Dirty Old Prom Queen

In '98 I was the prom queen and in '06 I hang out with queens. I'm a private tutor during the day and a comedian at night in ol' NYC. I just can't seem to get out of high school...can someone call the custodian? Vesuvio, I'm locked in!

Thursday, December 29, 2005

A Little List

List One: ridiculous and inappropriate things that students from my senior math class have said to me (all completely true):

1) "Miss? Miss, you short." This was followed up by everyone getting up from their seats and lining up next to me to see if I was taller than anyone in the class. That's the thing about teaching fully grown high school seniors, I was only taller than two.

2) "Miss, are yours real? I know that a lot of white girls get 'em done." This is probably the best of many, many comments directed towards my chest. I have a chest but it is, by no means, conspicuous. I also answered that question with a simple "yes" and then continued on with trigonometry.

3) "Miss, I knoooow you smoke weed. Look at your eyes." Luckily, I avoided that question because I nonchalantly crashed into several desks and spilled my own soda.

4) "Miss, do you have a man? No? You mean that you go home and just sleep all alone...by yourself (to her friend) that is so sad. Miss, do you want us to hook you up with Mr. M?" I almost said yes to that because Mr. M was adorable. In fact, I used to call him Teacher Handsome in my head.

5)"Miss, would you like me to write on the board for you, since it is your day of national heritage?" A student's response to me saying, "Happy St. Patrick's Day!"

6) "Miss, you look good in that dress, because of your fat. I'm too skinny so I couldn't wear it." Contemplated teacher lounge bulemia after this one.

7) "Parabola? Like a pair a' balls!!"

8)"Miss, my bra just broke, can I go to the store and buy another?" I let her go because she was wearing a mesh shirt on top of it.

9)"Miss you know who you look like? John Mayer. He wears blazers just like you."

List Two: ridiculous and inappropriate things that I have said to my senior math class.

1) "Whoever gets the question right may say a pick-up line to anyone in the room." Everyone participated this day.

2) "I know it's hard not to come to my class high, but could you wait until later in the day at least?"

3) "But really, if you do become a hip hop star, can I be a back-up dancer in one of your videos? I swear that I will be just like the little white girl in the Missy Elliot videos."

4) "I'm literally going to vomit all over you right this second." My response to a boy saying that he wanted to start baby-making right away.

5) "I just think that Jay-Z's new album sounds too much like his last one." This bullshit statement garnered great respect from my whole class.

"Noony" Update

My bestie Jules has just called me on the phone to tell me how she somehow got Lubriderm lotion on her unitard. Obviously, your first question might be: "Why does she own a unitard?" My answer: "Because it makes her happy." Anywho, this disgusting little piece of information just led us to create the "nooniest" word ever:


Please keep in mind that we are not talking about a Crisco-covered fraternity boy or a "LUBRETARD."

P.S. If you did not read my earlier post where I defined "noony," it's basically my favorite word and I use it to describe anything that relates to nasty things middle-aged women might do, like calling "flip-flops" "thongs" or wearing shoulder pads or carrying Binaca in a The Sak handbag. By owning a unitard, Jules has just flashed her badge of nooniness, which is just fine, because there's a little "noon" inside all of us.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Baby Disclaimer

It just occurred to me that I need to clear a few things up about my little blog. I would like to take a minute to point out that this blog is not about me being the prom queen in the cool clique in high school (well, actually...) or my flawless complexion or my attractive family members or some girl who owns a flock of prize-winning poodles and parades them around town wearing nothing but a fruit roll-up bikini. No, this is not a bragging blog. This blog is not full of itself. This blog does not sleep with the head cheerleader and then give up all of the details to the underclassmen in the boy's locker room. Yes, I was the prom queen. Yes, I was popular (add an eye roll, sigh, and a shoulder shrug here). Yes, my brother is an adorable skater/surfer type with flaxen hair and a superstar smile. But I merely speak to these facts so that I can juxtapose them with my current situation as an irresponsible, poor, and often uncoordinated adult. These facts are facts that I carry around like a lace-lined, kitten-printed, security blanket. I know that when I finish this six-foot meatball sub in my lap and am stricken with gastro-intestinal pains, that while sitting on my porcelain throne, I can always fall back on my title as prom queen. Always. Even if I had malaria or was arrested for robbing.

