Prostitution People

This picture tells a story beloved by schlocky film execs everywhere: mousy introvert gets contact lenses, a miniskirt, and instant popularity! It's titled (what, you guys didn't title your fourth grade drawings?) PERSONALITY PEOPLE.

No, really.

[You can click to enlarge, but please rest assured that we are going to cover this in excruciating detail.]

Personality plus!

Our heroine/fashion victim/Jerrica Benton sans Synergy is Dora Lee Kawalksi.

You can tell she needs a makeover because she has a semi-dowdy name and GLASSES. Make me gag!

How hard has Dora Lee been gagging on her old she's-not-yet-all-that style? So hard that I had to put an extra exclamation point at the beginning of the sentence. Dude. That's a lot of gagging.

But this is just our piddling BEFORE photo; as the drawing promises, with Dora Lee we get:

Again with the extraneous punctuation. !This crap is exciting! !I don't know if you guys noticed! !WOO!

That's because our ho-hum friend Dora Lee is about to transform herself into... a straight-up ho?

[Okay, NOW you should click to enlarge.]

The fun has been AT LEAST doubled.

First off, it's obvious that Dora Lee has been under the knife. I don't work for US Weekly or anything, but I can spot the rhinoplasty and chin implant from here.

[Quick sidebar: When I was in college, a weak-chinned chap who lived on my floor actually got a chin implant—and it ended up CROOKED because he spent too much time, like, stroking it. Ew? Looks like the same thing happened to ol' D.L. Kawalski here.]

Once you get past the plastic surgery, you can see that the '80s pretty much erupted on this drawing, spewing forth the molten lava of oversized floppy bows, polka dot capri leggings, and shapeless off-the-shoulder shirts cinched with stripy belts.

So, she looks like a hooker, but a fashion-forward hooker. A totally '80s hooker. I mean, check this out:

Jet: confirmed call girl.

How else can she afford a ring on every finger; earrings that are, like, tiny lampshades dangling from dice; and OH MY GOD, is that a Watch-a-call?

But please, don't get all Lifetime-y and try to hire Meredith Baxter and Valerie Bertinelli to track Jet down and let loose some vigilante justice on her pimp. [Note to Lifetime executives: This would be an amazing concept for a series.] That's because, well, I'll let Dora Lee tell you herself:

See, guys! It's fine! Because she was already a prostitute on the INSIDE.

Okay, okay. Maybe she's not a prostitute. Maybe everyone wants to call and chit-chat with her because she has such a great personality.

Yeah, that's it.

NEXT TIME: What's better than one makeover? How about making over an entire band?

The Future Is Now!

The following was definitely some sort of class assignment to, I don't know, come up with an ad? Because I had Don Draper for a teacher? Not too sure. What I do remember is thinking that if this product existed, it would be the COOLEST. THING. EVER. Fast-forward 20-some years, and... well, see for yourself.

What exactly is a Watch-a-call, you ask? And is Pepsi going to sue me for trademark infringement? Well the answer—to the first question, anyway—lies in the advertising copy:

Watch-a-call

It's a watch with a phone inside!

No extra for long distance calls!

$99.89 Just $50.00!

So, okay, I know it sounds like a cell phone, but check it out. It looks like a Swatch!

Admit it, cell phones would be cooler if you could get your name on them.

And if you're thinking to yourself, "Okay, smartypants, where do I DIAL?" well then you clearly have yet to encounter the back view of the Watch-a-call:

The world's most sloppily drawn keypad.

I actually imagined this would be some super-secret 10-year-old spy shit. Here's how it would go down:

Watch-a-call in action!

On one side of the lightning bolt, you and your side pony would be sitting at your desk in your invisible chair that kinda makes you look like a paraplegic. And you'd be like, "Hey, this lesson on multiplication tables BLOWS! I wonder what my friend with the newscaster hair is up to right now?" BAM! On the other side of the lightning bolt, your questionably bewigged friend with the World's Longest Torso would receive your call as a series of super-loud BEEPs that would surely get your Watch-a-call confiscated until the end of the day. Brilliant!

Joking aside, it's kind of amazing that this product almost exists now—I mean, a cell phone is pretty much a phone with a watch inside, making it, like, um... a Call-a-watch? And it even has free long distance, which seemed like CRAZY wishful thinking at the time. Granted, a cell phone's not all incognito like the Watch-a-call, but I'm guessing that holding your wristwatch up to your ear repeatedly would probably blow your cover anyway.

NEXT TIME: More pictures tellin' some stories. (That's code for "I haven't picked out which one I'm going to use yet.")

Welcome to Tademy Academy: Part 2

LAST TIME: Our narrator, Frankie "Franks and Beans" Chapman (I am so waiting for someone to address her as "Franks and Beans") and her pals spent upwards of five hours picking out clothing for the first day of 7th grade, only to end up in Aeropostale jeans and Keds. WTF? Meanwhile, they were asked to pledge Tademy Academy's most exclusive "social society"—and unabashed drill team mafia—the Deltas. But in order to join the Deltas, the gals have to do "something spiteful, something forward, something embarrassing, and something scandalous"— and of course, something involving Axe body spray.

When we left off, Frankie had just Dropped the Donut onto the chair of one Ella Gris, leaving her with a Boston Creme backside. Still to come: Fliss must tip Tara Luna's tray in the cafeteria; Kenny will leave a forged love note in Charlotte Reyes' locker; Lyndz has to cut off Casey Wallace's ponytail; and Rosie (the orphaned Texan with the fake British accent) has to rig Raquel Weaver's locker with frogs that will chase her toward a magical banana peel that somehow triggers a bucket of chili to empty its contents onto her head. Like taking candy from a frigging baby!

Baby: Raquel Weaver; Dude with the giant lollipop: Rosie Fine

(Not pictured: Frogs, banana peel, bucket of chili)

As I said last time, our 14-year-old guest author, Kylie, claims she wrote this story when she was in fourth grade—but as Detective TKOG pointed out, Juno was released in 2007 and Bumpits weren't on the market until 2008. Kylie? You can come clean. We don't care if you wrote this last year. One thing we're not disputing is that this story is stellar. Also not in dispute: the fact that I would transfer out of Tademy Academy faster than you can say "bucket of chili."

