Olive, and Florizel, and Jon. Oh My!

The bell sounds at the end of 6th period, and I gather my books and binders and head towards AP English. I exchange a brusque grin and small talk with my writing partner, read the quote on the board, and wait for the bell to ring once more. Ms. Serensky initiates a class discussion, and my peers begin to chime with analysis and intellectual banter. I let the discussion fade into murmurs in the background, and let my mind travel.

I concentrate my attention towards the window. I can see nothing but a blanket of white snow, thrusting violently with the wind. As I turn my head back to the class discussion, I catch a glimpse of something outside...something blue. I wait in anticipation, half hoping to see something in the snow, half hoping I didn't lose my mind. I squint my eyes to see through the flurry, and the blue blur begins to take shape. It emerges out of the snow, and what do I see? Is that....? No. It couldn't. Dr. Manhattan? Jon? I look at my peers to see if they show any interest in the fact that a superhero just descended from Mars into the back fields of CFHS, but they seem engrossed in the discussion. So I continue to stare, wide-eyed, at Dr. Manhattan walking in the blizzard. My eyes follow his lead, and watch him pull in, what looks like, an elderly woman. Her winter parka doesn't hide her butterball figure, and I can spot a snaggletooth all the way from my desk. I try to hold back gag reflex when I make out the mystery lover whispering sweet nothings into Dr. Manhattan’s ear. Olive. 

I jump in my seat as an unknown force shoves Jon into the snow-covered ground. An third party has arrived all the way from Shakespearean times, and sports long brown locks and puffy pants that cinch at the ankle. I try not to take sides, but this 1600's Renaissance man has my vote. Two words come to mind when I see his tight pants and feathered hat: hot thespian. Florizel. Jon recovers from the blow, and proceeds to take a jab at his component. Olive watches pleasantly on the sidelines, milking all the jealousy she can get. Jon and Florizel exchange punches and wrestled in the snow for the next few minutes, and I simply observe with my jaw dropped. Yes, the sight of a hot thespian and blue super being quarreling outside my window does surface a number of questions. But I can only think of one that I want answered. Of all people...why Olive?

AP English? Or Survival of the Fittest?

In the mid 1800's, Charles Darwin proposed the theory of evolution by the process of natural selection: those best suited for their environment would survive and reproduce. "Survival of the fittest" he called it. If I didn't know any better, I would have assumed that Darwin proposed this evolutionary theory not after studying the anatomy of finches, or the organisms of the Galapagos Islands; but rather, the nature of Miss Serensky's AP English classes. In this classroom, literature meets the Hunger Games. The world of Advanced Placement English truly epitomizes the idea of Darwinism. Emphasis on the "world." This class will play a pivotal role in the second half of your high school career - such a role, that the word "class" proves inappropriate, and "world" prevails. See what I did there? "Proves." Such a strong word. A word, not for the weak, but for the fit. This 52 minute class period will chew you up and spit you out, so mark your territory and put up your defenses. Because only the fittest survive. In one week, I will have successfully made it out of the AP English biome alive. If you hope to do the same, I suggest you listen to what I have to say.

1. Read the daily quote on the board. You'll need that little spark of inspiration.
2. Compose a generic formula for your introductory paragraphs. Think Mad Libs, but with SOAPSTone elements.
3. Follow @BobbieSerensky on Twitter. #lol
3. Appreciate days spent in the computer lab. They will prove almost as enjoyable as the fire alarm going off in class.
4. Bring a light windbreaker or sub-zero temperature approved parka to class. Long and brutal are the days of AP English in January.
5. Do not wait until Wednesday night to do your blog. Well, you will. Just make sure you do not start any later than 10:00 PM.
6. Make sure you have both a blue AND black ink pen hand at all times. If you do not, prepare yourself for a twenty second panic attack/agonizing backpack search when Serensky tells you the prewriting requires two colors.
7. Do not forget to silence your phone before in-class essays. Do so, or experience the combination of the iPhone marimba and death glares from your peers. You decide.
8. Invest in a thesaurus. This little book will provide you with the best camouflage to fit in with the vocabulary rich students of the AP English jungle.
9. Do NOT make the mistake of saying "go ahead!" when you chime in at the same time as someone else during in-class discussions. You will not have another chance. Every man for himself.
10. Set two alarms on your phone: one for turnitin.com, the other for Thursday night blog comments. You should never have to experience the sunken stomach feeling after midnight strikes.

