the side effects of being over-caffeinated

How do you know when you have a crush on someone? Sometimes it’s hard for me to gauge my emotions. (don’t worry; my therapist says that being aware is a big, good step forward. cool.) Ridiculous or no, though, I have a hard time with things that aren’t logical. If it doesn’t make sense, I’m going to struggle; I can promise you that. I know what you’re all thinking “But Jenna, how do you even live in a world where bologna is spelled “b-o-l-o-g-n-a” with an attitude like that?” I’ll tell you how. I stopped eating meat. Take that, inconsistencies!*

Feelings do not make sense. The only consistent thing about them is that they are always changing. (This is where my most favorite English Professor would say “…mutability” in this slow, almost creepy way to ingrain in our minds the inevitability of change and its significant impact on all good literature, but none of you were there, so it’s not funny to you like it is me–why am I still writing about this?!) Where were we? Right, FEELINGS. They are the worst. So in working with something so impossibly challenging, I of course see a personal challenge. How do you master feelings? You create a framework for them to function within, then you pretend like they naturally make sense (and ignore the fact that they only make sense because you’ve now manipulated the system and shaped everything to your liking).

I realize that the only convincing I’ve done so far is to assure you that I am indeed a hot mess, mentally (and otherwise if we’re being real, but come on you guys we can’t follow every rabbit trail), so now let me attempt to convince us that feelings can be logical.

A quick poll of some people I know ( I mean, people on the streets because we’re all about objectivity here)** revealed that there are a few consistencies present in the emergence of a developing “crush”. (At this point I would like to be commended for avoiding the rabbit trail of discussion regarding why “being minimally attracted to without pressure or excessive expectation of someone” is referred to as having a “crush on someone”. I want to OED this business so bad, but I won’t. For your sake, and actually more so because I don’t think I have access to that database anymore and because I don’t want to put you to sleep with my fondness of semantics.) (LONGEST PARENTHETICAL ASIDES EVER; I FEEL SO DICKENSIAN RIGHT NOW) Apparently one begins the process of recognizing one is beginning the process of “crushing” by noting the evidence of the following things:

1. You become a stalker (albeit a socially accepted one).
Two words. Social. Media. It starts simply enough, “Oh, I’ll just scroll through their twitter feed.” You think it’s innocent enough; you feel like you’re just getting a feel for their sense of humor, but before you know it you’re pages deep and you’ve decided you know with complete accuracy their driving motivations, (potential) favorite Girl Scout cookie type, and (theoretically) who they voted for 2 elections ago. This is the point where you should exercise restraint. But you don’t, not if you’re crushing. No, no, if you’re crushing, this is the part where you start clicking on @replies and reading complete conversations between PEOPLE YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. This is how you learn that they love Garth Brooks or went to the Bahamas last year or have 4 siblings and are pseudo-dating a girl named Carla. This can be a turning point for you because these things, that you’re not even supposed to know yet, will either solidify your commitment to stalk or end your PI days before they ever stand a chance. Should you choose to continue down this slippery slope, you move towards the next apparent signifier.

2. You become a good stalker (and probably not as socially acceptable as you are with stage one).
You’ve decided that their weird infatuations and *surely* innocent connections with all the other people they talk to are not a threat, so now you’re safe to move on to, let’s say, Instagram. Apparently being really curious about what they’re seeing and doing is important to you if you have a crush on someone. Sometimes it gets weird here, because as I discovered (in that completely objective poll I mentioned earlier) good media stalking goes hand in hand with real-life-someone-could-probably-press-charges-against-you stalking. One minute you’re scrolling through scores of sunsets, the next you’re accidentally cooing over a picture you found (probably by perusing their “tagged pictures”) of them giving butterfly kisses to a kitten they saved from the top of an oak tree and the next minute you’re accidentally ‘heart-ing’ a photo of them at a coffee shop that you’re going to just-so-happen to appear at 20 minutes later, and friends, that’s the end for you.

But maybe you’re not convinced yet. Maybe you need more hard-hitting evidence (It’s me. I’m the choir I’m preaching to here). Good thing for me you I always over-do it with the research.