Welcome to Tademy Academy

Ch. 2

After I DTDed, Fliss collected her ammo. Her weapons of choice: a plate of spaghetti, yogurt, and chocolate milk. She started her walk of shame towards Tara. I was so excited. Who’s dissing my Keds now?

Sada says: So this is the point at which I realized that Tademy's social societies aren't terrorizing unpopular kids—they're going after each other! They're basically warring factions of pretty people. It would be like if the cast of 90210 went to Bayside High, and Lisa Turtle made Brenda Walsh sit on a donut, and then Jessi Spano dumped a bucket of chili on Donna Martin's head. Actually, that sounds kind of awesome.

Fliss walked slowly, with all loose strands of her sunset brown hair tucked behind her ears. Soon, she was right in front of Tara, who had just put her own tray down. Fliss cringed from fear, tilted her tray, and food went flying all over Tara. There was spaghetti in her hair, yogurt all over one of her rich fashion designer shirts, and chocolate milk all over her Skechers.

Sada says: I love how Frankie name-checks Skechers but doesn't specify the "rich fashion designer" behind Tara's shirt.

“ Nice look, Tara,” Fliss said.

“AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” Tara yelled. But no one heard her, because they were all pointing and whispering about her. Pointing, whispering, and giggling.

After that, we all went to our dorms.

“Okay, guys,” Kenny said. “How should I write the letter?” After putting our heads together, we wrote this and sprayed it with the Axe.

Kylie says: I am cringing as I read this. I mean, "Who’s dissing my Keds now?" And "ammo"? And "sunset brown hair"? What the hell? And Axe? Oh, what great humiliation!

Sada says: YOU TAKE THAT BACK ABOUT THE AXE! The repeated Axe bashing is one of my favorite things about this story. Or maybe one of my favorite things about anything, ever. Also, wait, are you saying that sunsets in Australia are not brown?

Dearest Darling Charlotte,

I have admired you from afar since the second grade. Maybe you won’t believe me, but I love you. If you say you don’t love me, it will break my heart. So please say yes. If you love me too, meet me by the fountain in the courtyard at your school at 3:00. Don’t worry about missing that assembly. It’s not even mandatory. I know about the assembly because I saw the flyer you designed. You’re the best artist ever! As soon as we meet, we can talk even more about this beautiful relationship in bloom.

XOXO,

Dominick Fitch

We were inspired by the love letter in the book, Bridge to Terabithia, we must admit.

Kylie says: As in, I was really lazy, so I stole half the letter from Bridge to Terabithia.

Sada says: But nice—and not at all creepy—addition about the non-mandatory school assembly. Romantic!

We shoved it into her locker the next day, while it still reeked off Axe. We woke the next morning at 7:00 am and got dressed. Then, we went into the hallway.

“Ew, what’s that smell?”

“I think it’s coming from Charlotte’s locker.”

Charlotte walked into the hall. “ Ew, what died in my locker?” She opened it up, and traced it to the Letter.

Sada says: In case you missed it, Axe body spray? Smells like death.

“Someone has a secret admirer,” said Piper Tademy.

“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

“Open the letter,” Kenny insisted sheepishly. She started shuffling her sneakers, and averted her eyes from Charlotte.

After Charlotte read the letter, she sighed and said, “Dominick Fitch.”

The day seemed to drag on and on until Assembly. Then, all eight girls who were in the hall came out to watch. It was 3:30, 4:00, and then the dreaded 4:30.

Sada says: Not the dreaded 4:30! Anything but that!

It had been a full hour, and Dominick hadn’t showed up yet.

Charlotte decided to text him.

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

Dom, where are you? I’ve been waiting for an hour!!!!

From: Dominick

To: Charlotte

For what?

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

Aren’t you meeting me to talk about our relationship?????? You wrote me that letter. You do want to meet at the fountain in the courtyard at Tademy Academy, right? Did you mean the fountain in the park? Or the one at Carlyle College?

Sada says: That is SO more than 160 characters. Plus, you could really get your fountains crossed in this town. Yeesh.

From: Dominick

To: Charlotte

I don’t now what you’re talking about. What letter?

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

The love letter you left me in my locker. It smelled like Axe but that’s totally forgivable.

Sada says: Is it, though? IS IT?

From: Dominick

To: Charlotte

I never wrote you a letter. I don’t even know your last name.

I’m serious.

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

Oh. I’m sorry I bothered you.

After that, something that never happens happened. Charlotte Reyes screamed, went up to Carter Gonzales-Fiore-Mason-Barnes, her rival, and punched her in the face. It was a very unCharlotte thing to do. Usually, Charlotte would burst into tears and run away. I guess that she finally had enough. At least she didn’t know it was Kenny, or else she would have had a serious nose bleed like Carter.

Kylie says: Carter Gonzales-Fiore-Mason-Barnes???? What the hell was I thinking????

Sada says: This is why two people with hyphenated names should never breed. Take heed, blog readers.

Ch.3

“I feel like a total…..a total…. Ugh, I can’t even say it,” Kenny said.

“Jerk?,” Fliss said.

“Me too.”

“ Ugggh,” I moaned. I didn’t know it would be this bad. Is being a Delta really worth it?

Just then, we heard a knock on our door.

“ I’ll get it,” Rosie shouted.

It was Carter. She had a giant welt on her nose. “ I was wondering if, like, any of you guys had one of those large nose bandages? I kinda need one? The nurse’s office is all out?”

The nurse's office RAN OUT of nose bandages??
Although I guess I can see why the girls at Tademy would be throwing lots of punches.

“What happened to Charlotte,” Kenny asked nervously.

“Like, nothing? Like, I would never tell on a fellow Tademian? I just said someone accidentally threw a volleyball at me? All I know is that I didn’t write that letter? I mean, I hate Charlotte, but not enough to stink up her locker with Axe? I mean, I don’t even own Axe, and….. OHMYGOD!? There is, like, Axe on your dresser? Kenny, it’s like all your fault?

