Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Sitting in Airports Blogging

Airports, are, the world over, the same. I have yet to find any remarkable difference. Yes, maybe some will be decorated worse or better, maybe some will be more or less high tech. But there are always gates, boarding passes, excessive security, jackass TSA officers. And there's this, the layovers. Tony and I took the morning flight from Port of Spain to Miami, arriving here at about 11 am. Our flight to Detroit is at 8:25. So, we have about an eight hour layover. With Flamingo, some cash, a couple iPods, and books we've read before, we're relatively bored.

But, as I was telling my dad on the phone earlier today, it doesn't feel like I'm travelling. It feels like I drove for a while, sat in a room, sat in another room that could fly, and now am sitting in another room. This room is relatively quiet, with ugly carpeting and an excess of Spanish.

I tried reading Diving Bell and Butterfly, but it's not the right environment.

Ironically, Miami is colder than I think Michigan will be. Well, the inside of the airport is, at least. It's actually relatively hard to type this, with frozen fingers. I'm buying gloves in Michigan. Didn't think I'd need them in Florida, too. Speaking of which, I have to remember to toss on that tanktop on the plan, start layering before we even touch down in Detroit.

Soon enough, I'll write a humongous, imaginative, glorious post about seeing snow again, and the Christmas tradition at the Jones household. My grandma doesn't have internet, and I'm only getting it now because of MIA (Miami International Airport, not Missing In Action) has WiFi fore 7 bucks a day. I'll write again from my dad's apartamente in DC, when I will be getting, dun dun dun, my 2ND EAR PIERCING! WHOOT! (Mai: "YOU WHOOT?!?")

For now, back to the airport. Wait, which airport are we at again?

Sunday, December 14, 2008

For Esme

I know my friends are writing posts about the main thing going on in our lives, people leaving. But I'm not going to talk about Nora. I don't want to.

Instead, tonight we had our last Spaghetti Night of 2008. Mr. Kaster, Ms. Chesler, and Mr. Blackburn were all their with their respective significant others and kids. We sat around with these three teachers, along with Clea and Esme, talking about old British TV shows, drinking, fudge, pretty much everything. It was (I just reread that last sentence and thought it said "drinking fudge". Which is ironic, because that's actually what we were doing) a lot of fun, getting my mind off the past four days and the next four as well. I realised that I can sit around with three teachers, two of whom actually teach me, and not feel self concious or freaked out. I know maybe Kaster was, because before the Thanksgiving shenanagin, he asked, all worriedly, if it was okay if he came to a student's house as a social gathering. But we odd group laughed at each other, at Scrubs, at Young Things and Forty Towers, and had fun just being, without the whole teacher-student relationship in the way.

The same thing goes for my relationship with other teachers too, even when in school, like Lentzy. First of all, that name. I haven't called my ex-AWH teacher "Mister Lentz" in about a year and a half. When he announced his engagement to Ms. Scott (who, even if she changes her name, I will never think of as "Ms. Lentz" - too weird), I felt like one of my close friends had gotten engaged. I was so happy for him that I even got teary. Which, though this is off topic, has been happening increasingly lately. I never used to cry. Well, okay, I cried, but only when someone yelled at me or when I got hurt. Never at romancey stuff, which I now do ALL THE TIME.

It feels good to blog again. I kept clicking on the link for my page in Google Chrome, and feeling guilty that I had nothing to write about. So, okay, I still don't, but I like the feeling of just writing whatever's on my mind and clicking "Publish".

So, tonight, when I mentioned to Esme that I haven't blogged lately, she suggested I write about school. So, here you go, Esme.