Follow these ten rules, and you will glide smoothly through the student-induced savagery and barbarism of Miss Serensky's AP English Class. Remember - only the fittest survive. Good luck!

Meghan Judge: Often Miss-Judged

Dear diary,

I found today just fascinating! Honestly, who knew I could enjoy a Tuesday? I mean, delayed start? Hellooooo! Life could not get any better, right?

Actually, wrong.

Thank God I could sleep in an extra 90 minutes this morning, or else I would have proven to the whole student body that gingers do not, in fact, have souls. The school faculty must think that we owe them something, some sort of "thanks," for letting us sleep in a little. Please, if you really want to impress me, I suggest you eliminate the $0.50 condiment charge in commons, and stop treating us like a herd of cattle. I can't wait for college. I feel like my time is being wasted at this point in high school. I mean, come on. Let's just cut the crap and speak the truth. I, Meghan Judge, National Merit Finalist and recipient of the "Most Intelligent" superlative, should just take over the world now - why prolong the inevitable? I could apply my talent to the Morgan Stanleys of the world, but that would mean saying farewell to the Devil's Playpen - whoops, did I actually just say that? I meant to say the happiest place on Earth! More than anything though, I just want to applaud the freshmen for their adeptness at hall walking. Please, walk a little slower - I dare you! I find their skills fascinating. Just fascinating. At least I have my little brother, Rip, to restore humanity in the future generations. Because the name "Rip" just screams hope. Want to know what else I find fascinating? My teachers. Most teachers would realize that assigning homework and/or projects for second semester seniors would prove cumbersome, but no! Mr. Maas had the courtesy to hand us a mock AP exam, while Mr. Ricci kindly tested us on immune response and neurotransmitters. I walked into the English room yesterday, thinking, "God, please, send me an in-class essay!" Sure enough, Ms. Serensky - or should I say, God? - answered my prayers. Either all my teachers ate their Wheaties this morning, or poured a cup of classic Midwestern charm, because something definitely got into them. Whoever said that it would prove cruel to test seniors on a nice spring day with two weeks of school left before the year ends and life as an independent adult begins - was totally wrong! I know what you think. Meghan Judge (yes, with a "gh") has...senioritis? Gasp! Contrary to popular belief, even the Most Intelligent lose motivation when the second semester rolls around. I can fool people quite easily, I have learned. Although my partner and I received a 100% on our data sheet, my Dan Dreiberg audience and purpose were BS. I bet Serensky didn't know that when she decorated the document with a gold star. Good thing I can basically write as well as my idol, JK Rowling. Not like it would matter, considering I can also fluently speak the Spanish language in its entirety. I have three words to say to that last data sheet: ¡Hasta lavista, baby! Luckily, I have a number of extracurriculars to keep me stimulated. I consistently better the community as an active Key Club officer and CFEF board member. I decided to begin my plan for world domination at a local level, and work my way up. In the mean time, I will continue my education at Johns Hopkins and try to divulge a formula to prevent the extinction of red heads by 2050. Wish me luck!

Sincerely,

MegHan


Disclaimer: Words in bold represent actual phrases said by Meghan Judge herself over text.

