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!

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.

That's Me!

In fifth grade, we had a class assignment to write our autobiography. This should have been a piece of cake for me. I mean, I wrote at home all the time... FOR FUN. But? Those were stories about punk rock Valley girls! Runaway cult members! Girls who dressed up like hookers for Halloween and wired the insides of trees in their spare time! In other words, people with much more interesting lives than mine. What did I have to offer the world? Let's see...

In my first attempt, I took a straightforward approach:

I was born on June 24, 1977. It was dinnertime. I was named Sada Rose. Sada after Sada Thompson an actress on the T.V. show, FAMILY. Rose after my grandmother's maiden name. I was Halle and Charles's first child, their first little girl. I was born at home in Buffalo, New York.

Blah blah freakin' blah. Where was the DRAMA? The biker gangs? The secret passages? The Wheel of Fortune wins? I quickly jotted down the most important points to cover in my 11 years of existence:

Born
Genie born
Will born
Pets
Friends
Houses
Family
School
Fights
Vacations
Getting Hurt Badly
Interesting things

Could this work? Could I pull it off and transform myself into a fascinating protagonist?

Well, apparently not. Instead I decided to go in the complete opposite direction, by insisting to the reader that I was BORING AS ALL GET-OUT. Here's how I began Draft #2:

I HAVE A BORING LIFE

I HAVE A BORING LIFE
I HAVE A

My mother says I don't have a boring life. My grandmother says I don't have a boring life. My father says I don't have a boring life.

I HAVE A BORING LIFE.

As you can see, I was keeping expectations low. EXTREMELY LOW.

I was born, naturally, but that's boring. EVERYONE was born. I was born at home.

When I was a baby, I went to King's Island. I met ______________. But I don't remember. That's boring to me.

You know who the blank is? MUHAMMAD ALI! Totally not boring! When I was six months old, my mom and I happened upon him while flying out of NYC, and he not only held me, he even kissed me! And I cried. And my mom didn't take a single photo, a fact over which she should still be kicking herself. That could have MADE this autobiography.

When I was a baby, I went to the Virgin Islands. WOW. WHERE ARE THE VIRGIN ISLANDS?

Not only was I boring, I also lacked basic geography skills. Or looking-at-a-map skills. Or asking-my-parents skills.

But, man, I was onto something with this "boring" theme! It was time to set to work on the final draft. Here's what I turned in to my teacher (photos and all).

THAT'S ME!

This book is dedicated to:
my parents
because without their help I never
would have had this life

Bow chicka wow wow! On the other hand, that could be translated as "Without you two I never would have had such a BORING life!"

Since I think I have a boring life, the most exciting way to write this story would be to tell you everyone's suggestions...and things I remember.

SPOILER: That might, in fact, be the LEAST exciting way to write this story.


You guys, I loved this pile of dirt. LOVED IT. In fact, check out this other photo (not part of the book, but included here for your viewing enjoyment), where I'm all, "Holy God! This is the best pile of dirt EVER!":

DIRT RULES!

"I have a boring life." I exclaimed. I had just walked into my little brother's room. It was the week-end and the morning.

I was right! This is boring already!

My mom tried to be helpful. "When you were little you used to lay down and suck your fingers to go to sleep." she said.

And then there's a photo of... me sitting on a stoop with some disembodied legs?

The caption for this one reads "Me (notice the slippers)." I have no idea why. Of much greater interest is my MAINE POTATOES shirt, because my family calls me Sada Potato. For those of you who don't know me, that rhymes.

"What about me?" asked my little brother, Will. He won't be left out of a conversation.

"Well," said mom. "You used to call Josh:Dosh, Sada:Ada, and Genie:Nenie."

Will laughed into his pillow.

"And Genie used to call American Cheese: AMERICACHINO." added mom.

More hysterical laughter from Will.

I rolled my eyes.


My sister had a Groucho Marx mask that she bafflingly referred to as her "Philip Face." Here I model the mind-blowing Philip Face and peach leotard combo. Hipsters, you might want to be writing this down.

"I have a boring life." I said to my grandma.