School is okay. It's weird, there are two extremes with my teachers - I either love them, and look forward to their classes, like English, Algebra, Contemporary Issues, MWH, and sometimes Biology, or I hate them, and despise when I have to open the door to their classrooms. This mostly only applies to Chemistry and Spanish (Drama I feel neutral about). It's not so much the topics that make me cringe when I think about those classes, it's the teachers, how they teach, and the students in the class. Okay, so I have a lot of "hoss" people (as James and I put it) in my other classes too, but it's still okay. That's odd. It's just, I'm a strong believer in the whole "teachers should teach" thing. I know, CRAZY, right? "Doctor Kay" (okay, seriously. WTF is up with that "Dr. K" thing? Like "Kester" is really hard to pronounce. AND WHO IS SO OBNOXIOUS THAT THEY ASK PEOPLE TO CALL THEM "DOCTOR"? My mom is a Dr. and she would NEVER ask people to do that) and Ms. Thomas (what an indescripite name. That's why we only ever call her "miss") rely on powerpoints and worksheets, respectively, to teach us their subjects.

Okay, so that's all I've got. I hope this post looks nice and long on my page and so will take my guilt away.


[Edit: This is about 20 minutes after I posted this. But I wanted to say: I've been listening to my iTunes all night. Not a single Coldplay song. Or "Save Tonight". Significant?]

Monday, December 8, 2008

MLJ's 20 Things

1.  I am losing my concentration to the point that I can’t read more than stupid SELF articles about pectorals more than five minutes.
2.  I like sleeping with my dog.
3.  Coffee is necessary for survival.
4.  A wrecking ball hit Tiger Stadium the day we decided to get divorced.
5. Tiger Stadium was where my ashes were going to be scattered, and now I have to find a new place.
6.  The night after the divorce became official, I dreamt that I was driving a car with no rear view mirror.  But I was exhilarated and not afraid.
7.  I am proudest of being a cancer survivor and never want to be bitter about anything.
8.  I worry that I am way too overprotective of my kids, my dog, my family and my friends.
9.  I secretly judge people based on their grammar, spelling and punctuation.  And I am not ashamed of it.
10.  I think Charles Hodson on CNN is very sexy.
11. Almost nothing has made me happier than my first car.
12. I have philosophical conversations with both my children that are much better than any conversation I’ve ever had with an adult.
13. I go barefoot in the office.
14. I secretly think this country would run a damn sight better if they asked me how to run it.
15. I used to think all babies learned English first no matter where they were from, before they learned Spanish or Mandarin or whatever their parents spoke.
16. It would be fun to throw a brick through a plate glass window.
17. Driving through Detroit breaks my heart.
18. Wrigley’s spearmint gum when combined with coffee is the best sleepiness tonic.
19. I was secretly glad that my daughter was bald at the same time I was.
20. Magglio Ordonez has the best ass in the major leagues.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Walking Fast

In Spanish class today, we basically had free time. Daniel and Dom used theirs to go on Wikipedia and read articles about diseases, their symptoms, and the horrors of mutations. They would intently read something in silence, then grimace, groan, and burst out laughing. These diseases included cancers, mental retardation, and many others. They would click from page to page, shrieking out information about cancers presenting in irregularly small testicles, enlarged male mammaries, and more.

I walk home from school. It usually takes about 10 minutes. Today it took 4. I was so enraged by their comments, I left Spanish class, walked with Nora downstairs, and made it home before Beat It was over.

When I was about 6 months old, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. If some of these facts are wrong, I apologize, but I believe these are correct or almost correct. They gave her 5 months to live, and it's been 13 years since then. She was given radiation and chemotherapy treatments, and now she's fine. She still has regular checkups, but so far nothing has reoccured. She is unable to have more children, the chemotherapy having caused her to go into early menopause, around the age of 34. She had to have surgery to first remove her infected breast, then, a few years later, reconstructive surgery, where, as she tells it, they moved muscles, fat, and skin from her stomach to her chest. She has a fake belly button, multiple scars, and no feeling in her stomach. And blue, tatooed-on dots covering her left side.

My mother is the strongest and smartest woman I know. Today, as I walked home and showered, I couldn't help but think what my world would be like without her. I don't know where I would live, because we would be in my dad's custody. I would be such a different person than I am now. The world, in fact, would be different. Many people in Poland, Bangladesh, and here in Trinidad's lives would be affected by the work my mom has done with the State Department. I wouldn't sigh every time I write the word "affect" or "effect", or make a mental note to ask her which one is which again.