Erin With an M

I cannot change my heritage, or my suburban, middle-class upbringing. I have no cultural story to tell, and my complexion blends in with that of my peers. The only thing “unique” I have going for me? My name. Nope, not Marian. Mary Ann? Nah, only one word. Mern? What? Mary? I believe I have an “n” at the end of my name. Marie- ERIN WITH AN M. That usually sticks pretty well with people, I have learned. As does the twenty second guess-and-check that lasts longer than it should. Still, I want my future classmates to know me as more than “Erin with an M.” When I pack my U-Haul next autumn with a mini fridge, comforters, towel turbans, and everything else Bed Bath and Beyond has to offer, I will pack with it my personality and the morals my parents have instilled in me. However, I will leave behind eighteen years of history, and what makes me, me. My reputation will wait at the doorstep - whatever it may say. Good student, pianist, tennis player, youngest of four, Friday Night Lights (the show) addict, yearbook Editor, the list goes on an on. All of those things have shaped my personality, but the thousands of other students who arrive with their U-Hauls on move-in-day will not know that. Time to burst the bubble, and well, enter a new one. College represents something that will only roll around a few times within our lifetime: a fresh start. Not that I plan to leave Chagrin with dirty hands, but I believe everyone can appreciate a clean canvas. Not necessarily to recreate yourself, but to become the person you have always envisioned. How do I want others to perceive myself at college? Good question. Honestly, I wish I had an answer. I guess my main concern lies with people viewing me as, well, odd. My stereotypical appearance and honorable social skills can only fool others for so long. Common catchphrases of mine, including “that’s soooo Ashtabula” (so what?), “Oh my gosh, Franks” (Frank who?), and ALLright (said with a subtle squeak) will most likely have potential friends run in the opposite direction. So will my Instagram account that pictures solely my cat, and my food fetish for Greek yogurt. My personality lies at all ends of spectrum, as both the loud extrovert, reserved introvert, and occasional happy medium. No matter how others perceive me, I just look forward to finding myself outside the bubble, and away from the security of my reputation. Time to brace myself for a thrilling, four years of self-discovery and name-pronounciation clarifiers. 

Puhleeeeease.

Dear Ms. "My Boyfriend Wants to Break Up, but I Do Not,"

You have found yourself playing a classic game of relationship hide-and-go-seek. A lack of mutual love will always make for an awkward situation, but I urge you to understand one thing: your boyfriend still loves you. He has just forgotten. The affection you two share has simply disappeared when you turned your back. It lurks somewhere between the first date and the potential break-up, hiding behind forgotten memories, and under the spontaneity you once had. Your job? To find it. To help him find it. Women worldwide have experienced the same heartbreak as you did. However, heartbreak requires a breakup. And you will NOT succumb to a breakup. No. It sounds like you feel very attached to John Doe - why let go? Remember: love does not serve as a one-dimensional emotion. You have a say in this relationship, too. Just because he wants to severe your relationship, you decide you should let him? WEAK. Oh, but of course. You cannot forget that you represent a "strong, independent, woman" blah blah blah. That pro-women, anti-men sentiment has never acted as more than a gimmick. Just a bunch of gibberish. Balderdash, bologna and bananas. Whoever said "a woman does not need a man" has clearly never had one. Trust me, honey. You want your man. So go out and get him. Investing in a steadfast relationship has never proven easy. However, this investment will undoubtedly benefit you, a 21st century woman, in the long run. A relationship simply makes things, well, easier. Double the paycheck, double the jewels, and double the emotional punching bag when you need it. He says he doesn't want to continue your relationship. Clearly he has forgotten all that you had. Take him back to those first dates, when the affection felt new and tender - no more than a bud. When the sparks flew, and the flirtatious banter fired. Don't forget his interests, either. He likes golf, he likes burgers, and he likes tinkering around with his new car. So, get him some golf balls, cook him a cheeseburger, and if you really want him back - buy him a new Chevy. Remind him of his manliness. His impressive testosterone levels. When he can finally bask in his macho-man persona and see a beefcake in the mirror, he will actually begin to like you again. And maybe then, only then, will you have saved your relationship. And any chance you had in this world.

Don't forget the cheeseburger,

Ms. Serensky

P.S. If you believed a word I just said, then you need to seriously reconsider your involvement in a relationship, and mull over some "me time." Just in case you did not sense any morsel of my uncontrollable sarcasm, I suggest you take a good look at yourself in the mirror. Yes, you see a strong, independent woman. And you should find nothing wrong with that. My real advice? Drop the man who questions your relationship. Indulge in a carton of Ben and Jerry's "Phish Food," burn his picture by your bedside, listen to some Joni Mitchell, and watch some romantic comedies. Then, move on. And forget the cheeseburger.

Leyla, get back in your cell. Don't make me get the hose.

