I'm magic (no one can see me)

It used to be that if you couldn't explain something - it was magic.  It seems a good catch-all.  (Not unlike the idea that if something happened, it must be due to the gods unhappiness/happiness.  "Why was there a lightning storm?  Zeus must have been unhappy about that party last night...").  Magic, I am told, was a thing feared by many to be the "devil's work."  Nowadays, most of that "magic" I'm going to call "science."

I don't understand science.  Not even a little.  (somewhere my honors chemistry teacher just lost his wings... yup, Hummer had wings until about 5 minutes ago.) 

How is it, for example, that I got blood drawn from my arm, and they told me my pancreas was inflamed?  How does the blood know?  How does my arm know?  And how do the magicians know how to understand what my blood is saying.  Generally when I see blood I assume it's telling me "ouch."  That's the only word I thought blood knew.  Apparently I was wrong.  Apparently it has an extensive vocabulary and knows phrases like "I'm doing mostly alright, but that pancreas seems to be having some issues and swelling.  If we could take a look at that soon, I would greatly appreciate it." 

Once I watched a show that was a disturbing children's program that we watched sometimes instead of "Music Machine" where a dude (Mr. Body?  Or is that just Clue?) dressed in a spandex onesie had organs on one side, and bones on the other. 

He sang and danced and generally had frizzy hair and told us about our organs.  (the Internet tells me his name is Slim Goodbody.  HOW COULD I FORGET THAT!?!?!)  All this tangent to tell me... I feel lied to by Slim (if that is his real name)... he sang and danced and taught me all kinds of facts.  But clearly nothing as exciting as "your blood knows lots more words than "ouch."  You just gotta be magic to hear what its saying."

So, to the magic people out there: good job.  Way to figure out that whole special language. 
To everyone else: isn't magic fun???

She's a rebel. She's a saint. She's salt of the earth And she's dangerous

My father instilled in us children - from a very young age - the love of books.  And not just reading, but the actual, tangible book (sorry, Kindle.  You don't count as a book).  It was often that my father would use the phrase "we don't treat books like this.  Books are our friends" if he saw something unspeakable like a hardback book without a sleeve or *gasp* a book lying face-down and opened.  You should never do things like that... because that is not how you treat a friend.  And although I've never been truly sure how to leave a friend without s sleeve lying on my bedside table (no... let's not continue that line of thought), the point was the same.  This is a book.  Love it and treat it well.

This is Woodstock Elementary School.  Home of awesome things including this story.

My school library, apart from being the scene of horrific fluoride treatments and school book fairs... and even one Shakespearean Festival where I got to dress up AS THE QUEEN also had books in it.  Being the pretentious child I was, I didn't really go for all the "usual" books.  Sure, I checked out the Choose Your Own Adventure novels (but found I didn't have enough fingers to hold all the spots where I wanted to make a decision, but go back if I was wrong), but I mostly looked in non-fiction.  I checked out books on napkin folding, party planning and origami.  One day the librarian (who always reminded us to speak in a twelve-inch whisper... because if you can be heard past the length of this ruler, it wasn't acceptable for the library) asked me if I would be interested in reading fiction novel I might like. 

A word:  It's not that I don't love books.  Fiction books.  Obviously I do.  However, since I was on a "slightly higher reading level" than most students (read: found the books they generally suggested to be trivial), these weren't books I picked up at school.  After all, in first grade I took second place in an all-school read-a-thon.  I was a reading force to be reckoned with, and I had the $50 Savings Bond I won to prove it.

Anyway, she suggested "The Westing Game." 

This is TOTALLY what the book looked like.  LOVES IT!

"What a ridiculous book," Little-Sarah-Timms thought.  "I don't care about mysteries.  Or death (especially not that since it leads to ghosts).  And this book is brown (eewe)."

I loved it.  Loved it like books being my friends, and this was my best friend.  Move the Dewey-decimal system over, Rohld Dahl, because I found something else that was worth my time.  I found myself reading and reading, and getting in trouble for reading after it was time to go to bed.  (HOLD THE PHONE!  Google just told me they made this into a MOVIE in the late 90's.  Movie night, internets???  anyone? takers?)

As you can imagine... I read it fairly quickly. 

And then I didn't want to give it back... just yet.

And then I was going to re-read it.

And then... it's not that I was dis-honest (I was the girl who inadvertently stole Carmex one day and made her mother take her back to the store to give it back, even though they were already home).  But I just really liked the book.  And didn't want to give it up because what if I didn't find it again.  And I couldn't just let all those other kids read it because it was my new BEST FRIEND (book form).

... and then I forgot about it. 

since these are the worst things I did in Elementary school, I might as well tell you now.  I stole it.  I stole "The Westing Game" and I am not proud.  Even after I remembered (read: the library told me I still had it out), I didn't give it back.  Because I was a rebel, I refused to yield the line, and all that rebellion has now paid off.

I do think I still have that copy around my parent's house, and I intend to find it.  And not give it back to the school (it's been 20 years.  they've replaced it or moved on... plus, kids these days wouldn't enjoy it as much as I would...), but I think I'd like to own it.  Complete with Woodstock Elementary bar code.  Just to show everyone what a rebel I am...

