It was less than a year into my public school debut, and though the pangs and shunnings as "The New Kid" still rang in my ears, my awkwardness had faded somewhat, I finally found my way around the labyrinth of Casey Middle School, but there were some aspects of life outside of the impenetrable Catholic School bubble that still had baffled. Some puzzlement included:
-Two gymnasiums
-Fire alarms that weren't always just drills
-A nautatourium (aka pool)
-An blatantly obvious lack of nuns
-Locker rooms (with lockers)
-Yarmulkes
-Technology and Home Economics Class
-Sex Ed
-Crowded hallways
-Lunch lines
-Spanish club
-Hall fights
-Cheerleaders
-Organized sports clubs
-Mexican Pizza Day
-Art classes without patterns
This "Home-Ec" thing was especially baffling. I mean, are they seriously letting pre-teens operate real-life kitcheny things like; toasters, mixers, whisks, ovens...The authorities knowingly put these items in the path of twelve year old boys. C'mon now....
Did they really think that cake batter would not end up in Paula McPerkychest's feathered bangs?
I remember Mrs. Klug (aka THE KLUGGER). She was awesome. One of those women who must have been born 58 years old. She never aged. But, boy, could she get angry. And not to be sexist, but the boys in our class usually had it coming.
One day in particular comes to mind. Erin, Sara and I had been partners in crime since the summer. I thought about changing your names, just now, but this is too good to pretend you weren't a part of. Correct me if I'm wrong girls, but it went something like this...
We were Baking-Team-Number-Eight for The Klugger's new pudding bake-off or some other intriguing lesson like that. Sara was complaining away about this boy interest from her Hebrew school thingy who had, and I quote, "been acting weird lately."; Erin reading War and Peace for the eleventeenth time, and I was manning the oven for our pine-apple turn over cake. Maybe it was Brownies.
Each of us in our own world, we tried speculating on each other's comments, sharing ideas and finally, when the schmucks from the next mini-kitchen pod over beat us since their torte was un-burnt-to-a-crisp, I flung my charred oven mitt to the floor in the shame of defeat. Erin bent to pick it up, but burned her arm on the oven door; Sara kept on and on about this twit of a soon-to-be ex of hers and as the droning bell rang releasing us from the dungeon of rhubarb-pie-making, I banged shoulder-first into the unopened door during the mass exodus of students into the hallway.
Thus, our life lessons for that day ring louder and truer than any fire alarms...and still do:
1. Ovens are hot.
2. Boys are stupid.
3. And doors have to be opened to walk through.