No wonder you looked so, like, ashamed?”

Kylie says: Oh, Carter is a dumbass! At least she catches on fast.

Sada says: She might have a mile-long name and turn every sentence into a question, but Carter Gonzales-Fiore-Mason-Barnes is the only character in this story with ethics. She would never tell on a fellow Tademian, and she flat-out says that she wouldn't wish Axe body spray on her worst enemy.

I realized then that maybe we didn’t want to be Deltas after all. But that was a huge maybe. One part of me didn’t think it was worth it. Another part, the larger part wanted it so badly it would kill.

Sada says: NO. WAY. Did she just imply that it's a short road from Boston creme butt to MURDER? God, I hope Andy Tachman doesn't find out about this. (squeal!)

I didn’t know what to do. All I knew was to be afraid of Carter Gonzalez-Fiore-Mason-Barnes.

******************

“OMG. Kenny, this will really cheer you up,” I said at lunch.

“ It’s worth a shot,” Kenny sighed.

“ Guess what movie they’re showing at the Carlyle College Performing Arts Center.”

“ No way! EEEEKKK!!!!”

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 16

7:00 PM

WISH UPON A STAR

Sada says: According to IMDB, this movie is a Freaky Friday ripoff about a brainy girl whose wish to trade places with her popular idiot of a sister comes true, and in the process everyone learns a little something about themselves and each other. (I'm paraphrasing.)

“Wait,” Lyndz said. “Today’s the day I pledge.”

We all groaned.

“Here comes Casey now,” Rosie said.

Casey Wallace had wanted to be a TAS since the fourth grade, which, in my opinion, is not a very long time. Then again, Casey Wallace is not a very commited person.

Sada says: You have to have wanted it since you were FIVE, people! Five or NOTHING!

She sat down in her seat and Lyndz whipped out the safety scissors. She leaned slowly, towards Casey, and snipped off the whole ponytail at once. Casey didn’t even feel a thing.

Kylie says: OMFG. And that’s where I left off. Damn.

Sada says: I second that damn! I thought we were going to put frogs in Raquel's locker! I mean, WHERE IS THE BUCKET OF CHILI THAT I WAS PROMISED? This is very upsetting. Though, to be honest, as I read over the plan, I was like, "Hmmm... how are they getting away with this crap? Is it possible that all of the teachers at Tademy Academy are vision-impaired?"

But I regret that we'll never know whether guilt got the best of the girls, or if their lust for drill team glory and the lure of a guaranteed date to every dance were too strong. And did the TASes just take this abuse, or did they strike back and give the Deltas a bucketful of their own chili?

Um... does anyone know a fourth grade ghostwriter we could hand this off to?

NEXT TIME: The first in a series of hilariously terrible illustrations that I'm going to call Every Picture Tells a Story. Sixth grade will be coming soon, but in the meantime maybe I can post more than twice a month? I think I can, I think I can...

Welcome to Tademy Academy: Part 1

Guest author Kylie wrote this doozy when she was in fourth grade, just a few short years ago. No, really, you guys. Kylie just turned 14. Fourteen! When I was 14, the Internet didn't even EXIST.* But if it had, I certainly wouldn't have invited some 32-year-old woman to make fun of me on it. So, hats off to you, Kylie! And as usual, when I say "hats," I mean Claudia Kishi–style fedoras with, like, cavemen and Day-Glo dinosaurs hot-glued on them. But you knew that.

[*Okay, whatever. Technically the Internet existed. But in 1991, I had as much knowledge of its existence as the dudes from Color Me Badd had of mine. In other words, none.]

Welcome to Tademy Academy, a not-so-cautionary tale of hazing among the middle school elite, Kylie expertly divides her plagiarism efforts between two sources: the Australian tween TV show The Sleepover Club (based on the British book series of the same name) and the American book series The Clique. Kylie took the characters from The Sleepover Club (who are, surprisingly, NOT named Lauren, Kate, Stephanie, and Patti—hi, Britstralians, I'm onto you) and inserted them into the basic plot of The Clique: rich-bitch private school girls spend equal amounts of time harassing their classmates and obsessing over clothing. And YES, that means there are enough outfit descriptions here to instantly qualify Kylie as a Baby-Sitters Club ghostwriter. (Congratulations, Kylie! Just make sure you hit your jumpsuit and slouch socks quotas in every book.) Then she tossed everything together and set it at a boarding school, because it is a well-known fact that sending your characters to boarding school can do nothing but improve your story (see also camp).

Welcome to Tademy Academy

Sada says: I guess if your last name is Tademy, you really have no choice but to open an academy.

We awoke right on time, as per usual. Well, Fliss and I did. 4:00 am sharp.

“ Fliss, do you think purple glitter eye shadow is too bold for the first day of seventh grade,” I asked.

“ Yeah,” Fliss replied.

“ Hey, what about that pink eye shadow you bought at Sephora,” she asked, picking it out from my Maybelline makeup bag.

“Maybe,” I said. “Put it in the preliminary bag.”

“ Hey, Frankie,” Fliss asked. “ Should straighten my hair, curl it, or just use Bump Its?”

“ Straighten it. Unless you bought a new curling iron that doesn’t frizz up your hair,” I replied.

“ To curl or not to curl, that is the question.”

“OMG, you should put that cute Marni sundress in the bag,” I told Fliss.

“ With black Hue leggings, OMG!,” Fliss squealed.

Sada says: That sound you hear? Is Shakespeare rolling over in his grave. But wait, do people say OMG out loud? Really?? Youth of today, please confirm or deny.

“ Shut up,” screamed my adoptive twelve year old sister, Juno. That’s not her real name, she just changed it after she saw the movie. It’s really Rosita. She used to live in Texas, before her parents died, and she was sent to an orphanage, but she pretends she’s from England and speaks with a fake British accent and uses British slang. It seems incredibly stupid to me, especially since everyone knows she faking it, but she says it’s loads of fun.

Kylie says: What kind of girls get up at 4:00 am to get dressed and made up???? I’m with Juno. God, I really shouldn’t have seen that movie at age 10.

