My name is Brooke.

My name is Brooke.

It's really that simple.

Say it with me. Brooke.

Here, I'll even spell it out for ya: B-R-O-O-K-E

The sheer simplicity of those six letters is the main reason why I really cannot grasp the fact that all my teachers have been getting it wrong for the past 12 years.

I don't know why, but for some reason I thought that would change when I went to France. But alas, I was mistaken.

Despite my compaining, I do have some compassion and understanding for the people who simply cannot fathom the whole, "I go by my middle name," thing.

That fact alone has always made the first day of school amusing for me.

First days always start the same...

Teacher: "Ok kids, I'm going to take attendance...sorry if I butcher your name...if you have a nickname you'd like the be called, let me know...blah blah blah."

Then he or she proceeds to read the list of names.

'Payton' is called, everyone laughs, I say I go by 'Brooke,' he or she usually asks me why, claiming how 'Payton' is such a lovely name*, I blame my parents, and we move on. It's a very predictable process which I've grown extremely accustomed to.

*Yes, I agree when teachers say that 'Payton' is a pretty name, but I never know if they realize that they're basically insinuating that 'Brooke' is not.

Was that a compliment, or an insult? Uh, thanks, I think...?

There are always exceptions to the process, though.

For instance, Mrs. Strobel threw me for a loop the first day of 5th grade math class.

"Richard Moyer?"..."Here. I prefer 'Rick'."..."Ok, 'Rick' it is."

"Tessa Mundell?"..."Here."

"Payton Mmm-ma-maamoo*?"

*Though I'm quite conscientious about the correct execution of my first name, I've never really cared much about my last. I understand that it looks intimidating, and over the years I've just stopped correcting people. In fact, when asked how to actually pronounce it, often times I'll either tell them I really don't know, or that they can say it as they please. It's always either totally annihlated, or left completely alone and forgotten.

However, personally, I don't think it's that complicated. With just a little effort, I believe correct pronounciation can easily be achieved. I mean seriously, there are only 3 letters*. But I am aware that most people don't have the time for such trivial matters.

*Being a semi- professional con artist, the fact that 'Mummau' has only 3 letters has come in handy in the past, and plays a role in one of my simplest cons. I have been able to convince numerous people, on numerous occasions, that I am Hawaiian. The 12- letter Hawaiian alphabet, paired with my flawless story of leaving the island when I was an infant, has gotten more people than I'd like to admit. My grandfather 'Tito' and grandmother 'Lailani' are usually just icing on the cake. Little do my victims know, I got those names off of my favorite childhood cartoon, 'Rocket Power.' So if you've fallen for the Hawaii story, don't be ashamed. You won't be the last.

Back to 5th grade math class...

She read my name, and I heard the laughter, so I knew it was time to set her straight. Very calmly, I stated that I would like to be called 'Brooke.'

And you know what she said?

She said no.

Had I heard her correctly? I was shocked.

She said that when she asked students to specify their nicknames, she didn't mean for the students to make up new names entirely.

I remember sitting there slack jawed, while she explained to me the purpose of a nickname, and how I had completely missed that purpose.

Of course, it took some more explaining, and even more laughter from my peers, but we finally got the whole thing figured out.

The conversation ended with:

"Oh, but why don't you like "Payton*? It's such a pretty name!"

There you go, ma'am. That's how you're supposed to respond.

*The truth is, it's not that I don't like the name. I'm actually quite fond of it. And yes, on numerous occasions, I have tried to go by that name, usually prompted by my friends saying that that's what they're going to start calling me. Of course, it usually only lasts a couple hours, if that, before they forget and start calling me 'Brooke' again. I've been 'Brooke' since I was born. I think it's a little too late in the game to try and change it now.

Then of course, I have the special cases that are just so funny, it's impossible to be annoyed.

Exhibit A:

Sophomore year.

AP European History.

Mr. Sisk.

Mr. Sisk was one of my favorite teachers ever. I'm a big fan of the teachers who tell it how it is, and aren't afraid to tell you that you suck. I like teachers who actually seem like real people. The ones who teach you more than what the textbooks say. Mr. Sisk is one of those teachers, and as a bonus, he does it with a sense of humor.

As expected, I went through the name explanation on the first day, he marked it in his book, and we moved on.