"A BORING LIFE." cried Grandma. "I think you have one of the most exciting lives of any 11-year-old."

She went on to make suggestions:

Me wearing my Santa pajamas.

"You traveled to the Virgin Islands when you were a baby. How many people do you think have done that?" questioned Grandma.

"I don't remember." I said.

"You've seen your brother and sister being born." continued Grandma.

"I don't remember Genie." I told her. (Genie is my little sister, of course.)

My siblings and I were all born at home (a detail that I clearly had to leave out, lest I make this autobiography slightly interesting), and I was present at their births. But whatever. The miracle of life? BORING.

Me and dad on the boat, cruising the Carribean

I neglected to mention that we stayed on a houseboat in the Virgin Islands. I know, right? Being on a boat? TOTALLY BORING.

I remember stories my mom told me like the time I was in my crib.

I was supposed to be taking a nap. I saw our neighbor and I started to wave and call, "JULIE. JULIE." Then, I fell out of my crib and out of the window.

YES! Finally we get to some good stuff, i.e., Getting Hurt Badly by Falling Out of a Window! Well, except for this:

OOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPSSSSSSSS.....

My mom just came in and told me I fell out of the crib (I'd been leaning out of the window) and smacked my head really badly on the hardwood floor.

That was the end of the crib.

...And the end of this story, which was way better when I thought I fell out of the window. Falling on the floor? BORING!

Me doing "exercises"

Please note the Super '70s playpen and the sock monkeys strewn willy-nilly.

When I was little my feet used to point in so, I wore a brace (on my feet) that kept them out. My mom's friend, Maura says I used to walk around with it on my feet.

Me and the brace (I used to make that face all the time)

Yes, everyone, I was dropped on the head AND I was pigeon-toed. You want to make fun? Just try it! I know Muhammad Ali!

Well, back to Will's room.

I was asking my mom about when I was in the hospital.

"Well," she began. "You were yellow."

"Yellow?" I repeated.

"Yellow." she said.

The first photo in the infamous "Eating Sand" series...

"And," she continued. "We took you to the hospital. Your blood was different than mine. So, they poked and prodded you and gave you blood transfusions and all that." She went on and on and on and on and on..........

In other words: BORING! I mean, my body was just REJECTING MY BLOOD. No big whoop.

I could tell funny, interesting, exciting stories about my brother or sister.

BUT NOT ME.

So that's my boring life.

What do you think?

My teacher's comments?

Excellent! You did a wonderful job on this aubobiography Sada!

I am not kidding. It definitely says "aubobiography." Which probably explains a lot.

NEXT TIME: Fifth graders cannot keep their stinkin' traps shut in THE BIG SECRET.

Par-tay!

In fifth grade, the highlights of my social life were birthday parties and sleepovers, the ultimate event, of course, being a birthday party sleepover. These were chances for us to:

• Watch movies with dirty words in them—and maybe even boobs! Or butts! Ewwww!
  
• See how much crap we could eat without becoming mortally ill.
• Engage in spaztastic behavior that made little to no sense. (Likely a side effect of our gargantuan consumption of high-fructose corn syrup.)
• Attempt to stay up until the wee hours. (The high-fructose corn syrup again acting as our accomplice.)

And if you don't believe me, the following school journal entries will attest.

10-3-88

Sleepover

On Saturday, Katie and Jessica slept over at my house. We pigged out!

In fact, by sixth grade we would dub our sleepovers "Pig-Outs." The Sleepover Friends had nothing on us, let me tell you what. (Well, okay, they may have had a special dip, but whatever. Canned tuna and cream cheese? Bleck! I'll stick with the Little Caesar's pizza pizza, thank you very much.)

We ate Cool Ranch Doritos, M&M's, Skittles, E.L. fudge cookies, ice cream, and rootbeer floats (Not to mention the pizza we had for dinner)!

Just looking at this has given me bad breath.

And do you guys remember E.L. Fudge cookies? They were creepily Keebler elf–shaped.

What kind of elves bake cookies in a tree? Seriously.