Sada says: The kind of girls who have a preliminary bag filled with Bump-Its and name-brand leggings, that's who. As Juno would say, blimey!

At least that can be forgiven because she dresses well and we are good friends because we are the same age. And we go to the same boarding school. Juno doesn’t believe in shoes. I know it’s so sad, but I don’t care much what those nasty TASs have to say about Jew.

Sada says: She doesn't believe in SHOES? Like, at all? I thought maybe Juno was a hippie but the "dressing well" part threw me off. (And I dressed like a hippie for many years, so I'm totally entitled to make that joke.) I'm guessing she just doesn't believe in shoes whose cost is equivalent with a month's rent. So far? I think Juno is brill.

The TASs are the Tademy Academy Socialites. It’s one of the TA social societies. It not even the most exclusive one, which is the one I’m going to be in. It’s called the Deltas. Let me explain social societies at Tademy Academy. You can’t join a soc until seventh grade for one thing. They help you meet boys from the boys’ school, Carlyle College, grades 7-12 and have radical parties.

Kiley says: Carlyle College? Was it ever a real college????

Sada says: Dude. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that Tademy has multiple groups whose main purpose is to exclude others. How many popular girls can one school have? So far the only thing I'm relating to here is the word "radical"—though not in terms of parties. Most of my 7th grade parties involved eating fistfuls of green M&Ms, listening to Bell Biv Devoe, and avoiding playing Spin the Bottle for fear I'd end up kissing someone gross (or, in early '90s parlance, a "total dog").

Even better, they guarantee you a spot on the drill squad. I’ve wanted to be on the drill squad since I was five years old. I think this could be the greatest thing that could ever happen to me. I mean, I could be partying with Ashlee, Maree, Courtnee, Britnee, Lacey, Tracey, Stacey, Macey, and the best of the best in the Deltas, Andy Tachman, Candy Campbell, Mandy Griffin, Sandy Flynn, and Randy Lewis. Yay! Plus you’re guaranteed a date to all school dances and functions.

Kylie says: What’s with the matchy-matchy names of the Deltas?

Sada says: Seriously. Rosie's going to need to drop the "Juno" if she wants to stand a chance here.

I quickly e- mailed Jayne Jonstone and Lottie Love, our camp friends, to give them the scoop.

Hey Jayne and Lottie,

What’s up? Guess whose going to be a Delta? Me, Francesca Frankie Frank Frankfurter Franks and Beans Chapman, assisted by Felicity Flissie Fliss Dillon, Kendra Ken Kenny Lindsay, Lindsay Lin Lyndz Sandburg, and Rosita Rose Rosie Fine, aka Juno Jew Fine. I can’t wait for seventh grade. It’s much easier to e-mail you now that you live in New England, and it’s already 1:00 pm there, so you’re surely awake. Over here it’s 9:00 am and Fliss and I just started the preliminary fashion round. Tademy Academy, here we come!

Sada says: It's already 9:00 a.m.? Time flies when you're filling up the preliminary bag! Sadly, NO, they don't attend boarding school in Alaska. They're in California; fourth graders in Australia just aren't super familiar with U.S. time zones.

Love,

Frankie Chapman & Fliss Dillon

Aka Mrs. Francesca Efron and Mrs. Felicity Sanborn.

Sada says: Oh, look, they're planning to marry the stars of High School Musical** much the way my friends and I were going to divvy up and wed the members of New Kids on the Block. That's cute.

[**Yeah, had no idea who that Sanborn character was. I'm not a pervy old lady, I'm just handy with the Google.]

P.S. I’m hosting SIGMA!!!!!!! - Fliss

P.P.S But I’m still hosting all the boy-girl parties, right?- Frankie

P.P.P.S I call shotgun in Ryne Sanborn’s convertible in twelve years. - Fliss

P.P.P.P.S You are insane about that guy.- Frankie

P.P.P.P.P.S I can’t help it.- Fliss

Sada says: Calling shotgun 12 years in advance? Hilarious. But probably ill-advised. I shudder to think of all the repossessed vehicles I might have ended up in.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S We’re signing off for real. - Frankie

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S- I’m Juno no more and I’m finally awake.- Rosie

Just then, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Rosie yelled, giggling at this ridiculous outfit Fliss joked about dressing me in.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,” Rosie squealed.

“ Guys, check this out,” she yelled.

“ OMG,” Fliss said.

Dear Francesca Chapman, and Rosita Fine,

You two have been chosen to pledge for the Deltas. This will involve many risks. You will be asked to do something spiteful, something forward, something embarrassing, and something scandalous. What these things are will not be revealed in this letter. But the other pledges are to be revealed .

Felicity Dillon

Kendra Lindsay

Lindsay Sandburg

Kirsten Johnston

Sarah Jo Hansen

Holly Malloy

Mallory Lazarus

Emma-Jean Greene

Piper Tademy

Sarah-Charlotte Hopkins

Gillian Tompkins

Melissa Perkins

And remember, only five gals will make it.

Sada says: Dear Girls Whose Names Cannot Accommodate a Nickname Ending in a Y or double E: You are screwed. xoxo, Andy

Sealed with a Kiss,

(squeal) Andrea Tachman

ANDY TACHMAN WROTE US A LETTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I worship the ground she walks on!

My cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Frankie, is that you?’’

“Kenny, what’s up?”

“I just got the best news….”

“You’re about to be a Delta, right?”

“And so are you!”

“I know, isn’t it amazing?”

“I can’t believe it!!!”

“Frankie,” Fliss shouted.

“I’ve got to go, bye.”

“So, Frankie, what shirt do you chose to go to the Top 5,” Rosie asked.

“Oh, my American Eagle polo shirt with my Aeropostale jeans.”

“OK.”

Kylie says: OK, there is way too much screaming here.

Sada says: BUT ANDY TACHMAN WROTE THEM A LETTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (squeal)

After that, the time flew by, and I was wearing that outfit with hi-top felt-pen attacked Keds and diamond studs from Claire’s.