We have a Biology project on genetic diseases due in a few weeks. Our teacher recommended that we pick a disease that someone we know has or had. Obviously, I decided to do breast cancer, in honor of my mom and my two aunts who are all survivors.

Some research I found yesterday said the following:

However, if you have any of the following in your close family you might want to see your GP and be referred to a familial cancer clinic:
  • three close blood relatives (from the same side of the family) who developed breast cancer at any age, or
  • two close relatives (from the same side of the family) who developed breast cancer under 60, or
  • one close relative who developed breast cancer aged 40 or younger, or
  • a case of male breast cancer, or
  • a case of bilateral breast cancer (this means in both breasts).
The first three in this list apply to me. I won't say anymore, because I feel as though I'm digging myself into a hole by even mentioning this. I'm not saying I'm doomed. I have a chance of getting cancer in my life, as all women do. I just felt like saying this, because I know the internet won't judge me.

What Daniel and Dom do not realize is that they, or someone close to them, may very well be effected by any of those diseases they were laughing at and making fun of. I'm angry at myself for not saying anything to them - but I can only hope that someone will educate them better than I can. This goes for anyone and everyone out there who have ever been so inconsiderate and shallow as I know some of my peers were being today.

Monday, December 1, 2008


You know how it's like this stereotype of playing Solitaire on the computer when you're bored? Well, for me, Solitaire, and, more often, Free Cell, are my favorite things to do on the computer, even when I'm plenty occupied. I get so mad at Free Cell, like when I try to move a stack of cards and a little bubble pops up saying, "That move requires 5 cards. You only have enough space to move 3 cards." It patronizes me. And when, by accident, I try to put a red card on another red card, it snaps, "You can only put a red card on a black card. The card colors must alternate." Or, worse, when I accidentally try to put, say, a 4 on a 7. "You can only put a card on another card if it is the next in the sequence." "WELL, IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, STUPID BITCH!" I feel like yelling at it. Only, of course, I don't. Usually.

I get so emotional about Free Cell. Like when I attempt to do a big flashy card movement, and all the free cells fill up, and then that awful little death message pops up. It pretends to be sympathetic, saying, "Sorry!" but then it continues. "There are no more legal moves. Restart game?" And then that demon box with "Same game" next to it already has a check in it, as though the computer is pitying you, saving you the grief of having to admit failure and retry yourself. 

But when I am close to winning, and the tension is building, and more and more cards stack on top of the four aces, and then you move a huge set of cards to reveal that hidden little stash of low cards that you need to win the game, then they all fly up to the cells in order, and then, at last, when there's nothing left in the playing field and only kings are visible, they all fly down. God love Vista, each card shatters into it's suit symbol and colors, spraying all over the place like glorious red and black fireworks.

Then, the only message in the game I like comes up. Oh, it's nice to see you again, my old friend. He says, "Congratulations! You won the game!" He tells you your statistics, which, you are pleased to see, have gotten better. Then, two glowing buttons decorate the bottom of the box. [Play again] or [Exit]. You can't decide. If you decide to play again, there's a big chance you could lose, and then your hard earned good statistics will be gone. But if you exit, you'll have to shut down your computer and go to bed. Finally, you've decided.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Truth or Dare

When I was little, I always wanted to get my period. I always thought it was wicked cool, that it meant you were finally an adult. In my tween years, when I was about 11, I had the awful boy crazy stage. I was in the 6th grade, and we all thought we were adults, or at least 16 years old. We started “dating”, and in that year alone, I had 5 or 6 “boyfriends”. I continually told them I loved them (see post entitled “Love” below) and I was obsessed with perfume, makeup, kissing, Truth or Dare, you name it.

It was around this time that I asked my mom if I could start wearing a bra. I remember, we were on an island off the coast of Phuket, Thailand. I started the conversation by asking my mom (after my dad and Tony had gone off to play pool, of course) when she started wearing a bra. She said she was in 7th grade, and at first, I was like, “Ooh, sweet, that’s not much older than I am now.” Until my mom said that she was around 13 or 14 when she was in 7th grade. My 11-year-old self felt Extremely Awkward. Sensing this, my mom, with her women’s/mother’s/friend’s intuition, asked, “Why? Do you want to start wearing a bra?” I played it cool, or at least I thought I did, and eventually she agreed to buy me some when she went to Bangkok next.