I promise that at some point I will give you all the prom queen story. I am just trying to find a picture or two from that blessed event.

Too Cool for Nothin'

So, I am at my mom's house right now for Christmas break (although, I don't really go on Christmas break anymore, since I am an adult, so I guess it's just vacation time allotted by my company's human resources person) and I have been spending a lot of time with my youngest brother, who is 13. Not only is he 13, though, he is the trendiest, coolest, most attractive 13 year-old ever. Anywho, so I have been hanging out with my youngest brother and I can't help but try to act like the cool older sibling of every child's fantasy. Like the older sibling who takes her high school sibling to a college party and gives him just the right amount of beer but makes sure to keep him away from the harder stuff like angel dust and crank.

Has anyone seen my little brother? Oh, he's under the foam? Great. Thanks!

Unfortunately, though, our ages don't promote this kind of bond. 13 year-olds, aside from Little Girl Lost's Drew Barrymore, should not go to any parties especially the ones thrown by 25 year-olds. What would my 13 year-old brother do at a) a late night rager at some Brooklyn loft? or even more awkward, b) having relatively mild cocktail hour with the ladies at a downtown French bistro?

Clearly, I cannot prove my coolness through booze and partying. I also don't have the skater girl wardrobe or physique to assure these youthful rapscallions how vogue and with-it I am.

As a last resort, in conversation, I have just been throwing in dozens of perfunctory "awesome's." The answer to everything that a 13 yr-old could possibly ask.

Bro: "What do you think of my new skateboard? It's blahdiblah brand and its wheels are blahdiblah."

Me: Awesome

Bro: "Hey, have you ever seen the South Park where Butters goes to Raisins?"

Me: Awwwesome

Bro: "Lang, you've got a boog. You have a boog hangin' right outta ya nose. Really. You should get it. It's totally noticeable. Everyone can see. Look over there. That guy sees it. He's starin'. He's starin' hard. Just wipe your nose. Do you want me to hold the tissue for you?"

Me: Awesome.

And you might as well know that I also keep pointing out to these hooligans that I know how to drive...usually while manhandling the car keys.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

I'm Your Priiiiiiivate Guidance Counselor...Counselor for Money...

Today, I officially became my homeschooled student's guidance counselor. Since his only other option was his scrappy younger brother or an old table, he gave me a badge and knighted me right then and there. Some of you might doubt that I'd make a good counselor of any type , like those of you who witnessed me guzzle a pint of Applebee's Long Island Iced Tea last night in around 5 minutes just so my friend Matt would pay for it. Some of you might think, "that girl from Becky Yamamoto's Yamaholiday, who was wearing the tap shoes and tutu, is a guidance counselor? Oh the poor, little children who seek advice from that freak." But you guys...I'm not that bad...I was actually pretty helpful except...

...when I told this precious homeschooled child to put "Valedictorian" under the section where you list your academic achievements. It's not a lie, but do you think the people at Yale will get the joke?

Wednesday, December 21, 2005


As the transit strike drags on and people are telling their children to get into cars with strangers, I am having a little bit of a problem reconciling going to my 2-hour private tutoring appointments when there is a 5-hour round trip commute that involves, in no particular order, cabs, frozen feet, jet skis, homeless piggyback rides, and miniature horses. What's hilarious, though, is that before I can even consider cancelling on my students, they beat me to the punch. My phone today:


student A: Hey Lang...listennnnnn, theeere's a traaaansit strike happening...aaaaaaaaand I am like reeeeeaaaallly far away...aaaaaaand I have no way of returning home...ever...soooo I don't know how I'm gonna make it home for our appointment.

me: Oh okay. That's fine. Give me a call sometime when you want to reschedule.


student B: Hi Lang! Did we have an appointment today?

me: yes.

student B: Oops. I totally forgot and I'm on Christmas vacation...in the Galapagos.

me: your cell phone works in the Galapagos?

student B: (dial tone)


student C: Lang, listen...it's over between us...it was good when it was good, but those times are gone...all we do is fight now.

me: That's not true. What are you saying?

student C: I can't do this anymore. I love you but it hurts too bad to go on. I'm leaving you.

me: Damn you! Damn you Tommy and your games!!!