We stayed up until 4 (except me, who fell asleep at 3:45 and woke up again at 4:03) playing Truth Or Dare, Who Am I?, watching "Hairspray", putting on make-up, dancing, listening to the radio, talking, and eating, of course.

Of course! Those rootbeer floats aren't going to drink themselves, you know!

We talked on the phone, too!

This probably means one of us called a boy we liked and asked him who he liked, all the while pretending the other two girls weren't standing by with their ears pressed to the receiver.

IT WAS FUN!

-SADA

P.S. We also acted stupid.

10/10/88

Jessica's party!

At Jessica's party we (me, Jess, Sarah H., Sarah M., Sara S., Casey, Georgia, Rachel, Sherron):

1) We waited for everyone to come

2) We played a game where Jess's mom brought in a tray (16 objects were on it) and we stared it it for 60 sec. then she took it away. We wrote down everything we remembered.

3) We ate dinner (PIZZA). My tooth became really loose.

As I'm sure you can tell, this party narrowly avoided becoming a "tradgedy."

4) We had dessert (rainbow angel food cake and chocolate marshmallow ice cream)

5) Jess opened her presents.

6) We watched HAIRSPRAY on her VCR.

If you check the dates on these entries, you'll note that we just watched Hairspray a week ago. We could not get enough of segregated dance shows in 1960s Baltimore!

7) We limboed. I cracked my hip.

"Tradgedy" almost struck once more! I would actually complain about the hip-cracking limbo incident for years to come and claim that I could never... limbo... again.

8) We took a queer picture.

9) MY MOM CAME TO PICK ME UP!

—Sada

2/27/89

Katie's PARTY
Happy Birthday, Katie

Katie's party was on Friday–Saturday. It was the best party! The people there were me, Katie (DUH!), Jessica, and Maggie. (Casey couldn't come, you know.) So first we ate. Pizza, then ice cream cake for dessert. Well, we were gonna have a séance with the OUIJA boards. (Me and Katie's) But she opened her presents. I bought her a little stuffed animal Orangutang and some dangly earrings.

So we didn't have the séance because Maggie didn't believe in the OUIJA boards.

I love how this implies that the rest of us DID believe in the OUIJA boards.

We had a ceremony. My name was BASTET. I was Nefertiti's (Jessica's) daughter. Katie was Isaida. Maggie was Tasmarina. We made up signs + countries.

I had read The Egypt Game about 8,572 times too many. Zilpha Keatley Snyder, I don't care that you're 81, you're still my girlfriend!

Then we started watching "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". It was boring so we watched "Psycho I." It was scary. Katie was cackling during the shower scene.

The reason I'm referring to Psycho as Psycho I is that the first film we watched in this "series" was Psycho III (Alfred Hitchcock is rolling over in his grave RIGHT NOW), viewed at a sleepover several months earlier.

Then we watched "Psycho II." They get scarier and grosser by the movie!

Grosser, certainly. (I'm pretty sure someone gets decapitated while ON THE TOILET in Psycho III.) But scarier? Pshaw.

We were so scared, we watched "Mary Poppins". That was funny because Maggie kept yelling, "Shut up! It's Mr. Banks! He's on T.V.!" then she pulled us around in our sleeping bags.

Maggie's love for Mr. Banks was a running joke for years. Apparently it never made any sense.

We went to sleep about 4:30 AM.

How sad is it that I could stay up later ate age 11 than I can at age 31? Pretty, pretty sad.

In the morning Maggie had to leave at 10:00 for orchestra. So me and Katie and Jessica played Hide-N-Seek. Katie's step-dad, Steve, seeked us. It was fun. Then my mom came! UGH!

-SADA

I now present to you...

Sada's List of the Top 3 Most Scandalicious Sleepover Movies*:

1. Real Genius. I'll admit, it was largely scandalous because we watched it when were tender young second graders, and it contained references to things like "penis stretchers" (oh my GAWD!) and "making it." Quite frankly, I think I still have a crush on Chris Knight and his amazing T-shirt collection, which—holy awesomeness!—can be purchased here! I'm about two seconds away from ordering a pair of bunny slippers.

