Bobbing Around

My sincere apologies to those who I pretend follow my blog and have been wondering why there hasn't been a more recent post.

This past weekend, I went to Camp Roberts for Y and G TRAINING AND ELECTIONS the second, aka BOB 2, the colloquialism needed for such a lengthy title.

Saturday morning 5 am:
delegates start to filter into the gym. some even bring parents. disgruntled mothers, (somehow perfectly made up, as if y staff, children, and other women also awake at the ungodly hour are out to judge them.... I really hate signs that high school really does never end), early rising fathers, and half asleep high school students who no doubt were out way too late (I didn't sleep at all....) make up the jovial crowd in the YMCA's glorified MPR. I hope no one minded my over excitement and uncomfortable dancing to the Fleetwood Mac that was blasting.

Buses arrive. Despite this being some people's sixth bob, there is endless confusion and a pre-concieved notion that lining up by the doors to the bus an hour before you will get on will somehow earn you the best seat possible. It's not cochella people.... It's a godforsaken bus...

I have nothing to say about the bus ride up, except that I slept the entire time and am frankly disappointed that there is not a picture of me drooling up on facebook yet.

We arrive at our barracks.
Utter madness ensues.
The race to find enough bunks, next to cool enough people, so that you and all your friends can slumber next to each other begins.
The next 10 minutes are filled with
"SENIORITY. WE GET TO ALL SLEEP NEXT TO EACH OTHER."
"Oh my GAH, her parents got divorced when she was 8, she really needs us right now"
"SERIOUSLY, I'M CALLING MY MOM AND GOING HOME I WILL NOT SLEEP NEXT TO SOMEONE WHO GOES TO MY SCHOOL, IS IN MY DELEGATION, AND I SEE ATLEAST ONCE A WEEK. WHAT IS THIS? THE HOLOCAUST? JESUS."

what never fails to make me gig is that by the time everyone's head hits the pillow at night, no one even talks. everyone is too tired. take night one, I walk into the barrack rather delirious and hyper, only to find everyone sound asleep at the mere hour of 11:15? I'm an officer in the program, when I'm down for some rambunctious behavior before lights out, I don't expect to be alone. (side note: I like how I am pretending that being an officer makes me not want to have fun, insinuating that if I'm looking for some cabin style fun and no one else is, that it is a serious issue. how far from the truth this is. LAWWWLZING.)

Back to being chronological and sequential, we attend our first joint session.
how good were those corn dogs? but really. goes to show not even BOB food (which is usually compared to a lovely mix of dog vomit, rocks, and moles) can mess up a corn dog. God bless.

Time for my first session, Constitutional Convention, affectionately called con con for short.
We speed date, except not really, because our dates are all given a political topic before they start, so no one actually has to be awkward and meet new people. Not to mention all the political topics are pretty one sided so no one gets mad. I swear at one point they asked if we thought that George W Bush looked more like an elf than a man. Seriously. (BTW the answer to that is a faerie, aka female elf).

Lunch time. I drink another red bull and skip the cabbage and liver they offer in the food line.

Second session, this time it begins with a special announcement. For the con con group, there will be 7 "directors" (the leader of the group, Tim, called them bucket heads which sent his wife, Cherokee, who also leads the group, into an absolute tizzy. it was epic.). We continue to speed date, but this time, our dates resemble more of a "group hang" (who watched OC season 2, where seth, ryan, and zack try and have a boys night out, marissa, summer and lindsay try to have a girl's night out, and they all end up meeting at alex's trendy music bar and have a "group hang" instead... anyone? just me? OCcrazy01 was my screename. live it. love it.) anyway, back to my political group hang, there are now 8 people discussing broader political issues with four rotating each time to a different group. Those trying for this aforementioned director/bucket head positions are so obvious. Group discussion is a place of combat.