Sada says: Diamonds at Claire's? Shyeah right! I can't be THAT old.

Fliss had borrowed my Hue leggings and had thrown on a white Delia’s dress with pink Converse All-Stars. Finally, Rosie was wearing a cute pink Abercrombie tank top and a Hollister denim skirt, with black Chuck Taylors. We walked into Tademy Academy with confidence, where we ran into a TAS, Tara Luna.

“Nice Keds,” the eighth-grader said. “Not.”

I tossed my blond hair in her face and walked right on by.

Sada says: Wikipedia has taught me that The Clique reviles Keds. Which totally makes sense seeing as white Keds were my exclusive sneaker of choice during middle school (preferably sans laces) and I think it's fair to say that I would never, ever, never have been tapped to join the Pretty Committee.

Whatevs. If they're good enough for Kelly Kapowski, they're good enough for me.

“Hey, Frankie,” Maree Pillsbury yelled out. “Rosie, Fliss.”

“Hey,” we all yelled and walked over to her.

“ Okay, you guys,” she said. “Tonight and tomorrow, you make your first set of pledges. Frankie, you’ll get Ella Gris by putting a donut on her seat in the cafeteria. Fliss, you’re to tip Tara Luna’s tray in the cafeteria in front of everyone. Kenny, you’re going to leave a fake love letter for Charlotte Reyes in her locker. Sign in with her crush, Dominick Fitch’s name. Make it very romantic. Spray it with Axe. It should tell her to meet him at the fountain in the courtyard. When no one shows up she’ll be humiliated and her locker will stink. Lyndz, you’ll cut off Casey Wallace’s ponytail. And finally, Rosie. You will put frogs in Raquel Weaver’s locker. Leave a banana peel on the ground and get a bucket of chili. The frogs will jump out at Raquel, and chase her down the hall. She’ll slip on the banana peel, slide down the hall, and trigger the bucket of chili to fall down on her. Got it? Because it’s the game plan.”

Maree always talks like that, because she’s on the world’s premiere girls’ football team.

Sada says: WOW. The Deltas might be lax on the Keds wearing, but DAMN, they are some evil bizznatches! Inflicting donut butt? Cutting off ponytails—and presumably NOT donating them to Locks of Love? And utilizing the Devil's own body spray (aka Axe)? Noooooooo! But the mind-blowingly elaborate Frogs in Raquel's Locker Chase Her Toward a Banana Peel That Triggers a Bucket of Chili to Fall on Her Head plan is my favorite. For obvious reasons.

“Got it,” we all said.

At dinner, it was proven that we didn’t get it. I bought a slice of pizza, a apple, and the Chocolate Covered Donut. “Are you guys sure I should do this?,” I asked.

“Totally,” Kenny said. “You still want to be in the Deltas, right?”

“Right,” I said, not so sure that I did.

“ The coast is clear,” Fliss said. “ Drop the bomb.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. Just then, I got a text.

From: Kenny [Sada says: Yes, it appears this text is from her friend who is standing next to her. Technology is awesome!]

To: Frankie

Frankie Chapman never hesitates when it comes 2 the Deltas. DTD=

Drop The Donut!!!!!!!!

And I did. I placed the donut right on Ella Gris’s seat. Two minuets later, a splat rang throughout the cafeteria.

Sada says: Can we all stop for a second and savor the poetry of "a splat rang throughout the cafeteria"? (Alternatively, you can take this time to ponder how a splat can ring.)

Ella sprang right up out of her chair. She looked at the back of her pants. Her seat was covered in chocolate frosting and Boston cream was dripping down her legs. She screamed and everyone laughed.

“ See ya, Boston,” an eighth grader yelled as she ran out of the cafeteria, humiliated.

Kylie says: God, Frankie seems like a real bitch.

Sada says: I am so glad I didn't go to Tademy Academy. In my middle school, we at least had the decency to insult people anonymously in a slam book! We never made them sit on breakfast pastries!

My phone began to vibrate.

From: Maree

To: Frankie

The Boston cream was a nice touch. That was a total accidental donut I threw in the basket. It must have been fate that you grabbed it, right?

Sada says: What basket? I thought Frankie bought the donut in the cafeteria. My God, just how much pull do these Deltas have??

From: Frankie

To: Courtnee

Total fate! Awesome, right?

Kylie says: I was right!

Sada says: There's nothing she wouldn't do for the drill squad. NOTHING!

NEXT TIME: Our (by which I mean Kylie's) story continues with with liberal spritzes of Axe body spray. In case you were wondering what that smell was.

You Like Me. You Really Like Me.

Oh my gosh, you guys. Four of you nominated me for this award! Which makes me feel very, very special and pretty and popular (something I did NOT feel at 13)... as well as very, very undeserving considering most of you blog like 8,000% more than I do.

Because I feel so guilty, I will try to follow the rules this time, even though it makes me feel kind of like I'm sending a warm-and-fuzzy blog version of a chain letter. These are the rules:

1) Thank the person who nominated me for this award.

2) Copy the award & place it on my blog.

3) Link to the person who nominated me for this award.

4) Tell us 7 interesting things about yourself.

5) Nominate 7 bloggers.

6) Post links to the 7 blogs I nominate.

So big thank yous to the lovely bloggers below who presented me with the butterflies-caught-in-storm-of-curlicues goodness. Are you already reading their blogs? You should be:

Are You There Youth? It's Me, Nikki: Nikki recaps the best selection of raised-in-the-'80s classics and little-known gems AND she freely call characters out on their cuntery. Dare I say it's a combination that goes together like high tops and slouch socks?

Worst of the Worst Fanfiction: What's better than making fun of yourself and/or Francine Pascal's legion of ghostwriters? Making fun of pervy creative spellers who can't be assed to come up with their own characters!

Living in the '80s and '90s: I just discovered this blog and already have a crush on its snarktastic recaps of the inanity that is Bayside High, among other awesomeness. YES!

Fear Street: I have never read an R.L. Stine book, but I freakishly love this blog and its author's obsession with Stine's mole. (Really, can you blame her?)