You're so hot, I'll overlook the fact that you're actually Val Kilmer.

Sidenote: Have you guys ever noticed how much Mitch freakishly resembles Sarah Jessica Parker?

Right? They were obviously separated at birth.

2. The Exorcist. This one we watched in fourth grade and OH MY SWEET LORD. A girl roundabouts our age gets possessed by demonic forces, spins her head around like she's some sort of super creepy OWL or something, projectile vomits pretty much constantly, uses the C-WORD, and stabs herself in the girl parts with a crucifix??? I'm still not over it.

Could someone give Linda some Pepto to settle her stomach, please?

3. Psycho. For at least a month afterward, I made my mom sit in the bathroom with me while I showered so that no one could slip in and stab me to death. Enough said.

Ha ha! You can't kill me if my mom's here!

* I am not including any of the soft-core porn we watched on Skinemax during middle school. That's an entry for another time. Or, quite possibly, never.

NEXT TIME: We return to Friendship, and I take the term "character sketch" a bit too literally.

Tragedy... or Comedy?

The following tragic—or "tradgic," as the case may be—tales were recorded in my school journal. What do we think my fifth grade teacher's reaction was? Copious eye-rolling? Or laughing until she peed her pants, then reading the journal aloud to every member of her immediate family?

The first tale of woe is supposed to be written in an objective journalistic style. Please note: supposed to be.

November 2, 1988

Joe Hill

This tragic story begins on November 1, 1988 at about 2:30 P.M. when Sada, 11, got off the bus from Fairfax Elementary and walked to her house at 1888 So. Compton.

Sada realized no one was home but Joe, the handy man.

Just to clarify, Joe the Handyman was not by any means a permanent fixture in our household. He was an acquaintance of my dad's who was doing some sort of work in our kitchen, I don't remember what. Not really important for our purposes...

There were no cars there and the two doors (front and back) were locked but, she proceeded in ringing the two doorbells. Of course, Joe did not answer, which was what she expected as he did not live there. So she continued to buzz the bells which also consisted of playing "Mary had a little lamb" and "Heaven is a place on Earth" on them. She also claims to have banged on the gutter and thrown balls at windows.

Ooookay, so I thought Joe was in the house... Was I trying to ANNOY him into answering the door?

This went on until 3:00 P.M., when her father, Charles, 39, arrived home with her sister, Imogene, 9, her brother, William, 4, and her mother's baby-sitting charges, Joshua, 5, and Lawrence, 5. Apparently, the handy man, Joe Hill, while cutting a piece of wood with an electric saw tore off an inch of one of his fingers and cut three others.

Halle, 36, rushed Joe to Saint Luke's emergency room.

Charles later had to go home, find the finger, and bring it to the hospital.

I left out that it took my dad for-freakin'-evs for locate the finger—in fact, he initially overlooked it because he thought it was AN OLD PIECE OF POTATO. Unfortunately, that is eternally how I imagine severed phalanges to look.

Joe Hill's finger cannot be sewn back on.

But what's the real tragedy here? The fact that Joe lost part of his finger—or that I was left alone outside for half an hour and forced to amuse myself by playing Belinda Carlisle songs on the doorbell? I think we all know the answer to THAT.

But wait! There's so much more tragedy to come! It can happen anywhere, at any time. Even while you're waiting for the school bus.

12/88

Bus Stop Tradgedy

This morning, while waiting for the bus, somehow, a gift got into the street and was run over. Glass was splattered all over the street. Someone at our stop got the box out. It was a beautiful glass pitcher. We opened the card to "Mrs. Fentelli." It was from the Rennerts and Myers. So some of us volunteered to call them.

Because you know what a busted-ass pitcher in the middle of the street is? A mystery just waiting to be solved! And you best believe we were going to get to the bottom of it.

I am looking up "Fentelli" in the phone book. Genie [my sister, who was clearly not going to make it as a P.I.] never looked up Myers or called. I looked up "Fentelli" (it wasn't in there) and "Myers" (a whole "Myers" page, there is!), but I didn't make any calls.