Anyway, so I got to stay in all day and watch the first season of the Sopranos and man, was it violent!

FYI, one thing that you never knew as a student: when there is a snow day or practice is cancelled or you have a field trip, your teachers are just (if not more) excited to get the day off.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Say Anything

Did any of you ever try to send in a fake "Say Anything" story to YM magazine? For those of you who don't know what "Say Anything" is, it is pre-pubescent girls' most embarrassing moments that they've sent in to the magazine so that other pre-pubescent girls can be like, "Oh my god! Could you even believe...could you just die...could you just kill yourself...could you just get murdered!!!"

My friends and I always tried to conjure up some ridiculous tale to send in to them, but never followed through with it. We did however badger the people at 1-800-TAMPON incessantly. Anyway, to write a perfect "Say Anything" story you really only need a few ingredients : a crush, your period, and a really cool party that your reputation depends on. The combination should result in something like this (for effect, please read with a lisp and maybe while chewing gum):

It was the day before Jimothy's co-ed Cinco de Mayo birthday party sleepover. I had to find a killer outfit -- one that would make Jimothy totally dump that stupid ho, Janessa, and make me his boo. So, my friend Jebecca and I went to the Limited, Too and found these dope corsets that made our boobs look as big as B's.
But, oh my God, while I was trying on my corset in the dressing room, I stepped on a tube of Bonne Belle lip gloss, fell through the dressing room door, and into the main store. At first, I was relieved that I wasn't hurt, but quickly I noticed that my left boobie had fallen out of the corset! And what was worse...my maxi pad had flown out of my capris and had hit Jimothy, who was shopping with Janessa, right in the face knocking him unconscious. I was mortified! Luckily though, Jimothy was out cold for the whole thing and when he came to, he said that he loved me and, guess what, bitches? We're still together! Tomorrow is our 25th wedding anniversary!

Not bad, right? But let's be real, clearly many of the "Say Anythings" are written by the YM 50-something, chain-smoking, childbearing secretaries. And why do I think that, you might ask? Well, because 15 year-old girls hardly have a sense of humor about their embarrassing stories. Granted, nooow, I can laugh about when I tooted during my 6th grade Presidential Physical Fitness test (during the "V-sit and reach"), but at the time, it was the only real heartbreak that I had ever known. The heartbreak of feeling like you might have just become the "gross girl" in the class. And a large percentage of the stories that are sent in from "real" girls are made up by a gaggle of giggly slumberparty-goers who are triznashed on candy and sodey-pop.

But what if, readers, what if real grown-up men and women had a "Say Anything" in a grown-up magazine where you can talk about sex, drugs, rock n' roll, and the always hilarious eating disorder embarrassing moment (Oh my god, I was totally purging this broccoli rabe, when Stephen walked in with a bouquet...which I ate, and then quickly purged. I was so embarrassed)? Actually, does a grown-up "Say Anything" thing like this exist? It seems like it might. Because, my friends, aren't R-rated embarrassing moments always funnier than PG ones?

How 'bout this one: Once, I was staying at a boy's house and I got out of bed to go to the bathroom. I looked at him and winked and said, "Be right back" in a cutesy voice, while putting on his robe. I walked out of his bedroom and, somehow, managed to fall down an entire flight of stairs, entangling myself in his oversized robe. Then, I limp-sprinted (running with a hurt leg) to the bathroom. He quickly threw open the door to ask if I was alright. With like bruises covering 40 percent of my body and teeth missing, I answered, "Yeah, totes. Why? Oh the noise! Right...nah, I just jumped. I'll be right up in a sec, handsome." Then, I winked again, but this time my eye fell out of the socket.

Okay, that's my story...if you have an embarrassing moment that you would like to share. Please post a comment.

Monday, December 19, 2005


I keep having dreams where I still have my braces on. I have had at least three in the last month. This morning, I woke up searching for my rubber bands. The odd thing is that when I realize that they aren't actually still on my teeth, I feel a little bummed. Then, of course, I snap out of it and realize that braces really are a nightmare and that I would never want to wear them again. Remember those weird loopy thingies that you were supposed to use to floss? Remember when you color-coordinated your braces for the holidays? Remember the kids whose gums got really swollen? Remember kids with big gums regardless of orthodontia, who still have big gums?

