Monday, February 18, 2008
Happy President's Day
I wonder if people say, "Happy President's Day" when they see the President today.
Does George get to eat cake today? Does it have candles? Or money stuck in it? Or fireworks?
Do you say, "Happy President's Day" to someone who used to be the President, but now they aren't? Did Barbara kiss Old George on the cheek this morning and say, "Happy Presidents Day, Sweetie." I hope she did. I love that lady. When I see her, I look at my hands and imagine what I'll look like when I'm old. Then I rub my hands and imagine they have liver spots. I do.
I think, if you get an extra Happy Day every year, then that might make more people want to run for President. No wonder after four years in office, Presidents all want to be re-elected. Who would want to give up that extra Happy Day filled with balloons and cake? Not me.
Since I don't know any United States Presidents (in real life), this post is dedicated to two other people on this Monday holiday.
1. Blaire Blanchette, President of ASC
She's the only President I know. Happy President's Day, Blaire! I think you should have cake and demand that your roommates sing a Happy President Day Song to you.
2. Everyone who ever ran for Student Council President and won (oh, what the heck, I dedicate this post to anyone who has ever been the President of anything).
I ran for Student Council Treasurer in fourth grade.
I won because my mom made me cool posters and little umbrella papers to hand out to everyone that said, "Whatever the Weather, Vote for Heather."
It shouldn't surprise anyone that I became treasurer since we all know I grew up to adore math and money...and weather.
I'm pretty sure I also won because I probably said something like this in my speech...
"Vote for me, because if you do, I'll get our actual music teacher fired and get Cindi Lauper hired."
Our music teacher was named Mrs. I have no idea how to spell her name, but it was pronounced, Quay-are. She was a white lady, that for some reason painted her face even whiter like Mulan (in the scene where Mulan is trying to get married). Mrs. Quayare also made us sit on the edge of our seats, stiff as boards. She would perch on a tall stool in the middle of the room, stone faced, sort of like a gargoyle. Then she would take out her metal pitch fork, slap it in the palm of her hand (her hands were shades darker than her face...I'm tellin' ya...weird) then put that metal witches wand up to her ear, listen and proceed to pick children at random to sing this too...
"Good Morning Jessica."
That's when poor Jessica had to SING back to Mrs. Quayare, "Good Morning, Mrs. Quayare" in front of the boy who could run the fastest in our grade, and the girl with the straightest, blackest hair in all of Harris County, plus the rest of us who wished we were either faster or had straighter hair.
I feel nauseous just typing this!
The whole sick, singing situation reminds me of that awful story, The Lottery, where, when you got picked, you had to die.
This was just like that.
It's a miracle I grew up to ever sing at all. I'm shocked I even hum.
In elementary school, I would imagine that white faced lady singing, "Good Morning, Heather" and me, opening my mouth, to sing beautifully back to her, but when I opened my mouth...in my imagination, vomit always came out instead of singing.
In real life, I was sweaty every day in music class, because I knew my time was coming.
One day, her bright, red lips stuck on that sheet rock plaster she called a face, were going to sing my name.
My day did come.
Twice that year.
And both times, after it was over, I remember feeling like I had the flu.
My brother had Mrs. Quayare too.
As an adult, I have always thought it would be so funny to drug him, and then wake him up and me be dressed like Mrs. Quayare. I'm sure as soon as he saw my face covered with Elmer's glue and my miniature pitch fork, Jason would sit straight up on the edge of his chair and start sweating. Mrs. Quayare had us trained like dogs.
One of my favorite elementary school memories has to do with that pitchfork.
I was on my way to the bathroom, by myself. When I got this rare treat, I took full advantage of it. I touched the walls....the floor...got a drink...skipped, did a cart wheel, opened janitor closets and looked inside...(these were all the things I wanted to do every day, but would get in trouble for if I didn't stay in line). I'll admit it was always a let down to open the janitor's closet and see it filled with ordinary things like throw up sand and brooms. I had imagined the janitor danced inside her closet and hid her boyfriend in there, so of course my made up janitor closet had a disco ball and a man smoking inside it. The real one didn't have either of those things. The janitor's closet was also NOT a warp zone to the skating rink. That was my second guess.
After getting a long drink, with no teacher saying, "Hurry, let's hurry," I walked past Mrs. Quayare's room. From the hallway, I could see her piano...and on her piano...holy doe a deer, a female deer...there sat the tuning fork, unsupervised by Mrs. Mulan.
I looked inside the room.
Mrs. Quayare was gone...or maybe she painted her whole body white and was camouflaged up against her white bulletin board.
I took the chance.
I walked in, and picked up the tuning fork.
It was cold and heavy.
I remember not expecting it to be either of those things.
I slapped it on my hand, held it to my ear and heard the noise I had been wanting to hear for two years...
It was awful.
For some reason, I had imagined there were people inside this witchy tool, that would sing when slapped.
There was nothing but a ringing noise.
The noise I hate, that happens sometimes when I'm trying to sleep.
I put the heavy fork down, and ran out of the room accelerando.
I went back to class smiling.
Until I remembered the janitor's closet.
Then I went back to hating school.
So Happy President's Day.
Who has been a president of something?
Did you have a campaign slogan?
I want to laugh at you laughing at yourself.