3. You get really intentional.
You’re introverted? You’ve never said one word to AH single friend in their group, ever before? Those days are gone. Now you are so super into ALL the different things ol’ Margret can knit in under 5 minutes and you’ve at least heard of InDesign, so duh you’ll totally make some posters for their friends in that one up-and-coming band. What’s that? Your group is going bowling? Sure, bowling is gross and unsanitary and only minimally entertaining, but if their friends love it, SO. DO. YOU. and you will be there. with bells on, and maybe one of everyone’s favorite kind of cookie in hand too. “Tell me again about that one time he/she got really embarrassed over that one thing…” you’ll request. “Oh how funny”, you’ll say as you make a mental note to never ever suggest sushi or anything with rooftop seating. Can’t be too careful.

The next piece of evidence I’ll submit for review was apparently inevitable and present in 110% of all cases of “crushing”.

4. You get weird.
Word on the street is that no matter how hard you try to be cool, you will end up being an idiot. Examples may include, but are not strictly limited to:

Crush: Did you see that funny thing on Fallon last night?
You: Duh. So hilarious.
sidenote: you didn’t.
Crush: ((yeah.))
You: ((Gasp for air because you’re like wheeze-laughing to prove you really did see it and you thought it was so super funny.))

Crush:You know sometimes I dip my fries in ranch.
You: OMG. Sometimes I go an entire week without showering.
sidenote: you do not at all understand the rules of this game
Crush: ((yikes))
You: ((hippies are coooooooooool shoulder shrug))

Crush: Hey do you want to grab a strawberry smoothie?
You: Of course! They’re my favorite
sidenote: you’re actually really allergic to strawberries
Crush: ((Cool, things in common))
You: ((YAYY THINGS IN COMMON. LACK OF BREATHING CAPABILITIES. DEATH))

5.You find yourself saying “Who am I?” a lot. (and you mean it. you’re legitimately confused about it).
I think once you find this particular phenomenon beginning to happen you’re more than likely also saying “He [she] smells good” and you’re having a hard time looking them in the eyes and you’re completely unable to fathom why your hair suddenly “NEVER works the way it should” (actual quote from research). And the butterflies. Let’s include them here.*** Those things are multiplying like freshman girls at a Leagues show, and somehow you don’t find the feeling of imminent potential vomit enough of a deterrent to alter any of your current life choices. Having a crush is maybe the boldest thing you can do.

My mom says “You know when you smile if you think of them”. Which whatever, because by that same logic I’m crushing on multiple burritos, nail polishes, and dead poets. but yeah, she’s probably right.

Or, maybe none of this is true. And maybe you just “know when you know”. Nah, that’s dumb. Look for the signs, and be sure to over-analyze things that way if you do end up having a crush you can realize it before you commit too many social faux pas-es (uhhh, French plurals, SOS). Or just do you. Either way, good luck and God speed.

*Although I am in fact a vegetarian, it has absolutely nothing to do with the spelling of a fake sandwich meat.
**This is also not true; I am being just the biggest liar in this post.
***Did you know that caterpillars literally DIGEST THEMSELVES to become butterflies? (Did I just get weird on you?) (DO I HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU?!)
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The 4 stages of Nashville.*

Unmitigated Awe. You develop almost instinctively a respect for the variety of people, style choices, and coffee preferences; a respect that causes you to defend strangers on the street to your tourist relatives.

 

Unfortunate Prejudice. You suddenly know with great conviction that the coffee shop (or coffee parlor, if you will) that you frequent is far superior to that other one around the corner half a block up in that abandoned gas station, and God help you if you actually drink the stuff they call coffee at the one where you sit on high stools and communicate your order to the barista using only your eyes.

Ubiquitous Cynicism. Somewhere along the way (and transition into this stage is almost imperceptible), your first response starts to become “yeah, ok”. You doubt that anyone is doing anything just because they like it; you doubt that anything can change; you doubt that anything can stay the same; you question all things and all people.

Unfaltering Pride. You’ve seen it, heard it, felt it, and now this is your city. Weird or not, elite or not, ridiculous or not, you love the people, the sights, the sounds, and heaven knows you’ll throw serious shade on anyone who dares to question anything about it.

*These stages are mostly sarcastic, developed mainly for entertainment purposes only, and represent the opinions of the author solely, not all of Nashville. (so calm down, Nashvillians.)

the longest story about cookies you’ll ever read.

So recently I received an invitation to an adult Christmas party. I say adult to reiterate the fancy-ness of this event. No tacky sweaters, no dumb white elephant waste of money, no gingerbread competitions (I feel it my duty as your honest correspondent to let you know that MY Christmas party this year was tacky themed, and I personally created the gumdrop walkway for my group’s gingerbread house). The invitation to the adult party however, specified that we would be having none of those childish antics. This party would be fancy.