I would also like to add that in addition to braces, I had to wear that palate-expander item, where it was glued to the roof of your mouth and you had to use a little key to crank it wider. Man, would I throw back the Children's chewable Tylenol tablets after one of those cranking sessions. "Yo I just got crunk ma! Gimme some o' dat Chizzy Tizzy!" --what I would say to my mother afterwards...and then off to ballet class.

The worst thing that I had to wear was this device to correct your overbite called the frankel. Please look at the picture below, but basically it had two thigh-sized cheek guards connected by an infinite labrynth of wires. It was like putting your teeth into that Cat's Cradle string game, except that they had to stay there for the entire day and the string was made out of cold hard steel. Speaking was also impossible while wearing the frankel: "Exshcushe me Mish, but I ashked for shalami and shaurkraut. I don't shee the shalami...what there ish?...oh I didn't shee it on there. Theeeere it ish. Hey there shalami!...thish ish a shenshational shamwich...thish ish delishoush...shooper I tell you! Shashahshshahsshhhhhhhhhhhh!" I took my fifth grade photo wearing this thing and it looked like I had the mumps.

What a death trap! Look at the cheek guards!

Luckily, no more orthodontia for this lady...except for the mouthguard that I wear to prevent toothgrinding. There's nothing sexier than waking up to a young, naked 25 yr-old woman wearing a full-on sports mouthguard. Grrrrr....

Friday, December 16, 2005

The Hive

I went to boarding school in Colorado. When I got there, I joined a really edgy group of "cool" girls, who introduced me to Bad Religion and Green Day. The grunge movement was at its peak and I had completed the first of many hair dying cycles with purple Kool-Aid while sporting thrift store flannels and Docs. This group of girls was nicknamed the "Hive" by the rest of the freshmen during a special class meeting, where the other freshmen complained that the clique was far too intimidating. The entire Hive would later be suspended (included yours truly) for getting wasted at a Japanese habachi restaurant.

Before I went to high school and joined the Hive, I was a preppy Southern honor student who wore boat shoes, polos, and Clinique almost lipstick. But freshman year at boarding school, though I continued to take honors classes, really released that inner rebel trapped in my soul. And by rebel, I mean poser.

And now I bring you the greatest poser moments of my freshman year of high school:

1. Lying about previous drug usage.
I'm pretty sure that I told a few of my Hive friends that I had experimented with acid all throughout middle school. The real bute though was when I told them that I had bought cocaine from a one-armed homeless man in L.A. and did it in my hotel room. Clearly, they knew that I was lying, and unfortunately for me, The Fugitive was a really popular movie at that time. So, whenever it came on, everyone would be like, "heh, there's Lang's dealer." This, of course, made me take to my bed with shame.

2. Tattoo and ear piercings -- self inflicted. It was only natural that I, a severe hypochondriac and pussy galore, should try to pierce my own ears and give myself a tattoo. I got my second set of holes at Claire's in the mall -- hard fucking core!! But I thought being symmetrical was douchey, so I gave myself (with a tetanus-laced needle) another hole on one side, which I still have, and which is totally not in line with the other two. The tattoo was another story, two of my friends and I tried to give ourselves tattoos by using pen ink and a needle. I ended up giving myself a tattoo of a...can you guess?...a circle. That's right. A circle. And not for reasons of pain, mostly I just couldn't come up with an idea. So, for about a month, I had a stupid circle tattooed on my foot. Idiot.

3. When I smoked but didn't inhale and pretended to be stoned. The first time I smoked pot, I had no idea how to inhale, but I certainly method acted my way into "Mary Jane's Last Dance." As a grown up, who has been stoned a time or two, I now realize that being high is more about chillin' and watching reruns of Cagney and Lacey, whereas freshman Lang thought it was more like a Pentacostal zealot in the middle of a visionquest -- lots of hootin' and hollarin' and gymnastics.