Last night, my mom kindly brought the rest of the week’s clean laundry up to my room, with a big stack of bras on top of the basket. She said, victoriously, “I did a HUGE bra wash, but I dunno whose is whose.” I grabbed a couple that were mine, and separated hers out, then went back to Flamingo. The whole exchange, in comparison to my Thai beach conversation, was so cavalier and cool that I now notice how far me and my “maturity” have come in the last three years or so.

Okay, enough about bras. Poor Eddie, who I hope reads my blog sometimes, is most likely shuddering and scrolling down.

The point of all this is, I regret my past. I kind of wish I could erase a lot of stuff that happened to me when I was in Dhaka, not at all because of where I was or the school I went to, but because of who I was pretending to be. My first kiss was in a dark bathroom with a guy who later turned into a total jackass, and couldn’t kiss well to save his life.

I would have much preferred Simon’s first, with me, to be The First. Tobago, the last night we were there, at night, outside, nice, innocent, romantic. I know a girl who’s First was laying down, on a couch, in some guy’s living room, at the Prom ’08 after party. This massive PDA (given that there were people dancing not three feet away) gave this girl a “rather dubious reputation”, and she hasn’t been able to get away from it since.

So, that’s my random little schpiel (shpeel? schpele?) on puberty. Adolescence. Maturity. Wtfever you want to call it. Either way, there’s plenty of cramps, Axe, Truth or Dare, nail polish, bras, texting, dancing, and much much more. When/if I have a daughter, pray I teach her this crap earlier.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Snuggling Under Covers

I live in the Carribean, and before here, Bangladesh. That doesn't change the fact that I hate being hot. I can't focus, I get pissy, I get sweaty and malleable. Hence, the AC in my room never dips below 24 Celsius. Actually, in my old house, it was constantly set to 17, but I've turned it up here because it blows right on my bed, where I am the majority of the time. Soo, of course, I'm constantly under my comforter.

My mom and my brother are always on my case for keeping it so cold, and insist it makes me sick. But I love the feeling of being in a cold environment and snuggling under the covers to keep warm. It's so much more cozy than being in a hot place and only using a sheet. 

This is one of the reasons I'm glad I'm moving to Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, for my final two years of high school. I'm a little worried about the whole "no uniform" thing, seeing as how I've gotten so used to it here, and freak out every time we have free dress day. But, the consulate there will give us a housing allowance, and we can do with it what we will. Meaning, my mom, myself, and Shada will be three girls trying to make it in the Little Big City. Fun stuff.

Back to being cold. I'm cold right now. Except my feet. My feet are hot. So, of course, I crank the AC down a few notches lower, and my already icicled arms frost up even more. So then I'll snuggle under my covers even more, turn off my lights, and cuddle up with Flamingo and Shada. Who could possibly hate that?

Tuesday, November 18, 2008


Kat, aka Katherine, is my sister. Well, except for the fact that we have different parents.

She's Jim and Laura's 20 year old daughter, and she's living with us until December. Jim and Laura are my parents' best friends since before Tony and I were born. They taught at Muskingum College, with my mom, in Cambridge, Ohio, in the 90's. They were there through getting Tessa, our first dog, the birth of Tony and I, my mom's cancer, and, eventually, Jim getting fired from the college. After that, Laura quit her job, and they moved the family to Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and became potters. Kat's sister, Maija, is 18, and is currently an exchange student in Bolivia. Katherine lived in Thailand for a year, and so speaks Thai fluently.

I love having a sister for the first time in my life, and we tear it up. She introduced us to the world of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, Chucky, Pet Semetary, and much more. She's there for girl talk, boy talk, drink talk, and any other talk you can think of. She was here for our move to Westmoorings, too, which kicks ass. We share clothes, stories, gossip, and much much more.