And here are seven things about my 30-something self that my 13-year-old self would be shocked to learn—I mean, other than the obvious fact that I am using a COMPUTER to let strangers, and people I know, and BOYS read my diary:

I am not married with a truckload of babies. Thirteen-year-old me thought I'd have at least three rugrats by now, preferably fathered by Joe McIntyre; 30-something me thinks Joey Joe is a bit of a douche. To be fair, I'd still pick him as a baby daddy over some of my other 13-year-old crushes (two words: Vanilla Ice).

I actually like vegetables! When I was 13, the closest I got to a vegetable was a Claussen's dill pickle. I am not exaggerating.

I ride a bike nearly everywhere. (Actually, this may have been predicted once in a round of MASH.) At 13, I loathed physical activity so much that I managed to talk my pediatrician into write me a note excusing me from Gym for the year. True, I was having a lot of asthma trouble at the time, but really, how much running do you do in basketball elimination? Answer: next to none. Instead, my bum-kneed friends and I got to be office aides, delivering notes and forgotten lunches to classrooms all over the building. Best! Gym class! Ever!

I don't have cable. Thirteen-year-old me was committed to a rigorous weekly schedule of television viewing, whereas 30-something me watches less TV than a Scandinavian. (Honestly, 23-year-old me would probably be astonished by this as well. Sometimes I do miss me a little television for women.) However! My brain has retained a staggering amount of trivia from its years in front of the boob tube, and I dream of someday starting a band that plays nothing but '80s sitcom theme songs. No, seriously.

I kinda sorta love karaoke. Despite my yearly plan to form a band, 13-year-old me was actually terrified of singing solo. (Think of me as the Jon Knight of Girls Will Be Girls.) In 8th grade chorus, when our teacher was sussing out the altos and sopranos, I flat-out refused to sing by myself in front of the class. Now? I karaoke only once or twice a year, but I spend countless hours analyzing what makes a killer karaoke tune. Current front-runner for World's Best Karaoke Song (as suggested by my friend Alyssa) is Heart's "All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You," a ballad about a woman who bones a hitchhiker when her impotent husband can't give her a baby, then leaves said hitchhiker a mysterious letter about gardening. Needless to say, THE CROWD LOVED IT! Note: "Kiss Me Deadly" and "Hot Blooded" also go over well. You're welcome!

13-year-old me LOVED this song! It was a Pizza Hut jukebox favorite.

I moved to Oregon without dying of dysentery OR a snake bite! When I was 13, all I knew about Portland was that the Quimbys lived there. And that a lot of your oxen might die before you reached Klickitat Street.

I still haven't completed book of my own. But since starting this blog, I've had an idea for one! With, like, an actual plot! And if I can ever figure out what the frig's up with my main character, maybe I'll actually write it!

Now for some shout-outs (forwarding of curlicue-butterfly magic is optional; I think half of you have already received this award):

Not That Kind of Girl: TKOG is on a quest to do 250 uncharacteristic things before the end of August 2010. If you like self-improvement that involves blow job classes, dancing like no one's watching on the JumboTron, and overuse of the word "dude" (which, dude! I totally do!), you should be reading this.

Steam Me Up, Kid: This blog is just no-holds-barred hilarity. Posts include instructions on how to improve your wonk-eye, first-base threesomes, and being the boss of your bodily functions. I kind of want to move to L.A. so I can try to become friends with Becky. Is that weird?

Dibbly Fresh: Snappy, satirical pop culture commentary AND Ann M. Martin bashing? What more can you ask for? Plus, Sadako makes me feel smart, which is not something I often feel when reading about The Baby-sitters Club.

The Diary Project: I love knowing that I was not alone in my all-consuming boy obsession, unwavering love for Beaches, and quest for permed hair—which it turns out I didn't need, as my hair was naturally frizztastic (see photo; that mess is ALL REAL, but it often fooled my hairdressers at Ye Olde Supercuts).

The Dairi Burger: I know you all already read The Dairi Burger; that's probably how you found this blog in the first place. But really, ihatewheat deserves a whole room full of awards for fearlessly reading the dreck that the SVH ghostwriters pass off as literature. ihatewheat, I salute you!

NEXT TIME: I promise to welcome you to Tademy Academy. After that, we'll finally start middle school!

Survey Says

Because we were the epitome of cool, my sister and I had lots—and I mean LOTS—of pen pals in our teen and tweenage years. Writing letters was fun, but sometimes we liked to take it to the next level by creating insightful surveys on our word processor (sample query: "Did Paula Abdul get a boob job or is it trick photography?"). We would distribute lists of these pressing questions to our pen pals near and far, and also to our friends and loved ones. Because we had to get to the bottom of this Paula Abdul boob thing ASAP.

One survey recipient was our younger brother, Will, who was 10 years old when my sister made him fill this out (my surveys had way more 90210-related questions). This, you guys, THIS is what was going on in the minds of fifth grade boys while we were writing them heart-on-our-sleeve love letters imploring them to like us more than Jessica. I offer the following with very little commentary because, seriously, this business was snarky enough already.

questions

name: Will P.

age: 10

date: June 23, 1994

What is the best book you've ever read? Why?

Babysitters Club 9#. Because it's cool.

I don't like the sarcasm I'm detecting in this answer.

[Image courtesy of Are You There Youth? It's Me, Nikki
because my computer thinks there's something sketchy going down at Dibbly Fresh.]

What is your favorite movie? Why?

Bugsy Malone. Because they have a marshmallow fight.

What is your favorite song and album and group?

New Kids on the Block. Because their hip.

Remember, this was 1994, not 1989. New Kids on the Block were not even remotely hip anymore. Good-bye, rattails and topless hats. Hello, flannel!

Who is your favorite actor?

Steve Urkel

Working toward that Oscar nod!

actress?

Madonna

Are there any famous people you despise? Who and why?

No one

What qualities in a person really make you sick?

When they drool, chug a pop and throw-up, and eat.

Who are some of the people you look up to, and why?

Shaq

Would you rather be deaf or blind? Why?

Blind. Donno?

What are some things you appreciate about the opposite sex?