4. When I seduced, made out, and ran away from the cutest boy in the freshman class. It was a dream come true, when young M told me that he liked redheads (thank you Glintz Raspberry Fantasy -- hair dying round #2). I confidently grabbed his hand and said, "wanna take a walk." We walked from his dorm to the #1 school bus and there, in the 11th row, we frenched our brains out. I got to 2nd base for the first time, which means nothing for a girl. (Do you really get to a base if someone feels you up?) And then, my future flashed before my eyes...what would people say? I can't be the school hussy (P.S. this would've been impossible due to the extremely slutty, anorexic upperclassmen). Will it show up on my transcripts? I wanna go to a good school. Does Columbia accept sluts (yes. yes they do.)? Anywho, I jumped up and said, "I can't do this. We're not in a relationship!" (Ugh, I hate when teenagers use that word). And then I ran off the bus.

Oh freshman year, so far away in my past...so comfortably far away in my past.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

I Can't Help but Hate...

when high schoolers/middle schoolers use the word "relationship." Especially, when they put the words "serious" or "long-term" in front of it. It's awkwardly precocious, not to mention a little grody. It reminds me of when I was little and I didn't know the words "hair dresser" or "stylist," so I would say "beautician." What a disgusting little baby I was? Anyway, I mean, is getting felt up in the back of your parent's van really a "relationship?" When your crush holds your ankles in a keg stand, does that really mean "forever?" And when you spend 15 minutes using Clinique "straight out of the free gift, so the color is for the complexion of a Sri Lankan woman" concealer to camouflage the Buick-sized hickey on the jugular part of your throat (older men know where to put their hickeys) is that really just another way of saying "I love you?"

My roommates and I were watching that MTV show, Miss Seventeen, and this 16 year-old up-and-coming rocker tells one of the girls that he just got out of a long-term relationship. I wondered, "when did this relationship start?" When you were FIVE? Ha! Because you are not very old at all for a person.

And now, that I, the incredibly sage love wizard, has said my peace on this, I think it's time that I retire to my incredibly grown-up room to draw hearts and write "I Love Renaldo" (he's the cute janitor at work) all over my Fil-o-fax, while I wonder, "whose heart am I gonna have to break today? Whose?"

Update: Boniva

Thanks to Hot Lips, I now know that the prescription drug commercial where the women do the "kick move" and go on a power walk is called Boniva. Who has seen that commercial? Those women are so jazzy!!

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Speaking of "Noony"

It's true that high school girls often do everything in pairs: go to the bathroom, study, shave each other's legs. But one thing that high school chicklets absolutely MUST do in a twosome is go to the gym!

I remember when I was in high school, my friend Leslie and I would go for early morning runs or my friend Liz and I would do the Rachel Hunter kickboxing workout together or, even better, my friend Molly owned MTV's the Grind workout. Anyway, the point is if you weren't on side-by-side stairsteppers talking about how another girl (who wasn't there) talks about people behind their backs, then you weren't really working out. And if you didn't have the requisite "am I getting fat? No, honestly, you'd tell me right? Am I retardedly huge right now?" then you couldn't reasonably leave the gym and go take a shower. A girl needs to know if she's become morbidly obese overnight. Otherwise, how else is she supposed to strap on the same pair of Umbros day in and day out?

One thing is for sure, though, catty teens love to make fun of the older, worst-dressed, and often less agile grown women at the gym. And it wasn't until recently that I realized that I am that older "noony" woman. A few events have brought me to this conclusion:

1) I fell off of my exercise ball after doing one crunch.The ball rolled past a pair of twiggy teens on their yoga mats and then across the entirety of the gym, where it stopped in what I like to call the "boy" section (where all of the meatheads are lifting 1000 lb weights). So, I had to walk, in all of my sweaty-blotchiness, across the length of the gym to retrieve my ball. As I returned, I noticed that the teens were doing that laugh where you press your lips together and look at the ceiling (as if to be like, "Oh my god...I'm about to laugh...I can't believe it! I'm...bout...to...explode!!!") I wished they would've just laughed, it would've been far less humiliating. And, of course, I had to get back on the ball even though I was terrified of falling off again, just to show them that I was not a douchebag.

2) I was hit by a cab wearing the most unflattering stretch pants ever. I remember thinking, while leaving the gym, "God I hope that I don't run into anyone I know, not with these darn stretch pants on." Luckily, it wasn't my work crush that I ran into, but a large yellow cab, like a Chrysler LaBaron. Due to the slickness of the stretch material, though, I literally glided across and then off the hood in an almost rhythmic way. Luckily, when the paramedics and police came, neither said anything about the pants.