Sherron had better luck. She looked up "Rennert" (only 3), found the number (so did I, actually), and called. She told the man (Sief) and asked if she should leave it at the bus stop for him.

Can you imagine how this phone call went down? "Well hi there, Mr. Rennert! I'm in fifth grade, and my friends and I found a smashed-up glass pitcher that you gave to someone. Uh, maybe. Anyway, you will OBVIOUSLY want this back. Should we leave its shattered remains at our bus stop for you?"

He said he didn't like the woman anyway; his wife wanted to send her the gift. He had no use for it. Sherron threw it out!

THE END

Oh my God, you guys! I can't believe he didn't want the beautiful broken pitcher back! DOUBLE the "tradgedy"!

But hang on, because the tragedy's about to get physical.

10/17/88

Golfing

I was in a golf cart crash. I went golfing with my dad. I was in a cart with his friend, Rob. We hit a tree.

Here's what I neglected to mention: I was the one driving.

The golf cart was unharmed, but my pride—and head—were wounded.
[p.s. I stole this image from Time. Don't sue me, please!]

My head hit the steering wheel. I fell out of the cart. I just lay there for a minute. I got up then, though.

For a second, all I saw was white, then I noticed the throbbing pain in my head. It seemed like my nose was bleeding, but it wasn't.

I think I may have been briefly knocked unconscious. That's some stellar first-time driving!

I didn't cry. Not until it was over and my dad drove up. I said, "Can I ride with you?" and started to cry.

So now I hurt:


* That already hurt.

Truthfully? I am still not a very good driver. However, I have never again driven headfirst into a tree. So at least I have that going for me.

10/88

Last Night

!!!UGH!!! Last night was bad. I guess you could call it a "bad night" like we say "bad day". Well, listen:

First, I had too much homework. (HINT, HINT).

Yes, it actually says that.

Then, since I did, my dad almost made me miss watching my T.V. shows. That was bad, since, they were SEASON PREMIERES. Finally, I agreed to do the dishes (My week, naturally) during commercials and take a bath after my shows. (9:00)

You guys, I was serious about my TV. At some point I even drafted a weekly schedule of all of the shows I liked to watch. You know, like ALF and The Hogan Family. How could I miss a single riveting episode?!

Must-see TV!

Well, I ran the bath-water (it could have been warmer) and got in.

I am sooo reaching.

Then it got bad. While washing my face, I got soap in my eye. I easily got it out. Well, I washed my hair and got shampoo in my eye, which really stung. I got out and it took me a while to get the shampoo out.

I tried to find an outfit for today (no skirts). I played with BABY [my guinea pig] and suddenly got a cramp in my leg. I went downstairs to take my medicine (I'd forgotten) and tell dad. Finally, I fell asleep.

It's amazing I lived to tell the tale, truly.

NEXT TIME: Whooo boy, after all the leg cramps and shampoo in the eye—uh, I mean, terribly horrible tragedy—you know what we need? A party! Or several parties, preferably involving Cool Ranch Doritos and multiple viewings of Hairspray.

Wait, we're getting remarried? F*¢k!

This post answers the burning question What was Sada doing on Valentine's Day weekend 20 years ago? The following school journal entries chronicle a SUPER ROMANTIC TIME involving a sweater dress from T.J. Maxx, semi-inappropriate song dedications to my cousins, and quite a bit of vomit. Oh, and what may or may not have been my grandparents' 40th wedding anniversary.

2/13/89

!SURPRISE!
WEEK END

Well, it all started when my Aunt Cindy called. She said they were planning a surprise 40th anniversary party for my grandparents and would we come? SURE!!!

Once we got there, it turned out no one was exaaaaactly sure what year my grandparents had gotten married, so it was actually their 39th anniversary. Or maybe their 41st. In any case, not actually their 40th. Surprise!

2/15/89

SURPRISE WEEKEND continued..... So it's a 4(½) hour drive to Lockport, New York. So we got there OK. (Well, truthfully, me and Genie did have a fight). So when we got there we swam (everybody but mom).