During the first couple months, he would always address me as 'Payton,' and everyone would laugh and say 'it's Brooke.' It never bothered me because I knew he was just doing it to bug me, and frankly I found it extremely comical.

This continued throughout the entire year, until I was finally sitting in my last class of AP Euro ever.

"PAYTON. (he always seemed to yell my name, for some reason) What are you doing this summer?" he asked

*stiffled giggles from the class, and the select few who actually look around to see who 'Payton' is*

"Mr. Sisk. It's Brooke," I said

Just then, there was a defeaning silence, his face went blank, and he stared at me with wide eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

"What?" he whispered

"My name. It's Brooke." I replied

At that, all the color, and then some, returned to his face, and he appeared flustered, yelling aloud every thought that came into his mind at once.

"ARE YOU KIDDING?! I've been calling you the wrong name for the entire year?! Why didn't you say anything?!"

He had crossed the room and was now towering over me at mt desk when I stated cooly:

"Mr. Sisk, I have told you. I tell you every day."

And that was that.

All along I had thought he was just messing with me, but it turns out, he genuinely had no idea he was wrong.

Up until yesterday, that story had help the #1 position in my list of name catastrophies.

I feel as if I should briefly mention the #2 catastrophie, and I promise it WILL be brief, because I've gone on long enough without actually reaching the real point of the story.

Here are the facts:

I'm 13.

I'm a level 7 gymnast.

I'm at the annual 'Dutch Classic Invitational' gymnastics meet, and they're about to give out the award for the uneven bars.

The announcer, also my coach at the time, reads the names one by one, starting with 5th place.

He reads the names for 5th, 4th, 3rd, and 2nd, while the girls take their appropriate places on the podium.

"And first place, with a score of 9.45, from Berks Gymnastics, BROOKIE MUMMAU."

I know what you're thinking. So what. He called me 'Brookie.' It could have been worse.

Trust me. It gets worse. Way, way worse.

I then walked up to the podium, and respectively took my spot on the top block. First place.

Then, just as one of the assistants placed the gold medal around my neck, I stopped cold.

The announcer, (still my coach) was singing into the microphone. No, rapping, rather. And finally, I made out what it was that he was chanting.

"Ma- ma- ma moo mow mow, moo mow mow, ma- ma- ma moo mow mow, moo mow mow..."

It was my name. He was chanting my name. And everyone in the stands was...laughing.

I was mortified. You see, when I was younger, I found even the slightest reference to myself made by someone else utterly embarassing. So there I am, on top of the podium. With everyone staring, laughing, and hearing my name being chanted over the loud speakers.

I quit gymnastics that year.

Ok, finally, the moment you've been waiting for. The point to this entry.

And if you've skipped my entire monologue, and are only reading this part, good for you. You've just saved yourself from 10 minutes of boredom.

Congratulations. You may now pass 'Go' and collect $200*.

*I REALLY hate monopoly, but that's another totally pointless story that I'll have to bore you with on another day.

This is the story that bumps 'Sisk' and the 'Mummau Rap' down to # 2 and #3.

This is the FRENCH way to annihilate my name. And congratulations France, because this is a way that my name has never seen before.

It was monday, I was sitting in my second geography hour of the day, we were learning about the major mountain chains in France, and I was zoning.

Despite my dazed state, I could still hear my teacher telling the class that she hoped they already knew the mountains, because most of them spend their vacations there.

"Sauf que peut- etre BROCK, bien sur*."

*"Except for maybe BROCK, of course.

This mistake prompted an eruption of laughter from my classmates, a sound which I've gotten fairly used to over the years.

BROCK. Now that's creative. Aside from it being a boy's name, I don't actually think it's all that bad.

So there you have it. Three names. Six letters in each. All evidently impossible to decipher. This was made clear when my 'safe name' was finally mutilated this past monday. I think it's safe to say that the worst is over. I may have heard it all.

I do, however, believe that I have found a viable solution to the problem.

Just call me BOB.

Really.

I'm dead serious.

And if you mess that one up?

Well, good luck.

Paris> Nolde Forest

I've been to Paris 3 times.

I lived there for 10 days in August, where I visited all the main, touristy areas, ate a crepe for the first time, and got scammed out of 3 euros by a con- artist doubling as an Arabic homeless woman. (I'm still bitter about that, if you can't tell)

I went to a science museum with my class in September, where I ate lunch on the wall of the Seine River overlooking the Eiffel Tower, and spent an unimaginable amount of time in a science museum, quite frankly, I could have cared less about. But hey, it was Paris, so I was happy.