I don't have to have the babies.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

NO. Because I'm blind.

What is the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for you?

My mom made me.

Do you think you'll ever find anyone you'll want to spend the rest of your life with?

NO Yes

Are you going to raise your children different than your parents have raised you? In what ways?

NO

If you could change anything about yourself, physically, mentally or emotionally, what would it be?

I want to be a Superman!

What do you think people's first impressions of you are?

I'm weird

What is something you usually don't tell people about yourself?

No

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A man and a dog.

Dare to dream!

What are your plans for the future?

To meet a woman and a loving dog that is immortal and will massage.

??? I don't know what that means, and I'm pretty sure I don't want to find out.

What was the best year of your life? Why?

Kindergarden because Mrs. Collins was sexy

Sexy!

That's kindergarten teacher Mrs. Collins with my brother's future girlfriend. Also, yes, our school mascot was a sweater-wearing falcon with a backpack. Don't even try to front.

What is your most prized possession?

My tiger.

Will had a pet rabbit named Tiger, so I think this is—dare I say?—not a joke.

If your house was burning down and you could save two things, what would they be?

Animals and family

If you were going to be sent off to a deserted island for a year, what two people would you bring? Why?

Madonna and Mrs. Collins

Ahh, the Mrs. Collins joke. It never gets old!

Who do you get along with best in your whole family?

My mom

What is something you've always wanted to do, but never have?

Been a billionaire

What is the biggest problem facing the world?

death.

thank you. iI hope you enjoyed it.

You suck!

Yeah. He ended the survey by correcting our capitalization and then insulting us. (Don't worry, I'm going to get him back by posting pictures of him dressed up like a girl. You can look forward to that in a future post.)

However, I want you to know that it was not ALL smartassery with young Will. He had his first "girlfriend," named Morgan, around this time. When we went on vacation that summer, he made the awesome mistake of leaving his journal lying around where we could see it—awesome because we saw that he had written this: "All I can think about is Morgan, Morgan, Morgan." So I guess preteen girls didn't have the market on melodrama cornered after all. (Sadly, the journal made no mention of immortal massage dogs.)

This was the same vacation in which Will spent the entire two-day car ride home hocking loogies into a cup because he was convinced that spitting would prevent him from having to pee. I think we were all too grossed out to explain the details of his faulty logic.

NEXT TIME: Guest author Kylie teaches us that if you want to be popular at Tademy Academy, you have to prepared to dump a little chili on someone else's head. And no, that's not a metaphor.

Dear Sig: The Saga Continues

When last we left the saga, Cleveland's lake effect snow had failed to providentially strand my fourth grade crush, Sig, at my house mid-blizzard. (Thanks for nothing, Lake Erie.) I was 99% sure that Sig was into me, because sometimes he would, like, look at me in class. The problem: He also tended to gaze at my friend Jessica. Another problem: Jessica liked him too. And also: Jessica was, oh, only the most lusted-after girl in school.

So we did what any girls in our situation would do: We wrote Sig a letter telling him we liked him. Both of us. Me and my infinitely more alluring romantic rival. Together. Because I was a genius. And then we were like, "Which one of us you do like—that is, like like—more? OUT WITH IT, MAN!"

But Sig was not playing our game. He wrote back saying that we were both pretty (wooooooo!), and that he liked BOTH of us and couldn't decide. Which was a) totally baffling (really? he didn't like Jessica more? JESSICA??) and b) totally frustrating.

It also meant that the letters continued. Because Jessica may have been a gajillion times more popular with the boyfolk, but I could surely win him over with my... erm... heart-shaped stationery? The following letter was typed (how casual!) on paper that looked like this:

Raise your hand if you're embarrassed already.

Pre-letter disclaimer: Obviously I never sent this to him, because I still have it in my possession. What I don't know is whether or not I mailed off a later draft. Please, God, I pray that I did not.

July 15, 1988

Dear Sig,

Tomorrow I'm going on vacation. We're going to (in order) Brockport (to see my friends Brendan and Caitlin), Canada (to camp), Gasport (to see my cousins, Bonnie and Jimmy), and Lockport (to see my cousins, Stephanie and the twins, Steven and Michael).*

*The "ports" are in New York.

Yes, my letter included a footnote. Did I know how to woo a 10-year-old boy or WHAT? Oh, and a previous letter must have suggested a picture exchange, because after the really thrilling description of my upcoming trip, I launch into this:

Oh, I don't have any decent pictures to send you right now. I'm going to try and get my mom to take some acceptable ones while we're away.

Er, like this one?

There is absolutely nothing acceptable about those bangs.

Oh, I'm sorry, did I forget to mention that this was the Worst Cut Era? Yeah. You know how people sometimes refer to giant '80s bangs as "The Claw"? Mine were more along the lines of "Satan's Gimpy, Gnarled Hand." So I had that going for me. But wait! There's more!

My boyfriend thinks I looked like one of the Ramones.
Every young girl's dream!

Oh yeah, these pictures were going to make him forget allllll about Jessica. Also, notice how I'm close-lipped in all of the shots? That's because I'd recently acquired a mouthful of metal. Hot, right? Jessica WHO??

Are you going to send yours? The three of us, you know, you, me, Jessica, should all get together soon and talk.

I'm sure Sig was just counting down the days until he could be hounded about this in person instead of via the USPS.

Have you told anyone about this? Well, Jess and I told Katie, the three of us are best friends. I doubt there's anything left to say.

Good instinct, Sada! Keep it short and sweet. The less you say, the less likely you are to utterly humiliate yourself. Just sign your name and we'll—oh CRAP—

Well, I just wish you'd like me more than Jessica. Everyone likes Jessica. The boys, I mean. When they look at me they say, "Ew, gross, contact" or something similar.

"Contact" was something that you would say to protect yourself against the germs of unpopularity. Like, say someone's hand accidentally brushed against [Insert name of unpopular child] while waiting in line for the slide; that person would then have the [Name of unpopular kid] Touch, and would have to rid him or herself of said Touch by thrusting it upon an unsuspecting victim. The ONLY WAY to avoid getting The Touch was to yell, "Contact!" or, if you were feeling charitable, "Contact! Detours! Force field!" If I remember correctly, this was a more powerful form of Contact that would also protect any friends in your immediate vicinity.

