Elementary School

On a run yesterday afternoon, I passed the elementary school near my house right as the buses were pulling out. The little baby crossing guards were wearing their little baby neon vests, and there were swarms of parents and children waiting to cross the street. I was instantly reminded of my own proud days as a patrol in 6th grade, and for the duration of my run I couldn't rid my head of its archive of vivid images of myself in elementary school. If this were a cheesy '90s television show, this would be where the character looks upward thoughtfully while the picture is distorted in waves and the dream sequence music starts to play in the background...

In elementary school (not the one I ran past), I was the dork who sat in the first seat of the bus, behind the driver, hugging my backpack to my stomach. I was quiet. I faced forward. I always waited for her signal to cross the street. During the holiday season when my mom would bake multitudinous loaves of cranberry and zucchini bread to hand out to neighbors and the mailwoman and garbageman, I delivered one to my bus driver with a sheepish smile. (Practically everything I did in elementary school was sheepish.) We knew each other by name. She knew where I lived and would sometimes drop me off right at the end of my driveway rather than down the street where the bus stop was, thereby making all the other kids walk. I considered it a small victory and celebrated quietly.

At Kokanee Elementary, I was friends with my principal. We had this thing where we would try to beat the other person to say, "My bus driver loves you." I'm sure it made sense back then, but right now I haven't the faintest idea how such a game came about. Whatever the reason, little Olivia found it endlessly entertaining. All I can think now is, God I was obnoxious.

I would spend recesses with my best friend Juliet rustling through the bushes looking for tiny colorful plastic balls--well, they were more like closed cylinders the size of a couple seed beads-- which we referred to as "Indian Beads." We made daisy chains and started a cartwheel club, of which we were the only two members. During track season, we borrowed a baton from our P.E. teacher and practiced relay hand-offs on the field. Juliet was the 3rd leg and I was the anchor. We were damn good. Sometimes we sat against the chain link fence outside our 4th grade classroom, where there were several 50-yard dash lanes painted onto the blacktop. Our teacher drove a battered white pickup which he often drove down to the classroom from the teachers' parking lot. For some reason, and again Elementary School Humor is clearly lost on Early-Twenties Me, Juliet and I got a kick out of standing at the end of the 5o-yard dash with our planted apart and our arms outstretched over our heads and begging our teacher to hit us with his car. I suspect we had even less intention of getting hit as Mr. W. did of hitting us, because every time he would get within ten feet of where we stood we would disperse, screaming.

One year for our school musical (Disney themed), I was Dumbo and Captain Hook. Dumbo because evidently my music teacher thought the part would suit me (should that have flattered me? "Here Olivia, you're just the person to wear this nice elephant suit!"), and Captain Hook because I had long, dark, curly hair and was the only person cast in the dance who was mature enough to handle a foot-long fake sword. Coincidentally I was the only girl. Go figure. That was the same musical in which I sang "Colors of the Wind" from Pocahontas while dressed in a black leotard (the first and last time I will ever wear a leotard) with a tri-colored skirt made from strips of sheer fabric. It was pimpin', let me tell you, and I stood proudly with my microphone despite the fact that my music teacher gave my first choice song, "Just Around the Riverbend," to a prettier girl with an even prettier voice who didn't even show up to audition. I seriously had to call this girl in front of my teacher and asked which song she wanted. I will never ever forget that.

I remember lots of jump roping, lots of double-unders and running laps around the gym to No Doubt's "Don't Speak." (Ah, the '90s.) I remember intense tetherball tournaments, and how one day during recess one kid (whose name and face I can recall perfectly but who shall, for the sake of privacy, remain anonymous) got whipped in the forehead with a kamikaze chain that had ripped itself off the pole. I remember being insanely jealous of the kids in the AV Club. I remember my friend braiding my hair while we sat in the foyer with our class and the other classes in the pod, listening to a teacher read to us from Where the Red Fern Grows. I remember the Shakespeare plays that our librarian used to direct, and how the only fight Juliet and I ever got in was over who would play Dromeo of Ephesus in The Comedy of Errors. (I got the part while Juliet played my twin, Dromeo of Syracuse. It suited us because back then we basically were twins. Fraternal, though, because the only physical trait we shared was curly hair.) I remember sitting in the cafeteria one day at lunch when a teacher told us to "eat the good stuff first." If her intention was to have us eat the healthy stuff, she should have been more specific. As it was, that statement signaled the start of a long and glorious tradition among my friends of beginning our meals with our desserts.