The best part of any trip we went on? Swimming in the hotel pool.

Then we got dressed. I wore my new sweater dress.

FRACK, I wish I had in my possession a picture of the sweater dress. It was cream-colored, beaded, and had shoulder pads that made me look like a linebacker. In other words, the height of fashion!

So we got to the place where the party was.

The VFW Hall, I'm pretty sure, if that helps you set the scene.

My grandparents had just been dropped off by the limo.

Nothing's too good for their 40th anniversary! Or 39th. Whatever.

We saw my step-cousin, Amy. Genie didn't want to see her. I wasn't sure. Amy was really nice.

Amy's dad had recently married my aunt, and I think we had only met her once before. This time, she managed to pass muster.

We were talking and beating up on my other cousins, Stephen and Michael (the twins) and Jimmy. I hate them.

Because they're BOYS! Ew!

Amy told us Gramma and Grampa were going to be remarried - only they didn't know it.

Because what's more romantic than being coerced into renewing your vows? WHAT, I ask you!

So the time came to get remarried. They made faces. Grampa started swearing. It was funny!

Awwww!

At the end we threw confetti on them. Then Jimmy threw confetti at us! So we threw it back at him. It was all in my hair! Steven helped my hair, so I helped his. Then we threw some on my cousin, Jonah and his girlfriend, Rhonda. Jimmy did it too - while they were kissing! GROSS!

Jonah was in high school at the time and fairly metal. I'm sure he was THRILLED.

Then we ate. Did I say there was a deejay with his sound system? He said to call him Dr. Rock. (HA!) So we picked out songs for him (Dr. Rock (HA!)) to play. He said he wouldn't. The old people started dancing.

They were probably, like, 31.

Me and Amy gagged ourselves when "Lady in Red" came on.

I HATED "Lady in Red." Actually, I'm still not much of a fan, but I will grant you that the song is about 8 hundred million times sweeter than my grandparents' anniversary.

We had Dr. Rock [HA!] ask Jonah and Rhonda to dance! They didn't. After awhile the old people stopped dancing. Dr. Rock started to play our songs! I danced. Amy even danced with Jimmy! It was fun. We had Dr. Rock dedicate a song to Jonah and Rhonda. Then we had him dedicate "Nasty" to Amy.

That just seems wrong somehow.

My dad said it was time to go after two more songs. Two more songs were over. Ericka, Jonah's sister, just told us Jonah and Rhonda would dance to "Welcome to the Jungle." So we had Dr. Rock dedicate it to them. They didn't dance. They were EMBARASSED. But we did.

Most of my Valentine's Day plans seem to have involved embarrassing my cousins. Or beating up on them. Or dousing them with confetti.

We left. We slept. We swam. We drove. We pushed the car because it didn't work right. We had just turned onto our street when I choked on my rootbeer. I barfed twice into my hands because I couldn't breathe. Then I barfed all over.

THE END

And on that note, happy Valentine's Day everyone!

As a romantic bonus, I'm, uh, "pleased" to report that someone found this blog by Googling "make out with my feet." Seriously, you guys. I'm kind of at a loss.

NEXT TIME: Guest author Heraa's wily third grade thief makes MacGyver look like a freaking chump. Yeah, you heard me, Richard Dean Anderson.

New Year's Resolutions

These are my New Year's resolutions from fifth grade. You may be unsurprised to learn that I no longer make New Year's resolutions.

1/11/89

New Year's Resolutions:

#1: To move into the Scarborough house.
#2: To spend more time with Baby, my guinea pig.
#3: To tame Bun-bun, my rabbit.
#4: To get a real baby-sitting job.
#5: To pass my ice-skating class.
#6: To finish my 3 stories I started.
#7: To put on the "Really Rosie" play.
#8: To take the baby-sitting class.
#9: To make improvements with the "school in the basement"
#10: To redecorate my room.

P.S. I'LL TELL YOU ABOUT "REALLY ROSIE" TOMORROW. IT'S FUN!!!

Did I effectively, uh, resolve these? Let's take it resolution by resolution and find out.