We're talking about Kat coming to school with us some time, and trailing either me or Tony in our classes. We did that in Dhaka, and just told everyone she was our sister. Apparently, folks there still believe it.

Monday, November 17, 2008


I love to shower. Showering kicks it. Whenever I'm stressed, or hot, or tired, or pissed off, or depressed, a shower is the best possible cure. You wash away not only the dirt, but your sweat, blood, and tears, and emerge fresh and wonderful. Plus, if you're as weird as I am, you get to use all your fun shampoos, conditioners, body washes, face washes, and are engulfed in glorious smell after glorious smell.

My favorite kind of shower, I realized a few months ago, is: hot sunburn, cold shower, warm towels, cold bedroom. Best combination ever. Or, cold outside, hot shower, warm, fluffy towels. You can't shower, and truly have a nice, glorious shower, and come out to a crappy, wet, or dirty towel. Yeah, use the same one a few times a week, but if it's wet, or cold, or musty, or nasty, get a new one, trust me. Your showering experience will be much nicer.
I shower in the morning, usually, so I come to school with wet hair. In 8th grade, Janine was on my case for doing that, and so I tried showering the night before, but dude, my hair was waaay harder to do when it's dry. It's not very pleasant to deal with. So I said fudge "NeeNee", and do my thing. 'Cept, these days, with the play, I usually shower before bed as well as in the morning, which I know is kinda wasteful, but cam awwwn. People do worse.

I love to shower. I've taken three showers today. Well, okay, I'll admit it, my most recent one was only because I had just gotten a new face wash and had to try it out. But I was wet from the rain too, so I had an excuse. xD

Okay, this has been a totally wack post. I just really wanted to talk about how much I like showering. It's nice. It's the best part of waking up in the morning.

Thursday, November 13, 2008


Having just finished watching 'Becoming Jane', I feel obliged to write about, what else? Love.
I have never been in love. I'm 14, so to say I've felt that particular emotion would be entirely insane. But I've lied. Just two years ago, Simon and I often said we loved each other. But looking back, what I felt for Simon was entirely a different thing. It was more "like" than love, and I'm not just saying that because of how old we were.

To speak of lust is an entirely different topic. Lust is wanting someone, wanting every part of them, and wanting it immediately. In comparison to love, lust is temporary, fleeting, intense. Lust is dirty. I have been in lust. Most people in this world have been in lust. But to be in love, is a very different thing.

To be in love is to float. All cliches aside, and from my innocent point of view, love is floating. Love is sitting on a gigantic cotton ball, cloud, or simliar, and weaving your way through the clouds, breathing in their pure, moist air, and feeling it soak into your skin. Love is pure.

I am not floating. I am sitting on my cloud, and hovering a few feet above everyone else's heads. But I am not up in the sky yet. My love has not yet been born. My like, however, that has hatched. That is growing, that is maturing, that is perfect.

You cannot speak of love and not speak of heartbreak. I have been heartbroken. No, I have never been in love, but my heart's shattering was not caused by a silly teenage boy "dumping" me. My love was for a completely seperate heart, the heart of a family. When that heart was broken, all four of us were jolted.

But no, as I said, I have never fallen into broken heart syndrome.

I have, however, been lovesick. We talked in English a few days ago about being ill with like. You feel physically, mentally, and, most of all, emotionally ill. You cannot function, your eyes are in a permenant droop, your lips are in a permenant curl. You feel as though your insides do not weigh a thing, as though all those organs and bones have disappeared. I, now, am what I call, likesick.

This ends my sappy, cliche, cheesy, corny rant about love.

I hope I have not sent you running into the hills with my excess amount of dairy products.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Are you Looking Through Me?