That's all for now. Go Kodiaks.
(Yes, our mascot is a predator of our school's namesake. 'Cause we're just that cool. And yes, I still consider myself a student.)

Poetry Corner Mondays

To make your Mondays just a little more enjoyable (especially now that Lie to Me is going on hiatus until mid-November), I have created what I am referring to as Olivia's Poetry Corner Mondays. Every week I will be sharing one of my favorite poems from one of my favorite poets. For those of you rolling your eyes in an exaggerated manner, I know who you are. And I'm not pleased.

I am implementing this new idea just in time for the House premiere next Monday (at 8pm on FOX!) with the hopes that the day everyone loves to hate will become cause for celebration. As if we even needed House.

So here it is, my poem for this week:

The River Styx, Ohio
-by Mary Oliver-

We drove through October, Grandmother pointing at cows;
Mother, bifocaled, squinting at maps for a crossroad.
We came instead to the River Styx, Ohio.

Dead leaves fell ruffling like an ugly lace
Down the brown hillsides, past some empty buildings.
We left the car and wandered through a field,
Three ladies pausing in indifferent space.

Some cows drank from a creek, and lurched away.
Whoever named the place learned the hard lesson,
I'd guess, without much fanfare or delay.
Farms to both sides shook, bankrupt, in the wind.

We hope for magic; mystery endures.
We look for freedom, but the measure's set.
There was a graveyard, but we saw no people.
We went back to the car.

Dim with arthritis, time, the muddied seasons,
Grandmother poised in the back seat again,
Counting the cows. My mother's tightening fingers
Scratched at the roads that would take us home. On the wheel
I tensed my knuckles, felt the first stab of pain.

Self-Portrait #2

This was my Melbourne life. Not all of it, and certainly not all of the best parts, but definitely none of the parts I want to lose. These are me.

Google Scribe: Shoot Me Now

I am an avid supporter of all things NPR. Several weeks ago I stumbled upon the Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me! blog which is, in my opinion, the Internet's single greatest offering. Wait Wait's latest post, the link to which is here, details the ridiculousness of Google Scribe. In case you are unenlightened about this phenomenon, Google Scribe is a service that offers words and phrases to you as you type. Maybe it's just me, but that doesn't even sound useful.

Inspired by Wait Wait's Ian Chillag, I spent more time than I care to admit playing with Google Scribe by entering common quotes (including offerings by Shakespeare, Dickens, Frost, and Dickinson) just to see what would happen. Needless to say, I am quite pleased with the results. (Note: I have italicized the original quotes for those who may be unfamiliar with them. I have also taken the liberty of bolding my favorites.)

"Out, damned spotted at the airport and then take them to their owners."

"Et tu, Brute Force Programs, Mail Bombers and Spam Scripts."

"Frailty, thy name is woman owned and operated by the Association for Computing Machinery and Intelligence Services Act of Ontario."

"How all occasions do inform against meningococcal disease in the United States and Canada."

"Alas, poor Yorick, I knew I was going to be able to see this on the map."

"A dagger of the mind, a false creation of any new or existing listing on eBay Stores."

"Do not go gentle into that good night's sleep and are not endorsed by or affiliated with Google in any way."

"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'ma keep it real."

"Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me and my family and friends."

"Houston, we have also included another software solution that includes healthcare compliance software and effective risk management solutions."

I don't think I could be more excited by a Google invention. I think what I am appalled by love most about this whole concept is the bastardization of classic lines by technological and gangster colloquialisms. I mean, since when is "I'ma" an appropriate contraction of "I'm going to"? You're on crack, Google Scribe. What a powerful tool to add to our list of things that make no sense at all.