At this point you’re probably like “poor Jenna, her dirty bird’s nest haired self surely hates fancy”, but you’re wrong! I love a good fancy. It theoretically gives me a chance to wear those black glittery stilettos that make me amazon-woman height, again. (let me spell out reality for you here, those shoes have only seen the inside of AUM’s gym when they were worn for the only time in their existence at my college graduation) Neither here, nor there, people! The invitation made me excited about dressing up (translation: brushing my hair, brushing my teeth, and brushing the lint off my dress). And even better, you get to bring your own treat to this party! YAYYYyy..yyy.y..

Sooooo, here’s the thing with bringing your own treat to a fancy party, it’s gotta be fancy right? (Remember we’re in my mind right now, dear reader, and so the resounding answer is?) Right! Even better, still too naive to be daunted I opened my new most favorite app (Yummly: seriously, such a good one) and quickly found both a sweet and a savory treat that I was going to hand-make and take.

Here’s why I didn’t recognize my delusions of grandeur just yet:

  1. Both recipes had less than 4 ingredients. ONE OF THEM HAD ONE INGREDIENT.
  2. The pictures that they find to represent the recipes are phenomenal. It took excessive restraint to avoid licking my phone’s screen.
  3. The directions are super simple. Again, less than 5 steps- “I bet my baby niece could do this without looking” she said smugly to herself.
  4. PARTY MODE. Anything and everything you want to do is accessible and possible and the best idea you’ve ever had when you’re in party mode.

I imagined me placing each treat in a pretty little vintage container. I smiled to myself as I saw people oohing and ahhing and barely believing that they weren’t store-bought (evidenced only by the fact that mine looked so much prettier than the store bought ones). I heard people asking for more and amongst many declarations of “oh my goodness, try this” and “i die” I saw myself blushing slightly and shrugging my shoulder with an ever-so-slight flip of my hair. It was majestic, potentially prophetic, if you will.

Then I went to the grocery store. Not 2 weeks early because I was so excited to gather and prepare for my 15 minutes of fame like I should have, no, no, I went the night before the party. I guess now it’s finally time to tell you what exactly I was going to make.

A) “Spicy Cheddar Appetizer Cookies”    and
B) “Raspberry Almond Layered Icebox Cookies”

(( side note : EVERYONE CALM DOWN WITH THE RECIPE NAMES. if there is one thing I have learned, it is that food people will go the extra mile to make you feel uncultured. You know what that drizzle of chocolate over that one scoop of ice cream on my 12×12 square plate is? Cruel temptation; it’s like you want me to swipe at it with my dirty finger. You know what that sprig of grass hanging over the side of my soup is? Unnecessary; if I wanted to eat weeds I would’ve ordered your salad fancy folk. You know what “Spicy Cheddar Appetizer Cookies” are? Smooshed cheese straws; cut with aholiday cookie cutter.))

It may have been a mere 24 hours before I was to unveil my creations at this party, but I waltzed up into that Kroger like I owned it. After all, I had simple recipes with beautifully rendered photographs on my phone, and at 4 items long, the most impressive shopping list ever.

Then. The. Search. Began.

Let me tell you what you’re not waltzing up into your local chain grocery store and finding: ANYTHING on my list. Oh right, you don’t know yet, here’s the list:

  1. Spicy Cheddar Cheese Straw Dough
  2. Spice Cookie Dough
  3. Raspberry Jam
  4. Blanched Almonds

Thus it began. I started calmly and with “easy” things. Jam. Raspberry Jam. Cool, people love jam so this should be quick. …Jelly, jelly, jelly, preserves, jelly, preserves…no jam. Now a quick google search (YES I DID A GOOGLE SEARCH, don’t act like you know the technical differences between the two) of jam vs preserves. They’re different, it turns out, and 2/3 of the websites I clicked said they’re not generally interchangeable in fancy recipes. Here’s to you, third website! Got the preserves.

