Science Fairs and Underwire

I attended my first 3rd grade science fair today. You're probably thinking, "But you don't have children. Isn't it a little creepy to be going to a 3rd grade science fair?" Yes. But, I do know a 3rd grader.

That sounds creepy too; allow me to clarify.

I helped my boss's daughter, Bennie, with her science project. She made nebula jars and painted a picture of a NGC 3132. Naturally, I was delighted to be invited to the science fair to see her in action. I also met an interesting young man that used lemons to conduct electricity. So there's that.

Fig 1.1 Nebula Jar. Thanks, Pinterest!

Fig 1.2 NCG 3132. Thanks, Hubble Telescope!

* * * 

Interesting fact: When Bennie was 6, she told me she was going to wait until I was asleep and shave me without shaving cream.

Once, I absentmindedly said something was "fugly" in front of her because, being in jewelry design, that's a word we throw around a lot. If you are unfamiliar, it is a portmanteau of f*ck and ugly. Fugly. It's an industry term.

She smiled at me like a child of the corn and said, "What does that mean? Fun and ugly?" She was clearly toying with me because after a beat, she said, "The F word?"

"You didn't hear that from me. I was never here." I said, before fleeing.

Some kids are too smart.

* * *

Back to the Science Fair!

As I toured the auditorium, there were a number of impressive displays, none of which were made by these children. I appreciate a sloppy project that was clearly done by an actual child. What I cannot abide is a project that was obviously done by a parent. As a child that always did his own projects, I take issue.

That's a pristine space shuttle made of milk cartons, Megan. Too bad you don't have the motor skills necessary for the construction of such a vehicle.

I'm very impressed by your expertly crafted polymer clay scale model of the solar system, Chastity. But I highly doubt you have a steady enough hand to paint Jupiter with such accuracy.

Oh, Blake. You aren't fooling anyone with your perfectly aligned phases of the moon poster. Look how straight these lines are! I know grown men who can't draw a straight line! I know grown men who can't pronounce the word "gibbous"! 

I'll take a shoebox full of  badly painted foam balls and scotch tape any day of the week. I don't want stenciled, perfectly spaced, letters and battery powered water features! I want chicken-scratch and potato lamps!

The adorable Lemon Boy obviously had help from his Dad, which he mentioned during his absolutely heart-melting presentation. But it was messy and clearly he did it with his father. And it worked! He flicked a switch and a light went on! WITH LEMONS! Thanks, citric acid!

I used to want to have kids. Then I didn't. Now? The jury is still out. Because it can go a few different ways. Village of the Damned seems like the most likely scenario, but you never know. Might get lucky and get a lemon kid. Or a kid that will wait until I'm asleep and shave me without shaving cream.

* * *

Later today, on our way to lunch, I found a lonely piece of underwire on the floor of my co-worker's car. I didn't realize that's what it was at the time, but still I picked it up and positioned it under my boob and said, "What's this?"

Lucky guess.

She wasn't sure how it ended up there. #mysteryoftheday

How did a solitary piece of underwire manage to free itself from it's bra prison? Naturally, we all assumed it was some kind of sordid nude encounter that took place in the car, but she assured us that was not the case. Some kind of struggle? Surely not. Perhaps we will never know.

* * *

For one reason or another, I refer to a naked breast as a "raw breast". I didn't realize this was wrong until it was pointed out to me. I persist in my terminology unhindered.

"G, do you have to try bras on?" I asked innocently.

"Yeah, you have to." She replied patiently.

I immediately panicked, imagining hundreds of women trying on the same bra.

"You mean you put your raw breasts in it?"

"My raw breasts? First of all, who calls it a raw breast? I'm not a chicken. It's the same thing as you trying on a shirt."

I relaxed, "Ok, I see your point."

* * *

Today, I got very cold and wet in a hideous slop storm. I went to an elementary school that smelled like all elementary schools smell - industrial cleaner and tempera paint. I danced around my office with a hank of beads on my head like a wig. I watched an Egyptian themed stripper video with a coworker recovering from ass-augmentation surgery. I designed some bracelets. I ate a hamburger.

What is the moral of today's story? All that glitters isn't gold? A stitch in time saves nine? A closed mouth catches no feet?

I'm not sure. Lemon Boy probably knows.