Addendum: It has come to my attention that no one may understand this post. Lest I confuse my readership any more than is absolutely necessary, allow me to explain by using this simple four-step process:

1. Go to Google Scribe.

2. Type in a word or phrase.

3. Hit "Tab" to select the word they suggest. The more times you hit it, the more words they'll insert.

4. Laugh.

My Child Will Be the BoM

Remember my obsession with the Australian television series McLeod's Daughters? And remember how irate I was that the main character, Claire, was killed off at the end of the third season? Yes. Well. I'm still pissed. But I bring this up because at the beginning of the season she gave birth to a girl whom she affectionately referred to as "BoM" (Baby of McLeod). It thrills me that not only I am also a BoM (Baby of Margoshes), but I will also have a BoM. To ensure that this remains the case even if my offspring voices a strong desire to take my husband's last name, I have compiled a list of men I could marry who all have last names beginning with the letter M. As the end of the list will indicate, I'm not picky:

Tracy Marrow - A.K.A. ICE-T, BABY!!!!!!!! WE ARE SOULMATES!

Pat Monahan - The lead singer of Train. I recall telling my friends during our freshman year of college that I was going to "numchuck" Pat's wife. This is true, except now I'm going to nunchuck her.



Christopher Meloni - This would be the world's most perfect union, since on Law & Order: SVU he plays Elliot Stabler opposite Olivia Benson (and, in case you didn't know, my name is Olivia) and the sexual tension between them is so thick you could cut it with a piece of dental floss.




James McAvoy - I really have nothing to say about him except "Yes please."







Dermot Mulroney - See above







John Munch - I don't care if he's a fictional character. He's real to me.








Yo-Yo Ma - I must point out that with his last name, my child would be "BoMa." Which is awesome.




Barry Manilow - My BoM would for sure be a Fanilow. I'd sing "Mandy" while it was still in utero.






Cheech Marin - I'm just really excited that now I know his last name.







Sheen, Martin - Can I just say that I love what punctuation does for our language? One comma can turn a first name into a last. Like magic. And indeed Sheen, Martin is magic. Added bonus: PoTUS would by my husband and BoM would be my child.




John McCain - This one's just for shock value. But really, "BoMcCain"? It sounds like an off-brand anesthetic.






Meat Loaf - So his name is actually Michael Lee Aday (born Marvin), but when I was Googling celebrities with M last names (and yes, I'm just that cool), he was on the list. I think we would call our child "Baby Loaf." This is especially amusing for me considering that whenever I play 20 Questions with my best friend, we always begin with one of two questions: 1) "Is it bigger than a baby?" or 2) "Is it bigger than a bread box?" My child would a baby and a [bread] loaf.

Self-Portrait

I've decided that every once in a while I'm going to compile a collage of images that I think express how I feel about who I am. I will title these, appropriately, "self-portraits." Consider them the puzzles of my psyche.

Because I have been wanting to learn Polish for years, I will call this one "Jeden," which is "one" in Polish. I have no idea how to pronounce that.

4 Reasons Why I Should Not Be Allowed on the Bike Trail

1. When passing fellow bikers (or runners, or walkers, or renegade strollers left to plummet down the hill on their own), it is expected that you announce yourself by either ringing your bell or calling out, "On your left!" Because it has been two years since I've taken my bike out on the trail and had to abide by such regulations, I was completely anxiety-ridden whenever I approached another person. The closer I came, the more stressful--and difficult--it became for me to remember the magic phrase. On multiple occasions I ran through various utterances, searching for the proper one. "Orcas Island Pottery!" and "Good morning, Crow Valley Pottery!" were among my most frequent failings. I even once--and I'm not proud of this--almost announced, "Buddy the Elf, what's your favorite color?" Fail.

2. My chains desperately need to be oiled. I could hear them squeaking even with my iPod turned up to ear-splitting decibels. I'm fairly certain that the people I passed knew I was going to pass them even before I did.

3. Despite my best attempts to maintain a steady pace on the trail, I am as incapable of regulating my speed as I am of striking a match. For those who aren't aware, I am arguably the worst match-striker in the history of matches. This clearly does not have any direct bearing on the bike-riding scenario, but I feel that in some way the same deficient motor skills that prevent me from starting fires the Normal People way are also to blame for my inability to settle on a single biking speed. I dare you to dispute that airtight logic. (Also, my exercise clothing doesn't make me very aerodynamic.)

4. Though most of the rougher parts of the path are marked with bright orange spray paint that can probably be seen from another galaxy, I possess the remarkable gift of hitting every single pothole and piece of crumbling pavement. And puddles. All of them. Witnessing this, you'd think I never learned to steer a bicycle.