Age of Innocence

I stopped by my mom’s school today on my way home from a day full of meetings in which I decided to become a superhuman and overload on credits so I can finish my degree next May. After trying to convince her that I could handle this schedule without melting down or eating a baby, my mother (whom I loving refer to as Cinders, C-Doggy, or, more recently, Schwindy) then proceeded to tell me this tale.

The fifth grade teachers were running practice tests for the standardized testing that will take place when the kiddies return from spring break. Today was a writing prompt: “Tell us about a time when you were very excited about something happening”.

The teachers came into the office after school with one particular paper because they wanted to get the principal’s opinion. There was one word in the paper that they thought may require some sort of action or follow-up.

The paper had been written by a sweet, little ten-year-old girl. She wrote about her excitement for her family’s summer vacation in Cape May last year. She talked about counting down the days on her calendar, planning what to pack, and how the days seemed to drag by.

She concluded her paper with “I had so much fun on my trip and Cape May was an orgasmic experience.”

Orgasmic.

As in orgasm.

From a ten-year-old.

I didn’t know the word “orgasm” when I was ten, let alone what it meant. I didn’t even know what sex was. I thought people made babies by rubbing their belly buttons together.

The teachers, principal, vice principal, and secretaries spent almost an hour trying to figure out if she may have meant a different word. Perhaps organism? Origami? Honestly, the only word that fit the context was the one she had chosen. They decided to leave it and not take any action.

Schwind and her fellow secretary started making jokes about how Cape May could use this idea to pull in tourists.

Cape May: We’ll Make You Glad You Came

I’m convinced my neighbors are the Weasley’s

I grew up in a quiet suburban upper-middle-class neighborhood with an in-ground pool and a big backyard (not to brag).  All of that changed a few years ago when some spawn of satan development company decided to sell off the woods behind my house.  They cut down every last tree and spent months building giant monster houses.  The first one up was literally DIRECTLY BEHIND mine.  And since it was higher up, that meant new neighbors could see every last thing in our backyard and even into our back windows.  Sadly, this meant no more skinny dipping or sacrificial rituals.  Which is fine, I was running out of goats.

The new neighbors have at least 17 children and they are all gingers.  That’s right, a bunch of loud obnoxious red-headed children now ruin my summer pool days.  I am convinced they are the Weasleys.  Well, maybe not the Weasleys.  They’re more like what would happen if the Weasleys and the Malfoys bred: rich, obnoxious, crazy gingers.  Minus the cool British accents.