And the third time was two Fridays ago, in October, when I went with students from my school to the Louvre, and to see a play. I watched a photoshoot in the park, didn't fall for any, "I'm poor and I'm carrying around a fake baby to make you think I need money more than I actually do, so give me 10 euros," sob story, and made some new friends.

The fact that my school's favorite field trip destination is always Paris, reminds me of Mifflin's favorite destination...

When I was in elementary and intermediate school, I think I went on 46 field trips to Nolde Forest. I wish I was exaggerting, but exaggeration is just not in my nature. I don't know what Mifflin's fascination for good 'ole Nolde was. Actually, I do. It's cheap, a whole class can fit on one yellow school bus, and it's 7 minutes away from school. Really though, there's only so many times I can wonder around a forest, listening to a guide tell me about different types of leaves. "STOP SHOVING CRAYONS AND PAPER IN MY FACE. I DON'T WANT TO MAKE A 'LEAF RUB."

Although, my most monumental Nolde excursion happened on a field trip, fall of 6th grade. I was 11 years old, just entering puberty, and I saw the boy I had been swooning over for nearly 3 years, talking with his friends. They kept looking over at me and laughing, but you know, I was cool about it, so I pretended I didn't see it and kept talking with my friends.

All of a sudden, I saw him being carried over to me, by some overly muscular 12 year old. I noticed the terror in his eyes, paired with his flailing limbs, and I knew what was coming next.

He was dropped in front of me, his cheeks having flushed the color equivalent to a cherry, and he looked at my feet while he muttered those 6 words that every pre- teen girl lives her life to hear...

"Will you go out with me?"

"Sure." I replied, cooly.

You know, I had to be cool. Or, as cool as I could be, I guess. I've never really succeeded in the "cool department." But believe me, I used to try. HARD. Since then I've stopped trying. Like, altogether. I still don't really know what 'cool' is. The latest Abercrombie wardrobe, a strained relationship with your parents, and a group of friends who enjoy gossiping more than laughing and having a good time? That's a big, fat, NO THANKS, for me.

But anyway, back to the love of my life. I felt like "sure" was the perfect response. I didn't want to seem to eager or anything, even though my heart was beating a mile a minute, and I had been dreaming of this moment since the day I saw him.

But after the answer was given, he recieved a few high- fives and pats on the back, and my friends and I did our little squealy schpeal. And there you have it. We were officially "going out."

That was the closest I ever stood to him, and probably the last time I ever talked to him, too. Because you see, "going out," is actually the exact opposite of a relationship. If you talked before, it ends as soon as you commit. All communication is limited to the cyber world, but the funny thing is, all pre- teeners are content with this.

If you were one of those kids who actually got up the nerve to talk to your "boyfriend/girlfriend" while you were "going out" in the intermediate school, then good for you. You are a part of a rare group.

I can tell you, I was not a part of that rare group. I think our 'relationship' ended a week later, if that. I ended it, of course.

And the abnormally muscular boy who carried him up to me at Nolde? Yeah, my ex at the time. We had 'gone out' for two months, which was an incredibly long time for two 6th graders. AND we talked on the phone. I guess I felt things were getting too serious, so I broke it off. I used the same shallow line with both Nolde Boy and Muscles, in the same shallow way. I sent them both a text saying, "it's not you. It's me." I was quite the heart breaker in my younger days...

I am the master of going off in random tangents, but I remember why I was talking about Nolde. I was comparing it with Paris. Yes, I got tired of Nolde. No, I don't think I could ever get tired of Paris as a whole. The thing in Paris I tire of, is the Louvre.

I'm not a museum person. It's a simple as that. I never have been. Probably never will be. And the Louvre, is the museum of all museums. They say if you want to see EVERYTHING in the Louvre, you'd have to stay in there for several days. It's a good thing I have absolutely no interest in seeing everything.

Actually, I was there for 3 hours my last time in Paris, on the field trip, and in the whole three hours, we looked at the work of one painter. And, to make it even more excrusciating, we only looked at 4 of his paintings. Yes, you read correctly. 4.

The reason it took so long, was because of our tour guide.

