Friday, September 4, 2009

The History of a Surname

       Let's set the stage... About 20-25 kids hanging around a field. I'm with some friends saying witty things, the rest of my class is picking at themselves/giggling. Then horror strikes. My gym teacher, Mr. Football, has arrived. "Ok, champs! Let's pick teams!" Oh no. So four of my more athletic peers stand up to be captain presidents, or whatever. The Darwinism ensues. A couple of uncomfortable minutes later I'm standing with a few of my less esteemed colleagues. It's me, a girl who we're all pretty sure only speaks Korean, and someone who is best known for her eerie resemblance to Luna Lovegood. We weren't even joke picked. Mr. Football sorts us onto teams. When I start to walk to my new pals I hear an audible sigh. It's probably not an Oh boy! It's Lulu! YAY! sort of sigh. I actually took it to mean quite the opposite.
      About half-way through a game of football that would have made Mike Ditka weep, something dawns on me. Except for a few people, everyone here is considered a better football player than me. Here are some player stats:
Mr. Liza Minnelli: Signature move- catching the ball and then dropping it. Quote- "My hands are dirty now!"
Miss. Alarmingly-Good-At-Football: Signature move- making me look like a polio victim. Quote- "Lulu! Head in the GAME!"
Mr. Santa's physique: Signature move- Being stout. Quote- "heavily breathing"
Miss. Hilton: Signature move- Having a negative number for Body Mass Index. Quote- "OhhhhhmigawdyoucannotexpectmetoplaythisiamliiikesoobadatsportsstuffLOLLuluireeeaaaallylikeyourhairLOL!"
       Towards the end of class I switched teams. Nobody noticed. Other than that there wasn't a lot else that happened. But from then until forever I am, Lulu Pictlast.
And thank you for reading my blog.


Linda Crispell said...

i can't believe they still have kids pick who is going to be on their teams!

Saucy said...

Welcome to the wonderful world of blogging, Ms Pictlast. You will find here that we do not pick teams, there is no prescribed outfit that you must don for a specified time, nor do we insist that you run around like a chicken-with-your-head-cut-off after some sort of future object d'art to be found at a tag sale.

You're home.

Claudia said...

Oh, this brings back memories. I was one of those girls who was always picked last. I'm not sure why this ritual is still in existence, but let me assure you, this will be but a brief blip in your life. Blogging, on the other hand, is fun, anyone is welcome and we can't wait to hear what you have to say!