At ISPS, we're putting on a production of "Looking Through You" a drama by Max Bush. We're directed by Mr. Levy, the drama teacher, and Rudy (the fabulous) is our stage director. I play Christy Bekken, the only character with a last name ("beckon" having much to do with her personality), the bitchy prep at high school. Lucas plays Lucas (duh hoy hoy!), the "hopeless romantic", with a crush on Christy. When she makes him a mix tape, he couldn't be more delighted, and proudly plays it for all his friends. Halfway through the tape, it cuts out, and you hear me, Christy, humming, and then talking to someone (whom we can't hear on the tape). Christy's distraught, yelling, almost crying, and a loud thunk ends the tape. Lucas and his friends imagine what the tape was about, while I, along with a truckload of other random characters, act out these possibilities. The story develops, Lucas trying to figure out what happened to Christy, Christy's boyfriend beating up Lucas, and culminates in Christy revealing the truth about the recording to Lucas - and ending in a smooch.

This is my first major role in a production, having previously been involved in Midsummer Night's Dream, Alice in Wonderland, Charlotte's Web, Mankindand Co., and High School Musical. In the above, I played Snowt, a talking daisy, a gosling, Pigmaylion, and Kelsi, respectively. None being "female leads", which is what I consider Christy Bekken to be.

I have to say, I love it. By nature, I love to be in the spotlight, and this play chucks me right into it. Yeah, so, I have to kiss Lucas (not my favorite person in the world, but tolerable), and wear skimpier clothes than I normally would, but we, so far, are having a kickass time. Tara, Maria, Chin, Tony, Rudy, Latricia, Alexis, we tear it up, making a mess of the Drama room, consuming all food in sight, shrieking at each other 'BLACKOUT' and 'YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE ON' 24/7.

Opening night is November 20th, aka next Thursday, and we're doing three shows, that whole weekend. I, personally, am a little worried that not a single person will come to the show, but, oh well, guess we'll see. The fewer the merrier, who get to see me smooch a guy 2 feet taller than me.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Stress, Stress, and More Stress

Yes, I realize I'm writing this gloomy post not 3 minutes after my hyped up on technology one, but I feel I should make it up to my 2 (million) loyal readers, for having been absent from Wordpress for so long. So, stress. Fun stuff. Can only be relieved by removing the cause, in my opinion. Maybe a massage, an afternoon at a spa, a night's sleep, can do it for some people, but all the cucumbers in the world don't have the same effect on me as simply getting the task out of the way.

For example, tomorrow, being Diwali, is a national holiday, and we have no school. Now, since I have rehersal on Wednesday, time to do homework that night shall be limited. So, tomorrow, I need to complete:

  • Cell project: powerpoint and cell

  • Chemistry problems

  • Learn Bio information about cells

  • Algebra problems

  • Memorize Spanish verbs

  • Macbeth essay


Thank god for Diwali.

High off Technology

Flamingo. Has. Arrived.

Yes, indeed, friends, my Studio 15 Dell Laptop, aka Flamingo, has arrived. He's pink, flaming gay, and madly in love with Jamie's Studio 15, Licorice. He is the height of sexiness, and runs faster than Seabiscuit on steroids. I thought I hated Vista, but I've come to the dark side, and am loving it's sleekity. Also hot off the press, my printer, AT LONG LAST, works. My madre bought it in Chicago a few weeks ago, and when we tried to set it up to the desktop computer, it died. Miserably. SOO, we decided to wait until Flammy arrived, and start from scratch, and GUESS WHAT? She works. Yeah, I've decided my printer is a she, named Louise. She's bossy, hardworking, and knows how to give a little attitude. She's Carla, with a little Laverne mixed in.

AND AHA! Louise and Flammy are now side-by-side on my previously unused desk, with Louise happily telling Flam to "Dammn, go for it, gurrl!" with Licky. I am able to open up a Word Document (YEAH HUH, CAME PREVIOUSLY INSTALLED, BITCHES, FOR ONLY 100 BUCKS MORE, CHEAPER THAN DOWNLOADING IT), type in something like, oh, I don't know, "This is a TEST to see if the printer works! :) Thanks, Flamingo!", then hit the PRRRINTTTT button, and have it pop out at a rate of 19 ppm for color and 22 ppm for black. So there.