Little teeth? little rebellion. (OR) Rebel Yell (non-Southern) Part 2

When I was in elementary school, I didn't have things like dance lessons, soccer teams or girl scouts (honestly, can you imagine...).  The only really "special" thing I did have... was fluoride treatment twice a week.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays we would get to school early, file into the library, check-in with whatever teacher was at the desk, and then swish the light-blue watery liquid for 60 seconds (while a teacher timed you... generally it was a 6th grade teacher, so I wanted to impress her).  And then spit it back into the cup, and throw the cup away.  While the grown-up version of myself is very concerned at the mess that would make while taking out the garbage, my elementary school self was mostly concerned with the texture of the fluoride treatment.

The feeling of pumping the treatment into the cup, the sloshy feeling it had hitting the cup... the pretend-minty smell... even now, I am thinking of puking just thinking about it.  In fact, this comic explains exactly what I thought might happen if I went twice a week... every week.

And so I decided to lie.  My brother Chris would go into the library, and I would say "yup, be right there" and hide in the bathroom until I thought he had gone.  One week I distinctly remember hiding behind some fake tree near the library's entrance.  Later, when my brother was in Jr. High I remember thinking "maybe if I pretend I didn't notice the fluoride treatment set-up today it will be okay." 

The thing is... I think it cost my parents $.25 a treatment.  As I said earlier, we didn't have extra money for things like dancing or art classes... but this was a priority to them.  And I can see why - as a person who regularly gets prescribed high-fluoride toothpastes by dentists, I wish I hadn't been so grossed out by the whole process.  And not chosen this to be one of my three acts of elementary rebellion. 

However, it was in this rebellion I could still be a "good child" and say "screw you" to the man at the same time.  I guess I learned my lesson... pay attention to your parents when they say "go get fluoride treatment." 

And a lesson for people who make this stuff... can you work on texture!?!?  There are 7 year-olds out there that are grossed out.

Rebel Yell. (non Southern version)

There are only three real acts of rebellion I can remember from Elementary School.  Obviously, these don't include things like 'eating my father's frozen orange sticks" or "watching the Velveteen Rabbit in a mall in California and getting lost."  These are things that, to quote a play most of us know, I "consciously knew (they) were against the law."  And I did them anyway.  Because I was a hellion.  HELLION, I say.  You know... in my head.

As it turns out, these three things ended up being the WORLD'S LONGEST BLOG POST... So one is included here.  The other two to join us later this week

1) Sluffing School.  When I was in Kindergarten, my mother went back to school, so by the time I was in Elementary School, she would wake me up and then hussle herself off to work.  I understand that and (for those of you keeping score) don't feel like I was jipped by my mother not being there all day like she was for my older siblings.  Anyway, so one day I'm pretty tired... and by "tired" I mean "want a little bit more attention."  *collective gasp of surprise*  So when my mom comes in to wake me up I think to myself "I don't want to go to get out of bed yet.  Maybe if I stay here, mom will come back and wake me up again."   So I pretended I was SO tired I slept through being woken up. 

"HOW TRICKY I AM!" thought little Sarah Timms and layed in bed... just waiting for someone to notice that she wasn't getting ready for school.

But she left.  She didn't even notice that her little red-headed girl wasn't getting ready for the day.  She just left.  LEFT!  Like she had to be at work or something!

... and then the high school kids left.  No big woop... someone will notice.

And then my dad left...

And then my older brother who now went to Jr. High left.  And I was there alone. 

I kept trying to pretend I had slept through my mom waking me up... I kept trying hard to be asleep to make it reality.  Because what had started out as a small act of defiance was now a real issue.  I was late for school, and I wasn't even out of bed yet.

So I decided to keep it up.  Sure, I had to eat (luckily, there were giant blueberry muffins from Costco for me to eat and pretend it was in my sleep).  But even hours later, as my sister Melissa came to the house for some reason (maybe she was in college and was just coming home between classes?) - I still stuck with my story "stay still and pretend you're sleeping," I rationalized with myself.  "she will notice you're here and then wake you up and make you go to school.  Just wait.  It'll happen."

It wasn't happening.  So... I started to make snoring noises.

"haaaaaa hoooooooo." I snored.  Nothing.  So I snored louder.

"HAAAAAAAAAA  HOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."  was this girl deaf?

Finally I could hear her right outside my door in the kitchen.

"HHHAAAAAAAAAA  HOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" I yelled in my snoring sleep.

Finally she came into my room.

"What are you doing home?" Melissa asked.

"Me?  Oh no!  I must have slept in!" I was astonished to discover.

"Well, you're supposed to be in schoo.... wait.  If you were sleeping, why is there a mostly eaten muffin by your clock?"

"I think I ate that when I got up for a midnight snack....   Probably."

I don't remember what happened next.  But I do remember one thing "sluffing school is BORING!"  It was over 5 years before I tried it again because I learned my lesson so well. 

However, as anyone in Cottonwood High School will tell you, drama is nothing more than a few plays and organized sluffing... so clearly it didn't stick.