Next I thought, almonds, that’s my go-to “vegetarians don’t get enough protein and stuff” disputer, I should totally be able to find some blanched ones. But blanched…as in gag? or Devereaux? (Cooks apparently get to make up words with no repercussions.) (FYI “blanched” means without their skins. Good luck buying them that way) Apparently though, they’re easy to do yourself with some steamy water and a bowl (4/4 websites said so), but this is the point in the story where panic set in. What if I can’t blanch them properly? What if I can’t make steam? What if they get soggy? What if doing this takes all my energies?! No, no thank you, I’ll just buy them sliced up…then there’s only a little skin. The whole point of that was probably so the end product would look prettier anyways and I’m now 45 minutes past even caring what the end product looks like. (this is foreshadowing at its finest)

So moving along, the doughs. I probably walked the same 2 aisles a good 12 times each, passing the same cute boy 24 times, refusing to make eye contact with the same savvy mom 12 times (she was much more efficient than me and my short-term-grocery-store-boyfriend; guess she knew what she was looking for). But all of this to no avail. THERE WAS NO DOUGH. And in that moment, I knew what must be done, I dropped the Spicy Cheddar Appetizer Cookies recipe like it was hot. Pretty sure I audibly exclaimed “you’re not worth it” which wasn’t the wisest exclamation when you recall the aforementioned company I was in.

No matter, I’m only looking for spice cookie dough now, easy peasy. Nope. Kroger is not fancy like all that. At Kroger you can have the chocolate chip cookie dough, the sugar cookie dough, or the chocolate chip cookie dough. So I again referenced ye old google who told me that to make my own spice cookie dough I will need an additional 10 ingredients. aaaaannnnd we’re done. Obviously I picked up two ROLLS of sugar cookie dough.

This is the part where everyone always gets all, “Well duh, Jenna, you didn’t use the same ingredients as the recipe, of course it turned out like it did” to which I will respond, true. But also, until you can prove to me that those pictures online are real food and not delicacies from Emeril’s imagination that someone dreamed up in Photoshop, I will not respond to any of your (highly logical) points.

So after that endeavor, when I finally get home, I’m not even in the mood to make anything. So I don’t. [insert nail painting and record playing here] Cue day of party.

I decide to look at the recipe again because surely it won’t be that hard and no cookie will take longer than the two hours I have between work and the party. Oh, I’m sorry, suddenly now, we’re ALL supposed to know that icebox cookies have to be refrigerated for hours at a time all along the way? And that 2 hours minimum is indeed essential? Great. Guess I know where I’m spending my lunch hour today.

Not a big deal though, l’ll just prepare the cookies at lunch and bake them after work. The dough has already been in the fridge, so it’s totally not necessary to open it, unroll it, then put it back in, let’s just skip that step! Also don’t own a rolling pin, but we can improvise! Oh wait, there’s no more flour in the apartment either? And be straight with me, it IS or ISN’T advisable to use this jar of salsa like a rolling pin? cool. I’ll use my hands.

So I smashed all the dough flat–did that recipe say 1/8 of an inch or 18/8 of an inch because the the thickness of my dough here is certainly within the parameter of 18/8 of an inch. I cut up the dough and layered ingredients as the recipe directed, but given that the cookie is much thicker when flattened with my human hand as opposed to being flattened with a rolling pin, MY cookies are only 3 layers deep instead of Martha Stewart’s 6-9 layers. (MARTHA! How do you even defy gravity like that?!) Eventually the dough started getting really soft, so I traded the knife for a cookie cutter and made some cookie sandwiches. Then the dough started losing its will to live and I couldn’t peel it from the paper or my hand so I called it a day (an hour) and put the pizza pan full of icebox cookies* (*term used loosely) into the fridge and headed back to work, questions like “will they be edible,” “should I warn people before they partake,” and “is Martha Stewart really a robot after all” running through my mind.

After work I returned home full of anticipation. First thing I did (was actually not check on the cookies, but let’s pretend for the climax of this story’s sake it was) was check the cookies! Sure enough, they were hard as a rock, seemingly affected by the “icebox” in the best possible way. So I consult my handy app, see that they need to now be put in the oven at 350 degrees for 12 minutes, and do so.

Now at this point, I’m home free. I have done the manual labor, wasted my lunch break, and have nothing left to do except expect the hallelujah chorus to unexplainedly be playing as I pull a pan of beautiful perfection out of my oven. Self-assured, I allowed Siri to make me a timer (clearly revealing the nature of my spirit as I would generally rather die than let Siri help me; I AM SPEAKING ENGLISH, MACHINE; everyone else understands me just fine.), and I continued getting ready for the party.

Fast forward a few Katy Perry jams and an eyelash curling later, and my timer goes off. IT’S TIME! Unsuspecting of the tragedy we all know was about to befall me, I excitedly opened the oven to find the most horrifc, troubling pan of straight goo.