3) I let one go in the direction of an Orthodox Jew teen in my Awesome Abs class -- BUT IT WAS ONE OF THOSE CRUNCHES WHERE YOUR LEGS AND ARMS ARE MOVING AT THE SAME TIME!!! It's not my fault. Also, obviously, this Ortho teen was there with her Ortho teen friend and even though they are religious, they still know how to shoot a mean glance. (FYI , they take off their ankle-length skirts for ab classes. In case you were interested.)

But honestly, does this mean that I have reached a "nooniness" factor of my infamous gym cohort Teva Braids-a-Lot (see previous post)? And also, would it make things better if I took a friend to the gym? Because, let's be real, who thinks that that prescription drug commercial, where that quartet of old women do that "kick move" and then go for a power walk, is cool? (I wish I could remember the drug so that I could link it, but I can't). I think that I've just resolved to be alone in my gym nastiness. I don't need to gossip while I am on the treadmill, they have TVs and Law and Order is on at all hours of the day.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

What is "Noony?"

"Noony" is a word that you must know in order to read this blog, because it will most likely be used in every other post.

"Noony" was invented by my good friend Julia Langbein and me to describe the essence of a middle-aged woman who takes herself a little too seriously...to a really gross degree. If you don't understand, yet, what "noony" means. The following things are "noony:"

I have created a star (*) system to distinguish between the different levels of nooniness.
* noony
** ubernoons
*** noontown, USA, population nasty.

1) drama teachers **

2) pantyhose *

2a) wearing pantyhose with open-toed sandals ***

3) the word "blouse" **

4) feminine wipes ***

5) perms *

6)Barbara Streisand in The Prince of Tides; Michelle Pfeiffer in Up Close and Personal ***

stirrup pants **

8) the 40-something lady at my gym who insists on standing topless in high-cut briefs and tevas (with socks!!!!) while combing her frizzy, red, lopsided braid for god only knows how long. ******************************************************************************

Gross enough?

Monday, December 12, 2005

While I was writing a Physics Problem

While creating a physics problem where a hamburger was dropped out of a small propeller plane, I looked over at my waiting 9th grader, who was IMing her friend. This is what she wrote:

Her friend: So, I'm going to the Cannes film festival.

My student: Yeah, I'll probably go next year.

Her friend: Cool.

What?? Here's an excerpt from my current IM conversation with my friend Emily:

Emily: yeah, he ran his bike into a brick wall when he was 8, so has had a bridge since then

: lol

: and he recently had to get it removed and currently has a retainer w/ the two teeth built in

: he gets real teeth again in a few months

: I had two friends in high school who had to wear those

: My friend Holly called them her "teef"

Far less sophisticated than the 14 yr-olds.

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Does Anyone Remember...

what 9.8 m/s^2 means? It's the acceleration on a free falling object due to Earth's gravitational pull. You would know this if you are a) pursuing a career in physics or engineering; or, less lucrative, b) tutoring a wealthy private school teen on a Sunday afternoon with a raging hangover and yesterday's clothes on. Guess which one is me? (cue: vomit)

Such is the life of a private tutor -- a balance of appropriate and inappropriate; of mentorship and scandalization. It's only when I am creating a make-believe problem about a meteor's velocity falling toward Earth, that I remember to take my birth control. It's usually during an in-depth explanation of the Pythagorean Theorem that my cell phone rings sounding the "Thong Song." And it's only when my cutest, most reticent 8th grader shows me his 99 average in Math that I shout "fuck yeah!" jumping up and down in a Twiggy-short mini-skirt (there is no dress code for private tutors -- a fact that I have grasped to my heaving bosom and refuse to let go of).

I am a good teacher, but also 25!!! single!!!a comedian!!! and a NEW YORKER!!! I can't really behave for my students, nor do they ask me to. In fact, I feel like those inappropriate moments are what make me as good as I am. It's the fact that I can make an SAT-level rate problem, where the students (going 60 miles per hour) get to stalk, chase, and determine just how long it will take them to catch Usher (going 50 miles per hour). Everybody knows that Rate x Time = Usher!