An Origin Story: About Sally

Once upon a time, on a cold January day, when the wind chill was around -23 degrees, I started to call Farrah "Veronica" and "Sally." Now, why I called Farrah Veronica is obvious. Anyone who has ever talked to me knows my three-year obsession with the CW show Veronica Mars. The show got canceled this year, and I was left heartbroken (damn you, Dawn Ostroff, damn you to hell!). I truly aspired to be a sassy, super-sleuth like Veronica, but I digress, and that is a blog for another time.

Anyways, Farrah, being the perpetually quirky, emo friend that she is (she is better served being on sketch comedy rather than being a lowly medical school student), just went along with her new name. Soon, "Veronica" got phased out (too many syllables), and all the backrowballers were "Sally." If you called out "Sally," everyone would look up. How convenient! All of the boys thought it was the dumbest thing ever. Since I was the biggest pushover, they would tell me that calling someone "Sally" was "very second grade," "stupid," and "weird." Elvis psychoanalyzed the situation as my sad attempt to fit into mainstream American society. Nevertheless, this blog is a type of origin story (a la comic books) as to why I chose Sally as a moniker for all of my friends.

Sally (aka Sarah Louise) is my good friend from grade school. She always did really crazy things when we were at Carlisle that got her into trouble. For example, once on a choir trip, a larger girl named Ruth Decker tried to strangle Sally on the bus for some transgression or another. Sally defended herself and got in-school suspension. Now, shenanigans such as these seem commonplace in middle school, but when you go to an uber-preppy school such as Carlisle, where no one has physical fights except maybe over the score on the 18th hole at Chatmoss Country Club, this was huge, front-page gossip news.

The most awesome thing Sally ever did was in the ninth grade. I was sitting next to Sally on the school bus as we came back from a field trip to the local community college. My friend Liz was sitting two seats in front of us with her new hunky, eleventh-grade boyfriend, Cullen, the school golden boy who was destined for preppy greatness at Notre Dame. Cullen and Liz were the Carlisle Upper School's version of Brad and Jen (before Brad left her for that sultry hussy, Angelina). All of a sudden, Sally pulled out a maxi pad from my bag, opened it up, and stuck it (sticky side down) on Cullen's head.

Although Cullen was resident golden boy, he was an unimaginative, dull one, so he just looked vaguely shocked and pulled the offending product off. Then, Mr. Owen-Williams, the stern Welsh headmaster, sprung into action. Since Mr. O-W was foreign and had a snobby accent befitting of a headmaster, all the students knew not to screw up under his watch, except Sally, the wild card. He hovered over Sally and me, and asked, "What is this?" Sally looked frightened and had to sit with Mr. O-W for the rest of the ride home as she received a stern lecture on not putting maxi pads on cute eleventh graders' heads. Later, Sally told me that Mr. O-W called her mom to tell her about Sally's faux pas. I often wonder how that conversation must have gone - a tall, dignified Welsh educator explaining about a prank involving feminine products is always very....awkward.

--By Mariam, who hopes (fake) Sally had a nice birthday!