"So, what do you think about that"
"Everyone needs to participate"
"I'm a great leader. just saying"
"If I was a leader, I'd be like batman, I mean if batman was real"

The "subtle" hints are hilarious. Mainly because I ran for a director's spot and didn't get it. but don't even get me started on the anarchy that constituted an election. 102 kids in this program area, 40 run for the 7 director spots, no speech, just a hi I'm Lizzie Miller... and then everyone votes. It's no surprise that all the kids who won have outrageously cool names. One is a season, another is Hawaiian, whatever, just. so. cool. THANKS MOM AND DAD.

another meal, and it's time for a political party convention. because y and g is a place of high school imagination and fun (yay!), the political parties consist of golden, wolf pack, ying yang, and rational, and unaffiliated which is an oxymoron because unaffiliated candidates then run unaffiliated and only those unaffiliated can vote for them. it's a wonderful paradox.

Enter tent, have flash back to last year where a certain AMAZING class of 2010 dancer and I dance battled two epic black kids.. and won with a songie regime. Good times.

Before I know it, I'm battling again. It really is uncanny how often I forget that I am white, and white people can't dance. I'm battling, I'm doing the stanky face, I'm actually telling people I'm from the bay area.

Time to question the candidates.
I raise my hand and get picked.

"Pro-life or Pro-Choice? But wait, there's a catch. Incorporate Jambo into your answer."

Let me just tell you, this question did not go well. Epic in the most watching an idea simply explode into small pieces that smell like mustard and dirty feet. So sad.
The rest of the PPC (political party convention) is pretty much dance battling, needless to say, I remained in the tent reppin my s$%^ long after it was socially acceptable.

After a few other things which I am cutting out because this post is already too long and I feel weird, is the DANCE.

To all y and gers, we know the dance as a place so crowded, so sweaty, that if you jump in the air, you can actually be suspended and move around the dance floor. Deans stand on a stage with small flash lights, the music occasionally goes in and out, and mosh pits to "tell me when to go" are a given.

To those outside of y and g, y and g dances are portrayed as giant orgies where everyone is beautiful, happy, and getting some.
It's pretty funny actually.
Sorry if I've crushed the fantasy of many readers...

That's all I'm going to say about the dance. Moving on. haha.

The last day, of my last bob, of my last year of high school (too much nostalgia?) begins nice and early. As a delegation, we walk to breakfast, and a few notable moments can't help but escape me. I can't help but reflect upon my previous years in y and g, bob memories if you will, and remember:

Being chair of the sex (reproductive rights.. lol, we called it sex, so esteemed and qualified to do so as sophomores) committee, and making "what a good chair does" jokes to my other best friends who were also chairs. these jokes could range from "a good chair is always punctual" to "a good chair always counts their chickens before they hatch" to "a good chair always hides nipple piercings underneath classy sweaters". Good Chair jokes must always be said in a pretentious British accent. If you can't play by the rules, sit down.

OR

chicken fighting (out of water of course) in the barracks, actually physically impaling each other, while older delegates looked at us in fear. we of course dismissed them as "such judgmental beyotches" where as today, if I saw 15 year old girls wrestling chicken fight style, there would be a lot more than some dirty glares. ahhh life's ever changing perspective.

OR

putting hair extensions in my shirt and telling people I had chest hair. (I also repeated the phrase "chest hair" at the friendship service at the end of the year, causing people to this day to believe I have an inordinate amount of inappropriate female body hair. I'd like to say here and now, I DON'T.)

OR EVEN

the psychotic rain of BOB 2 last year where delegates stripped and ran the mile or so to their barracks in the buff, yelling FREE RODNEY KING... When people fell in the mud and it was every man for himself, because looking back was pointless, all you saw was water. If anyone ever made it back to the barrack, they were applauded. RIP to those members we lost. kidding. probs too soon to joke about drowning. my apologies.

on that note... MEHRRR....

the weekend ends with a closing joint session, an epic record time clean up, nick naming, and a bus ride home.

I've always liked to save the best for last (omg who stalked my bob album! trendy!), and I can say without a doubt, this bob was the best (and clearly the last).
I LOVE YOU CCY.