However, she is f**king brilliant. I am betting that she will write the great American novel and support me in my not so old age. For real, she is fourteen and she is my legitimate child. So without further ado, here is the guest blog by the Captain's Daughter--I hope the first of many!
CODE RED
Hi, my name is Code RED. Apparently, I’m an outspoken liberal and feminist who loves to debate with beings less intelligent than me. (You know them as teenage boys.) Once in English class, I got so worked up about whether or not the short story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” by James Thurber took place in a sexist time period (the 1950s), that one of my friends held up a piece of paper on which the following message was scrawled frantically in messy blue ink: “CODE RED!!” Thus, the name.
Debating what to write about for my first official blog entry was a lengthy and excruciating process. I lost countless nights of sleep, just sitting in my bed, thinking about possible topics. (Did you catch the subtle sarcasm?)
Should I write about the distance formula I recently learned in my Geometry class? Or about the new wing of lockers with that oh-so irresistible scent of a football player’s cleat after a long day of practice on the hottest day in September. (Our football program is still evolving, but the local farmer, Old McDonald, is kind enough to allow the team to share the pasture with his prize-winning cows, Daisy and Elsie.) For a half a second, I thought about explaining the scientific method, but then I realized I’d just had an aneurism. Finally, I settled on writing about the fascinating, action-packed event of the school day: lunch.
Here’s the cast of characters:
The jocks: they can’t go five minutes without throwing or kicking something at someone’s head, so because basketballs and soccer balls aren’t allowed in the cafeteria, they move onto chucking soggy goldfish and punting half-eaten PB and J sandwiches.
The fashion police: their idea of flirting is squealing when half-eaten chunks of food are launched their way from the jock table. They say things like, “Oh, Jeremy, don’t throw that at me, you’re going to stain my $350 scoop neck t-shirt.” Then seductively they’ll add, “Dry clean only.”
The drama freaks: Their table is the loudest—all those self-centered people talking—and acting—at once takes over the cafeteria.
The goths and the emos will compete to see who is more deathly. Are the goths actually suicidal, or do they just like wearing black? And do the emos actually listen to Linkin Park, or are they closet Mariah Carrey fans?
The stoners: They converse in deep, mellow tones about who has the best price for pot and the new tie-dye t-shirts they just got at the Trading Post.
The nerds: This lot discusses the mathleete competition on Saturday morning. (Yes, I’m talking about the highlight of the weekend.)
The popular, bitchy ones: They’re used to battling it out to discover who can dig up the worst dirt on the helpless girl in need of a haircut who used to be in their group but is now so whatever.
The misfits: Leftovers.
If any of the above content hurt your feelings or made you say, “Hey, that’s mean!” my response is, you must be a braniac! Or a jock that just slammed the basketball against the wall, or a stoner that just said, “Hey man, it’s all about the love, don’t be a-hatin’.”
GET OVER IT. How’s this: you’re all losers in your own special way. Now don’t you forget it! *Insert cheek-pinch here*
The other day, as I munched on a tuna fish sandwich, I rolled my eyes as I listened to my friends (those people who you sit with at lunch and go to the movies with but can't stand in reality) as they went on an on about guys. No don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan, but what is the point in wishing hopefully for a boyfriend if you’re not even in college yet? Dating can be fun, and having a serious relationship seems glamorous at times. Just don’t be desperate. The fact is, if you date someone in high school, chances are, you won’t marry them. Even if the relationship seems serious, you’ll just go to different colleges. OR, you’ll go to the same college. Then the little lovebirds will break up and the rest of college will be really awkward. And if by the tiny possibility you get married, you’ll probably get divorced because it just doesn’t work out. But good for you for trying. (Sorry if I just ruined your life plan…it was obviously going somewhere. Didn’t mean to crush your spirit or anything.) And for the .000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001% of the population that actually marries their high school sweet heart: hope life’s fantastic.
Of course, this isn’t supposed to discourage high school dating all together; it’s only supposed to make fun of people who sit at home, twirling their hair thinking, “if only a boy would like me.” That, or girls (and the occasional guy) who think, “if only Chad Michael Murray moved to my school.” (And was about 10 years younger.)
So anyway, back to my point: I’d rather be talking about something of importance, considering I’m a freshman in high school and dating is not on the top of priority list. It’s right below watching the Disney Channel but just above getting a manicure. Okay, maybe not THAT low…
(Can’t. Wait. For. College.)
So I’m sitting there silently when one of my friends—let’s call her Susie—says “Code Red, what do you think?” Of course, I would love to respond with “Stephen Colbert for president 2012” but that would only leave confused looks. Or more likely the “Oh, it’s just Code Red being her weird self” look. So instead I replied with, “Um, I’m a lesbian,” which got me a classic couple of eye rolls. “Code Red, be serious.”
“Honestly? This is the most pointless conversation. I don’t care that much about having a boyfriend, or about who’s dating whom, or the fact that Sharon made out with Bobby over the weekend. This town is made up of a bunch of freaks.”
That left me with the “Why do we ever ask her about anything?” question: close enough to my prediction.
At that moment, I decided I needed to hang out with the drama freaks more. They’d be too wrapped up in role-playing with each other my existence would go un-noticed. Oh, to live in a world where I was ignored. Wait. I forgot. After I answered the question, my dream came true; no one asked me my opinion on the new dress code (NO SPAGETTI STRAPS???!!! WHATEVER WILL I DO???) or the latest gossip (JENNIFER BROKE UP WITH DANIEL FOR HIS BROTHER??!! WHAT?? I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THAT HAPPENING BEFORE!!). I can’t exactly say I minded terribly.
So I guess this is the point where I should wrap this thing up. Let me just say it’s been a blast and I’d like to give a shout-out to my homegirl Stacy—you’re my life, girl, I love you, xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo TO THE THIRD POWER! (Yeah that’s right, there’s no space between ‘home’ and ‘girl.’) Thanks for allowing me to be your guest blogger/getting you really pissed off at me. It was really fun.
Believe The Captain when he says: Teenage girls are aliens.
Yours oh so proudly!!
The Captain
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