Anyways, you may be wondering (you're probably not, but I'm going for the segway anyway) why I'm so hyped up right about now. Well, for the last, oh, 2 and a half years we've lived in Trinidad, we have not had a functioning printer, and for the last, oh, my whole life, I've never had a laptop of my own. So, booya, bitches, and don't make fun of me for being High off Technology. Just wait til you see me in an Office Depot.

That's like Jamie on crack at a rave.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

The Big D

No, not diarrhea. Divorce. Yeah, if you didn't know, big shocker. My parents have decided to get a "mediated divorce". Basically, they both want to do it, and neither of them is massively pissed off at the other. So those clich├ęs of the woman tossing her husband's clothes out of the window into the street, or a man walking into a room where his wife is standing, teary-eyed, sobbing, "I want a divorce" are crap, in this case. My mom told me that when my dad moved to DC about a year ago, it was sort of a trial run to see if they were happier living apart than living together. Apparently they failed, and so over summer break they broke the news to Tony and I. You may wonder why I'm putting this on a public internet blog. It's just that I can see people getting annoyed with me when I talk about it to them in person. Like a little while ago, a friend and I were sitting in Chemistry class, chatting about people who piss us off, boys who drive us wild, and somehow the subject turned to my parents. This friend, ironically, has parents who are on a downward path as well, so she's generally a good person to talk to. I could tell she was getting slowly de-hyper-ized from my talking, and she and I were both silently grateful when another student piped up, saying, "Sir, it's time to go!".

Generally, in movies and other pop culture, a child of divorce shuts down emotionally, becomes really closed off, all that stereotypical stuff. As for me, I don't really feel any different in everyday life. Apparently, after spending a week in D.C. with my dad, he mentioned to my mom that it was surprising how normal I was acting. I guess he thought I would carry on the stereotype.

I often see pictures of my parents in their early to mid thirties, laughing and smiling as they cuddle freshly bathed toddler Tony or I. It makes me wonder, when these two were that young, with the world ahead of them, chomping on Chinese food instead of turkey on Christmas Eve, did they ever think they'd be where they are now? Hiring lawyers, signing papers, failing to hide settlement emails from their daughter. They had so much potential, I think to myself. What happened?

Halfway through our tour in Dhaka, Bangladesh, my dad stripped off his paint-splattered work boots and sawdust-covered squash t-shirts of his carpenter days, and began wearing button down shirts and dress pants to his new gig at an NGO, teaching family planning and handing out contraceptives. I never realized, at the time, that my dad was having his mid-life "crisis". He had been a carpenter since I was born, having learned the craft from his father-in-law. My 10-year-old mind just thought he was tired of being sweaty all the time. I never thought that maybe, he was tired of my mom wearing the pants in the family, making a steady salary, as Cultural Affairs Officer at the US Embassy, whereas he received cash here and there for odd, requested projects. I soon discovered that sitting in an air-conditioned office all day, editing proposals and gabbing by the water cooler made my dad touchier than when he was tinkering with his table saw, being his own boss, making cream cheese bagels in the microwave for lunch. We got in more screaming fights in that last year and a half than we ever had before. I, admittedly, was going through the beginning stages of puberty, and the boy-crazy hormones were kicking in. Looking back, I should have realized that the tension between my parents at this point probably wasn’t shrinking. A few times, I would open the door to the living room, to see my parents standing on either side of the room, staring daggers at each other, before they broke the picture and one of them kindly asked me to give them a few minutes.

Two spring breaks ago, we as a family went to Curacao for vacation. We had a lot of fun, hanging on the beach, playing Mini Golf every night after dinner, all that. One night, after the plates had been cleared away and just glasses and used napkins were left on the table, my dad said, "Suu, kiddiewinkles. We have some news". I don't remember what exactly he said after that, just that he told us he had taken a job in DC and was moving there sometime around June. I immediately started crying, and my mind went blank. Then, all of a sudden, I thought to myself, "How long til the divorce is finalized?" Then, just a few months ago, when my parents announced their divorce, guess what I thought? "Told you so."

Someone once said it's natural for people to want the ones they love to love each other. Well, as Lina Lamont says, I ain't people. If not being married anymore makes the people I love happier, then I'm happy.