So, to sum up: Everyone with a wang lurves Jessica, and they find me so repellent that they must verbally arm themselves against my cooties. Just, like, in case you forgot, Sig! (You guys, I don't even know. Was I going for the PITY LIKE? Oh, the shame.)

It's nice to know that someone, besides my family and friends thinks I'm pretty.

Because—news flash!—boys think I am The Ug.

I think you're cute. Us girls call boys "cute" if they look good.

Good thing I let him in on that big secret! Jessica recently reminded me of a later incident in which we were walking to her house and Sig had joined us (hi, he obvs liked us!), and we started telling him how comely he was.

comely adj. Vocabulary word courtesy of Judy Blume. According to Rachel Robinson, it means "attractive . . . good looking . . . cute . . ."

Shockingly, Sig managed to glean the meaning from context. The context being along the lines of "Oh, Sig, you are soooooooOOOOOOOoooooooo COMELY!"

And then I ended the letter with:

L*O*V*E,
S*A*D*A

L*O*V*E? I'll tell you what I loved: asterisks. Sweet Jesus.

P.S. WRITE BACK SOON

P.P.S. If you get a letter from Rachel, don't write her back.

Because no letter is complete without a dig at Rachel! I think that ultimately only a couple of letters were exchanged (I don't see why Sig wouldn't have written back ASAP!), but I do remember that he gave both Jessica and I pink-and-purple friendship bracelets that he made for us. (ZOMG, a boy made me something! This was almost as cool as being in a skateboard gang!!)

I didn't keep a diary in fifth grade, but there's a mention in my school journal about Sig and his puppy stopping by Jessica's house while I was over (me: apparently unfazed that he was randomly stopping by Jessica's? or did we invite him?). That year Sig played the lead in our school play, The Emperor's New Clothes. Of course, he wasn't actually NAKED, but we had to pretend that he was. You can imagine the maniacal giggling that occurred.

And I would insist on going to Family Skate at the ice rink every freaking week because Sig went too and sometimes he would skate with me for a bit (woooooooo! again). The most dramatic Family Skate event involved my friend Casey, who broke her leg while skating with me and had to be carried off the ice by Sig's dad—oh, the mortification! Afterward Sig skated up to me and said, "The bigger they are, the harder they fall, huh?" I still don't know what he meant by that. In hindsight, I think he was just trying to make conversation, but in the moment, I was infuriated that he dare cast aspersions on my injured friend, and I came back with this incredibly witty rejoinder: "Well, I guess Casey must have a really big LEG then!!!" Um... ? What does that even MEAN?? (I don't know, but I was definitely mad at him for, like, at least two days.)

I do have some dishy materials from a sleepover with Katie. First of all, we rated ten of the boys in our class (as preteen girls are wont to do) on a scale of 1–10. I rated Sig the highest with a 9½; the baby-faced new boy Aaron, who lived a few doors down from Sig, a 7; and the remaining boys in the 2 to 6 range. Harsh! Katie, meanwhile, gave Sig a 10, when she supposedly liked Nathan—whom she only rated a 9! WTF, Katie?!

Also, to answer your question: YES, for some reason I have kept a copy of fifth grade boy ratings for TWENTY YEARS. There's obviously something wrong with me. But! Below the Boy Ratings, there's a list of the following:

People (or things) that go together in our grade:

1. Rebecca and Nathan
2. Sig and Jessica
3. Katie and Chuck [Chuck was the "hot stable boy" where Katie rode horses. Except for the part where he didn't actually exist. We started to get suspicious when we realized his letters were all written in Katie's handwriting.]
4. Rachel and Yoav
5. Michael and Laura [crossed out, I suppose, after they "broke up"]

But yes, did you see #2? It's true. The inevitable happened: Sig asked Jessica to "go with him." I was crushed. (Actually, I was home sick that day, and I don't really remember what happened. But I'm sure I was crushed.) And my family had just moved onto his very street! But, oh, what did it matter now?

I tried briefly to focus my attentions on Aaron, the new boy, despite the fact that he was only a 7. And by "focus my attentions" I mean "fantasize that I might lure him to my house to play a few rounds on our awesome new mini-pinball machine." But then all the other girls decided they liked Aaron too (one friend even puffy-painted "I ♥ Aaron" on her socks, so you know she meant business), so I was like, screw this. Plus, living on Sig's street meant that sometimes he would bike past my house. Like, while Bon Jovi was poignantly singing "I'll Be There for You" in the background. I swear to you.

So, he may have picked Jessica, but whatever—this shit was clearly meant to be. I knew it; Jon Bon Jovi knew it; and in his heart, I believed Sig knew it too. On the other side of the "Boy Ratings" paper is a list entitled "Who Boys Like," and you know who's listed under Sig? That's right: Jessica and Sada. I was keeping the dream alive, you guys. KEEPING THE DREAM ALIVE.

The saga? To Be Continued...

Also, in my dedication to embarrassing myself as much as humanly possible (and because, hey, I wondered what he was up to), I did it: I TRACKED SIG DOWN. And I sent him a link to The Sig Saga. Oh yeah I did. However, because he has the memory of a normal person instead of, like, a freaky computer elephant (ahem), he didn't recall too many of the specifics. He did say: "Offhand what I remember is having to deal with the barrage of notes and letters and phone calls from you girls when all I really wanted to do was jump my bike off the curb or play street hockey." Which... yep. That sounds about right.

One of the best parts, though, is how I finally found him: through my third grade crush, Andrew. That's right, people. I've been e-mailing all the boys I had the hots for in elementary school. I even confessed my crush-of-old to Andrew (he was not, I'm pleased to report, the recipient of any third grade letters) and he wrote back that he had a crush on—I am not even making this up!—JESSICA. Of course he did.

NEXT TIME: A rare look into the mind of the fifth grade boy! My brother proves that snarkiness runs in the family.