They.

Filled.

The.

Whole.

Pan.

They expanded like a pregnant Kim Kardashian, and were equally frightening to behold (I know, I’m a bully. Sorrynotsorry. ok, I’m kind of sorry). So with all my intellectual prowess, my problem solving solution was to cook them the rest of the way like normal cookies should be cooked and then carve them with a cookie cutter. Move slowly and no one will ever know what happened.

Fast forward a few Beyonce songs and few dress changes later, and they’re done baking. They look an awful lot like something diseased, certainly not appealing and as they sit there for like 2 minutes, they harden into these vicious bricks that people could potentially crack their teeth on and sue me over. (Also I don’t even like sugar cookies so I don’t know if it even tasted appealing) The only real solution here was evident; I ran into the Publix on the way to the party, ignored the judgmental gazes of my fellow shoppers (which were probably mostly because I was wearing a coat in 65 degree weather [GET IT TOGETHER NASHVILLE it’s December]) grabbed some macaroons and gingerbread cookies, and blamed it all on my lack of domesticity when I got to the party.

What counts is I tried. And what really counts is that I know my limits. Live and learn and eventually stop pretending that buying it at Publix isn’t the only option. Because it so is.

that gross looking bit is the raspberry jam and almonds. debauchery.

20131220-125122.jpg

kiddos

I would like to begin by lamenting over the word “kiddo”. I hate that word; I hate when people call children kiddos; I hate it as a term of endearment; I hate it. Another thing I hate? Being wrong. Constructive criticism, fine. Redirection, fine. Starting from square one, fine. Being wrong, NO. I know it happens a lot, but being wrong really is the absolute worst to me.

Children on the other hand, ALWAYS THINK THEY’RE RIGHT. And since I do the nanny thing fairly consistently as well as work in an elementary school*, I am fairly consistently being told I’m wrong. It drives me insane. “If you push that button, the volume will go up.” “No it won’t.” “Yes, you just have to point it that way.” “No it won’t.” “Let me show you.” “No! It can’t do that.” …whatever kid! Enjoy not listening to your show about dumb cartoon people that don’t even understand object permanence; NOT! ’cause you can’t hear it.

That’s where it comes from I guess. As a kid, you don’t want to hear “no” so you just tell everyone else “no” and then do what you want, operating under the assumption that everything you are is right anyways. Then you grow up. And struggle with having little kid feelings in a big grown-up world. And eventually decide writing a book about all the ways kids have so injudiciously condemned your opinions might be a lucrative endeavor.

If you were sitting beside me right now, this would be the part where I unexpectedly belt out The Circle of Life Lion King style.

*Sometimes I forget that I write drafts. Then I find them. Then I post them, irrelevant information and all.

GIF LIFE.

Home from camp. And I can’t remember the last time I was this excited about anything. Here’s a quick look back and forward for those of you still faithfully keeping up with me.

How I feel about being home

The things I’m going to be doing for the next week:

My reaction so far to wanting to talk about camp:

(but my feelings in 1 picture that’s worth 1,000 words):

ttyl. xoxo -j

 

reasons why being bad at tag Might equal being bad at dating

As previously stated, on a playground is where I spend most of days (ok, ok it’s actually inside a school building, but I wanted to get the Fresh Prince stuck in your heads), and I’m finding more and more that there are lots of life applications to be made there. This week it dawned on me that the game “tag” (specifically freeze tag) and dating are an awful lot alike. This led to some introspective sarcasm, and thus this post was born.

When you embark on a game of tag, someone has to be declared “it”, and as a participant you have to find the perfect mixture of willing to be it, but somehow managing to not actually be it. I am not good at finding this balance. Every time, I’m either adamantly NOT it (which either means, you will be it [because people are rude] or they’ll decide your obstinacy prevents you from being a viable tagging target [because people are rude & you wouldn’t chase them if they tagged you]) OR I’m all “ok, ok I’ll be it” (and then…you have to be it.). I’ll spell out the dating implications here briefly, it means either you’re

or you’re

except not all sweet like this…since he’s actually Prince charming.