When we got to the Louvre, we were broken up into groups, and my group, (I think there were about 30 of us) was shoved into a little, dark room. And we waited. And waited. And waited, some more. Finally, a dark- haired, haggard looking woman in her late 40's entered the room. She apologized briefly for her tardiness, and we were quickly directed to the entrance of the museum.

We were told to sit in front of a painting, and she proceeded to explain the artists' technique, and color usage, all of which I'm not particularly interested in. So, you know, I was zoning out a little bit. Of course I was mentally there in the beginning, but after about 15 minutes of her french monologue, I became uninterested.

This went on for 3 more paintings, but she interupted her own monologues several times with interminable silences. She would be talking about one aspect of the painting, and all of a sudden, her eyes would glaze over, and she would stare off into space for a good 30 seconds before returning to planet earth. Obviously, we all knew that she had forgotten what she had intended to say, and every time she snapped out of her little phase, she would mutter, "Excusez- moi. Je suis fatiguee." (excuse me. I'm tired)

You're boring me to tears because you're tired?! Really. Do your job.

I guess I got a little fed up by about the 10th zone- out, so I basically just stopped paying attention. I was sitting in the back of the group, so I figured my actions would go unnoticed. I began fiddling with every object within a two foot radius of me just to keep myself from dozing off.

Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a girl pointing at the painting lady, and when I looked up, miss "I'm too tired to do my job" was burning two holes in my face. I guess she had noticed my fidgiting, and had tried to get my attention several times, but to no avail.

Now, come to think of it, I remember hearing "mademoiselle" reapeated several times, but it was too faint, and I was too preoccupied with whatever I was doing at the time.

She was not happy, and proceeded to ask me why I wasn't paying attention, and asked if I could make and effort to listen to what she was saying.

Well, excuse me ma'am. You're not saying much of anything.

She then demanded I come and sit it the front of the group, and with this, I stood up and made my walk of shame through the parting crowd.

The only words I could get out before her monologue started up again were "Pardon, je ne comprends pas parce que je suis Americaine," but she was not interested in my explanation, and continued as if I did not exist.

Needless to say, for the remaining hour we were there, I sat in the front row, staring her down, with the biggest smile I could muster. If it didn't scare her, it sure annoyed her. At least, that's what I gathered from the expression on her face, and how she deliberately avoided eye contect with me.

Yes. I'm immature. But I don't respond well to rude people. I give it right back. I just can't help myself.

After the Louvre, we had a few hours to kill before the play started, so my group of friends and I wandered around in search of a McDonald's so we could enjoy a nice, gourmet dinner. After much confusion, we finally stumbled upon what seemed like the most crowded McDo in all of Paris. We waited in line, got our food, and sat down. We sat there, annoyingly obnoxious, all tapped into McDo's free wifi, checking our facebook notifications.

Already 10 minutes late for the play, and having no idea how to get there, we took our desserts to go and began walking.

I've seen the Eiffel Tower many times. From far away, up close, from the bottom, from the top...pretty much every way possible. But everytime I'm in Paris, I like to take some time and just look at it. Luckily, on our way to the play, we had a direct view of the Tower the whole time, and predictably, I stood and stared.

I feel like there may be something morally wrong with the fact that I stood there eating a McFlurry while standing in front of maybe the most infamous and symbolic structure in the world, but that's just what I did. But hey, je suis Americaine. I feel it's necessary to put my American touch on my French world.

I won't say much about the play, because there's really not much to say. We were seated at the top of the balcony, and the theater itself was really beautiful, but as for the play itself, it was boring. It's was in old French language, so naturally I understood absolutely nothing, and honestly wanted to fall asleep the whole time. Though it made me feel better when I looked across the balcony and saw all the other students draped over the railing, sound asleep.

We got home around three am, and I could barely keep my eyes open. The good thing about Paris, is that the sheer beauty of the city always overpowers anything unpleasant you have to do there. Like surviving 3 hours in a museum, or staying awake during a play at midnight. I'd never turn down a chance to go, and thankfully, I'll be there again in just a few days.

Happy Birthday, Clara!

Joyeux Anniversaire, Clara! :) Je t'aime.

Tu as 12 ans, FINALEMENT!

Cool Kids

Have you ever wondered what insanely cool kids (aka my friends and me) do in study hall? Yeah, this is pretty much it. Be jealous.