I glanced briefly at the prompt sheet in advance last week, and have stressed over this particular blog ever since. When asked for my favorite movie, I usually share a variety of my many, go-to flicks. Now that I must choose one that will forever remain in the blogosphere, I feel an enormous weight on my shoulders. However, after days of painstaking, internal debate, I have finally made a deicision. Based on nostalgia rating, quote-ability and overall viewer experience, the award for "Mairin's favorite movie" goes to "Mrs. Doubtfire." So sit back, relax, and enjoy my blog.

I find that most people have seen, or at least heard of this feature film. However, for reasons I still do not know, I have yet to find someone who shares a similar obsession. The plot revolves around Daniel Hilliard, a recent divorcee, who loses custody of his children to his high-strung ex-wife. In a desperate attempt to spend time with his children, Daniel impersonates an English caretaker known as Mrs. Iphegenia Doubtfire. Possible name of my future daughter. Now, the idea of a middle-aged man disguised as an elderly nanny may not sound like your typical scenario, but I find its obscurity and heart-felt moments unforgettable. "Mrs. Doubtfire" combines drama, family plight and desperation with love, laughter and tear-jerking moments. Often times I find myself showing this movie to my friends, hoping they will love it just as much as I do. I build up anticipation ("Wait for it! The next scene is funnier - I swear!"), but sometimes dissapoint. Nonetheless, I always laugh until my ribs hurt. Every time. Only while watching my favorite scene, however, does my laughter turn into core-working, calorie-burning howls. This scene consists of Daniel impersonating a number of incompetent Nannys on a phone interview with his ex-wife. In order to evoke here paranoia, he verbalizes every mother's nightmare. Nanny impersonation #1 seems to run quite smoothly, until he suddenly shrieks, "Layla, get back in your cell! Don't MAKE me get the hose." Nanny impersonation #2 casually asks the interviewer, "Are your kids well behaved? Or do they need like, a few light slams every now and then?" Just when you thought nothing could surpass "a few light slams," nanny impersonation #3 concludes with "I don't work with the males. 'Cause I used to be one." This moment may just resurface every time I reunite with my sisters - the only people with whom I share a mutual "Mrs. Doubtfire" obsession. Just in case you did not find these excerpts humorous, I attached the link so you could reconsider. Still, I suggest you watch the whole movie. Something about a man, disguised in a latex mask and bodysuit with cankles, makes for the perfect Friday night flick. It gets funnier- I swear.

Kat Luvr

I awake to the prickle of whiskers on my cheek,

and a subtle lick of sandpaper, oh so meek.

A moist, stuffy breath takes over my ear,

the purrs of sweet nothings sounding near.

I smile after hearing a drawn out hiss,

followed by an affection kiss.

A velvety coat rubs on my bare skin like silk,

yet matted down with relics of yesterday’s milk.

A stifled meow resonates above,

no more than my cat, showing some love.

I tackled this poem with the understanding that I would attract two types of readers. Those who sneer at the mere sight of felines, and those who find nothing abnormal with my morning ritual. I decided that, no matter my audience, I could still find a way to evoke the "heebie jeebies" from my peers. My decision to conceal the mystery source of "whiskers on my cheek" (1) until the poem's end undoubtedly prolonged the feeling of discomfort from my readers. Still, with eight more lines to fill before I disclosed the unknown lover, I decided to use diction to arouse feelings of awkwardness. First, the gentle and mild diction of "meek" must have evoked a morsel of unease from my peers. I do not know what makes this word uncomfortable, but something about it demands the reader to cringe. In the next line, I included the word "moist" (3). The most cliché source of discomfort in the dictionary? Yes. Affective? Yes. Next, I allude to "sweet nothings," (4) then proceed to rhyme "hiss" (5) with "kiss" (6). I believe that these references combine to suggest intimacy between myself and the secret admirer, which surely evoked a moment of anxiety. Although most of us can call ourselves adults, I have not forgotten that few of us can completely keep our composure in the presence of slightly sexual references. Lastly, I refer to a silky coat that grazes my "bare" skin (7). I also mentioned that this coat appears knotted with leftover 2% milk. I do not know if this mental image created as much discomfort as it did confusion. Either way, I guarantee it helped me conclude the poem's 30 seconds of pain.