And the prose was beautiful too.

And then, on the other end of the spectrum, there was The Scarlet Letter. I hated that book. I still hate it. I hate the fact that I have to think about it in order to talk about hating it! It was boring as crap. The symbolism in that book was like a 40 ton brick dropped on your head from the top of the Empire State Building with, printed in bold red font, "SYMBOLISM" written on the side. I mean, yeah, Dickens laid it on pretty thick with the wine/blood recalled to life/resurrection themes, but man did Hawthorn lay it on much thicker. If we're going to study American lit, let's read Huck Fin. If we're going to study a book about sin, redemption, and harsh punishments, let's study Les Miserables. Please? To any English teacher reading this, please take my suggestions to heart! If you don't want to come up with a new lesson plan, I'll write one for you! I want to become an English teacher myself and I'll never be cruel enough to subject my students to this book!

And then, I had surgery. (Far less painful than that book, I might add.) I had to be there at 5:30 in the morning (never a good sign) and so, I was a sarcastic, snarky, hot-tempered b****, as I usually am before 7:00 am. I was disoriented from lack of sleep, but still able to function, for the most part. I don't remember much, except that the nurse asked if I was afraid. I told her, "Nope. I'm not even going to be conscious for any of it. Why should I be?" I even kept my cool when the IV guy showed up. He stuck a small needle into my left forearm--didn't feel a thing--then wrapped my arm pretty tight with one of those rubber things and told me to drain the blood from the area--took me about three seconds before almost all of it was gone. "That wasn't so bad," I said. I'd been afraid of needles since I was seven, and this trainee was drawing my blood. She missed the vein and hit a muscle, and then, instead of pulling it out and trying again, wiggled it around in there until she hit one, and apparently, it wasn't the right vein, and was at a bad angle, so she pulled it out and tried again. I was saved a few minutes later by her superviser person. So I was proud I hadn't panicked in front of IV Guy. Then, he pulled out the biggest needle I'd ever seen in my life. I wimpered like a kicked puppy at the sight of the thing. It was as long as my middle finger and about as thick as a nail-gun nail. Then, he shoved it into my arm--I still have the bruise. I kept still and didn't make a sound until after it was in.

The best part of the whole operation was the anesthesia. I have terrible insomnia now, so I think I might be addicted to it, though. But it was way cool. After they put it into the IV, the nurse asked if I felt sleepy, and then suddenly I did. It was a peaceful, floaty feeling, and I managed to fight it off until they opened the doors to the OR. I woke up about three seconds later and saw--through my hazy vision--a figure standing over my right wrist. It took all my courage and determination to panic in a silent, motionless way. Suddenly, the nurse said, "Oh, good, you're awake." That's when I lost it. "GOOD? IT'S NOT GOOD TO WAKE UP IN THE OR! OH GOSH, WHY DIDN'T THE ANESTHESIA KEEP ME UNDER, WOMAN?" She calmly replied, "You're in post op, honey, relax." My senses kicked in and I replied, "HOW CAN I RELAX! THERE'S A FREAKING GIANT NEEDLE IN MY ARM!" She didn't say anything to that, but wheeled me to this other room where she gave me grahm crackers and cold water, which I guzzled against her request. (I hadn't had anything to drink in 9 hours, what did she expect?) She brought my parents in and told me to change into my street clothes. I hopped off the gurney even though she had told me to be gentle. (A word that apparently is not in my vocabulary.) It hurt like crazy for the next two days, but by the time we left for Ogden, it felt fine.

While we were in Ogden, the only cool thing that happened was seeing the Thunderbirds and the airshow. Well, I guess it was cool that grandma ordered the OCR of A Tale of Two Cities, but I don't know if she'll ever send it to me once she gets it...And now I've decided I really, really want the OBC if they make one. Because the Broadway cast totally made my life.

Then, we drove to Park City, where I didn't get to ride the bobsled and had to hunt down my two cousins from Colorado because the four-year-old is ADHD (without the AD and D; he's just plain hyper) and the one-year-old is a sprinter and climber. (How he's not dead yet, I'll never know.) The only good things that came out of that trip were the Alpine slide/coaster/zipline, new books, a new trenchcoat and good Mexican food. Oh, and Catchphrase. I officially love that game now. Everything else was loco en la cabesa.

But now I'm home and there's a week left 'till girl's camp. Am I excited? Not really. See, I have to go on the fourth year hike and all the fourth years are preps--I'm hoping the cheerleader finds out at some point I'm friends with her cheer captain, because that might score brownie points with her. But one of the girls wasn't there at the meeting yesterday, and she's my buddy (since neither of us had buddies), so I hope she's cool. If not, I'm at least friends with the leader from my ward, and the other leader, who I made friends with simply because I said A Tale of Two Cities was my favorite book (so every free moment we had, she talked with me about it and told me to watch the movie, which I found out will probably play on Bastille day...The day we leave for the trek next month. Ah, the irony).

But the rest of girl's camp should be cool. My friend from the 4th ward will probably be in the same camp as the last two years, and thus, right next to us. And some of the beehives are really awesome. But I promised our president I'd stand next to her and belt our song. I don't even get to hear it or get the sheet music for it until tonight! And my voice hasn't been up to par lately, ever since this stupid cold. Such a shame, really, because a musical theater expert friend and her sister--my voice teacher--told me I was going to go far--maybe even be a star on Broadway. And the irony? That conversation was literally two days before the cold hit. Maybe I'll just have to go into regular theater, even though I love singing so much.

I should probably go eat my Froot Loops now.

Until next time,
Remora