Current mood:	cranky
Current music:	"Journey to the Past"

fridays officially suck my big toe
November 8, 2002 – Fridays officially suck my big toe!

The rest of my Friday did not progress any better once lunch was over.

Let’s do a quick run down of the ways my life went to the proverbial crapper:

1) My locker wouldn’t open. It took me a half hour to locate someone on the janitorial staff who was allowed to help me. After twenty minutes of proving my identity and swearing that I was not looking to plant narcotics on an unsuspecting classmate, it took another fifteen minutes to get the damn thing open. A lose leaf piece of paper had gotten jammed in the hinge and I was privileged to a scolding from a custodian complete with spit landing on my book bag and unwanted attention from the A-Listers as they exited our classroom.

2) Nate landed his ass in detention for walking into our principal while playing Mortal Kombat. He holds Gwen and I personally responsible for this blight on his spotless record and refuses to have anything to do with us until we’ve made up and think up an exceptional (“Good will not be adequate, Linnie. You’ve met my dad.”) excuse for his parents. So far the only thing I’ve come up with is this: it’s better than bringing a gun to school. Then I remembered his parents are staunch republicans and would probably advocate Nate’s attempts at exploiting his Second Amendment rights.

3) I nearly got run over by an old man on a bicycle on my way to Doctor Jack’s office. When I rushed to get out of the demon cyclist’s line of terror, I fell face-first off the curb into a puddle. There to share in my humiliation was a trolley-full of crazy tourists flashing their cameras at the park beyond me where Ben Franklin used to walk, but most assuredly catching my clumsiness on film for prosperity.

4) Doctor Jack was not impressed with my take on our relationship nor my use of this journal. I’m not digging deep enough apparently. What am I supposed to be doing here? Drilling for oil?

And finally...

I’ve got a date.

It’s all Gwen’s fault. If she wasn’t harboring irrational anger toward me over something as stupid as calling her out on her lack of decadence (“Why not refer to me as pedestrian and pedantic while you’re at it, Linnie?” “Would you settle for redundant, Gwen?”), I wouldn’t be “available” to go out with my mother’s co-worker’s son, Jeremiah. But since I no longer have plans, my mother has decided that now is the perfect opportunity for me to “expand my horizons,” “talk to a nice young man from a good family about growing into a person of substance” and “stop acting like a social outcast and be more like your sister.”

This is what it always comes down to in my family. A strange, incestuous form of peer pressure where my sister and I find ourselves doing these horrendous things (like blind dates with goobers or family karaoke night) that we are avidly against. We do these things to keep our mother from trips down memory lane where she talks about all the fun she had in high school and how every weekend boys begged for dates with her.

My mother is a blonde in case you’re wondering, and according to her, they have the most fun. They also giggle on command (usually at bad jokes involving the Pope) and have a tendency to flirt outrageously with men in toupees. Example: putting her hands on her co-anchor’s arm at Christmas parties and cooing, “Oh shush, you. Don’t be so bad, Jim.” (Giggle, giggle).

How creepy!

Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like she’s having an affair or anything. My mother is too virtuous for a thing like that. When she and my father grew apart, she waited a full month before dating and remarrying. No, my mother is that sort of freak of nature with everyone. It’s like she’s stuck in a permanent state of cheerleaderdom and can do nothing but be peppy and upbeat at all times.

Who knew anyone had that sort of over-the-top optimism to draw upon?

When my mother’s own personal experiences fail to woo me to her way of thinking, she invokes the curse of younger siblings everywhere. “Your sister never gave me these problems.” “Your sister appreciates the importance of boyfriends from good homes and doesn’t make it her goal to convince the rest of our family she’s a lesbian.” And my personal favorite, “Your sister walks on water and beats Jesus in most cases of leprosy cured.”

Let me explain my sister to you for a minute. Tabitha “Tabbie” Abbot (My mother has an affinity for nicknames that end in –ie...it’s quite disturbing, but she’s been quick to point out, it could be worse. My name could be Candie, shudder at the thought.) is eighteen-years-old, a freshman at University of Pennsylvania, and possibly the most perfect person to ever grace the planet. She can do no wrong in my parents’ eyes, seems to never want for boyfriends or good grades, and always maintains perfect skin and great hair.

She makes me sick, or more accurately, she would make me sick, if she wasn’t so damn nice to everyone, especially me. She’s pretty much the best big sister a girl could ask for—quick to cover for me, helping me convince my parents that camp is never a good option, letting me borrow her clothes (this was before I developed a JLO butt and could still squeeze into a pair of size four jeans)—and all-round great person. You know the type. It’s the way I imagine Liv Tyler to be—beautiful, smart, funny, and friendly—and it’s not right. Beautiful people should not be allowed to have personalities. They should be as bland as my mother’s Chicken Kiev and have the IQ of a Real World cast member. Leave it to my sister to be the anomaly.

The problem isn’t so much with my sister, but with the way I am perceived due to her stunning achievements. I mean, I’m one science fair award away from channeling Jan Brady and crying out, “Tabbie, Tabbie, Tabbie!” before locking myself in the bathroom for the rest of my life. Every teacher whom I’ve encountered at St. Agatha’s is quick to point out that I have a huge legacy to live up to. My mother loves to bring up the fact that when Tabbie was my age she was fighting the guys of with a spoon—why a spoon, I ask you—and getting invited to parties almost every weekend. My father simply states that Tabbie never cost him a fortune in therapy bills over a divorce that took place a decade ago and should most assuredly be resolved by now.

So you can see how I would find myself in this dire predicament. After hour three of my mother’s needling, I finally caved. I agreed to act as Jeremiah’s date to his prep school’s dance at the Art Museum. Ten to one I will not survive the night without at least one re-enactment of the running of the steps from Rocky.

My mother is screaming that we need to get to King of Prussia Mall before it closes. I need a dress.

A dress? Aren’t I the luckiest girl on the planet?

Inauspiciously yours!

Tah!