 

But let’s say you master the first hurdle and aren’t it, but are instead running from the tagger. Eventually, they’ll tag you, and you’ll wait to be untagged, and then it gets interesting. In my observation, it’s an unspoken rule that once you’re unfrozen, you have to jog backwards in slow motion loudly exclaiming “oh, I am free again, I sure hope I don’t get caught agaaiiinnnn”. This is problematic for me because I have a hard time going backwards. Looking backwards, sure, but intentionally going backwards? Nope, I like to get all Walt Disney Meet the Robinsons on life  and shout “KEEP MOVING FORWARD” at everyone [side note: this will not make you a crowd favorite at hockey games or in an airport. Trust me.] Either you tag me or you don’t. Call me or don’t. I’m not even trying to be about enticing someone…ain’t NObody got time fo dat.

(parenthetical aside)

 

And if I’m playing a game where the goal is to outsmart you and escape, I WILL OUTSMART YOU AND ESCAPE. And I won’t even begin to realize the error of my cunning intricacies until several years post college my leg starts cramping from the precarious position I’ve wedged myself into underneath the swirly slide’s steps.

I’ll be honest, in my playground days, I was the tag player who quit after being tagged more than once, because yeah right, like I’m going to stand here and wait for someone to untag me? Watch this you bunch of dopes, I’M NOT ACTUALLY FROZEN. (apply that to dating as you will)

Besides, whenever I play tag, I generally look like this

and metaphorically, it’s much the same for dating.

 

*this was the hardest post to write because I abhore the word “it”. Guess ‘it’s’ not such a pointless word after all.

This week, in brief.

Here’s my week in short. at some point, someone disagreed with me, to which my prompt response was:

because, I’m right. always. and then our district decided to shorten the school year 2 days because the snow hated us this winter and all. Consequently, we classified (which is way cooler a term if you think of it in spy world where it’s mysterious instead of in elementary school world where its like being trapped in caste system) employees get to choose whether or not we wanted to work those 2 days they cut while the real teachers do professional development. To this I promptly said:

And then later in the week this happened –Picture 4

and while my outside voice said “bhoujjheee”, my inside voice said

And then it was Friday and I was all

quite literally. which is probably why I’m widely accepted at an elementary school. and single. whatever world.

j out.

 

expressionism

I am an expressive person. Sometimes people hate that, sometimes people love it. I mostly am surprised by it. But since this is a blog and some of you don’t get to see my face e’ry day, I’ve decided to attempt a new, absolutely arbitrary fairly consistent post conveying my reactions to certain things. Make requests if you want, or just deal with the insanity that is my brain. It affects me not. (also, #myfriendsaremarried hits a lot of nails on the head with this type ish. but sometimes it’s profane; be warned.)

how I feel about a friend telling me we’re going different directions now 

because, like, seriously people, last I checked we were all spinning around the same sun with the exact same amount of minutes in our days.

how I feel when people say they don’t like coffee.

because, WHAT DRUGS ARE YOU DOING THEN, CRAZY?

& one last one for today:

how I feel when more than one bird flies near me in public

because you know how they do—rollin’ up on you absolutely unannounced, lookin’ all full of bird flu and what not.

until next time, peeps. ugh, I hate it when people say that. But not like I hate birds, so there’s that. x0x0, j

photobomb love.

i know this sort of post is a little weird and a lot lacking in content, but i think this knowledge is something you need in your quest to truly know me.

this is maybe my favorite picture ever. when i tutored in college (on days when i had students like this), i would look at it before and after each appointment just to keep smiling. i’m not even kidding-every. single. time. i look at this picture it slays me.

also, if we’re friends, i know what you’re thinking. and i’m totes okay with the fact that me and that seal are the same piece of work.

the strongest “marriage” conversation maybe ever.

So the other day at work I had the most ridiculous conversation with three of my sweet kindergartners. All girls as if the following conversation wouldn’t be enough proof. It all started because one of the 5 year olds kept talking about how one of the other 5 year olds was her boyfriend. It went like this:

Me: You’re too young for a boyfriend.

G: I’m SIX years old. (this stated with an eye roll so intense I’m still amazed it didn’t hurt her)

Me: Ok, well why do you need a boyfriend?

J: BEcause, we like boys.

Me: Well then what does that mean?

G: We have a friends and it’s a boy.

Me: So you have lots then?

J: Nooooo. A boyfriend is someone you’re gonna hafta marry.

S: I’m gonna marry my daddy even though he’s gonna be a grandpa when I’m old.

J: YOU CAN’T MARRY YOUR PARENTS!

G: Yeah. Because he’ll be dead when you’re old.

[everyone shrugs and continues coloring pictures of tinkerbell]

 

and that friends is why i love my job.