#1: To move into the Scarborough house.

My sister and I desperately wanted to move so that we could attend the same middle school as the majority of our friends. The amazing part is that our parents went for it! I particularly wanted to move into the Scarborough house because it meant I would be living just down the street from the love of my elementary school life, Sig. The hitch was that the current owners of the house were recluses and maybe even certifiably insane. However, after months upon months of negotiations (seriously, it took well over six months), we did end up getting the house.

Resolution #1: ACHIEVED! With minimal effort on my part.

#2: To spend more time with Baby, my guinea pig.

Would you care to hear a bit about Baby? I can neither confirm nor deny whether she was named after Jennifer Grey's character in Dirty Dancing. Little did we know, she was pregnant when we brought her home from the pet store—so maybe her name should have been Penny. She ended up having a three-pig litter, and we kept two of her babies, Peachy and Rosie (who was definitely named after Really Rosie; see Resolution #7).

Have you ever seen baby guinea pigs? Unlike baby rabbits, which look like squirmy hairless rats (and which we had more than our fair share of—it turned out we did NOT have two female rabbits after all), baby guinea pigs are amazingly cute! And they lived in my room! So I could play with them whenever I wanted! Well, at first I could. About a week after the babies were born, someone had to stick her big nose in.

9*28*88
MOM

My Mom Is Stupid!

She has resumed full responsibility of the babies. Of course it's "not to make us mad" but she has.

We cannot pick them up without her supervising. "We aren't responsible" she says.

UGH!

She was even going to take my guinea pig (+ babies, of course) out of my room.

SHE MAKES ME SICK!

Hi, mom! There are loads of entries about the baby guinea pigs (two of them suffered through an allergen-induced bout of baldness at one point, and there was serious sibling rivalry between Rosie and Peachy), but there's also this:

11-29-88
Allergies

I am allergic to dogs, cats, mayonaise, penicillan, raw eggs, and
GUINEA PIGS!

[Please note: That list is WAY longer now. And no, avoiding raw eggs hasn't really been a problem.]

You can see that I made the New Year's resolution after this shocking allergy revelation, but seriously? How much time can you spend with something that gives you hives? It's too bad, because Baby was definitely the sweetest of all of our many pets. Although I realize that's not saying much.

Resolution #2: Achoo! Er, nope.

#3: To tame Bun-bun, my rabbit.

Guess what else I'm allergic to? That's right, rabbits. But we didn't know that because our rabbits rarely let us come within five feet of them. Those creatures outright loathed us.

I'm reverting to fourth grade to bring you this gem of a journal entry about Bun-bun:

1-25-88

I have a pet rabbit named Bun-bun. Sometimes she is sweet as honey and other times she's mad as a wet hen. [I'd say it was much more frequently the latter.] Bun-bun has been through a lot with her daughter, Runt, who was killed by a dog last year. I know that Bun-bun misses her, probably.

See, it wasn't that Bun-bun was pure evil, it's just that she was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Bun-bun is very special to me. She almost died with Runt because they were in the same cage. Bun-bun was found next door. I was so glad that Bun-bun was still alive! Once my sister said that her rabbit was her life. [!!!] I don't know if Bun-bun is that much to me or not.

Usually when a friend comes over we go in the basement to see the bunnies. We talk to Bun-bun, try to pet her [emphasis on the "try"], give her food, and try to get her out of her cage. Sometimes I get mad at her because she knocks a bowl over. Sometimes I laugh because she acts silly. Bun-bun is important to me.

And here's a quick description of our rabbits from the fifth grade journal:

Bun [drawing of rabbit head] Bun: is my rabbit. She's boring. She doesn't let me hold her or pet her. But I won't give her up!

Cottontail [the o's are drawn as fuzzy bunny tails]: is Genie's bunny. He is like Bun-Bun, except sometimes you can pick him up. Though, he doesn't like it.

The fact that I felt I needed to "tame" a domesticated rabbit should speak volumes. Before we moved, we gave the bunnies to some friends of the family who lived in rural Ohio. Apparently Bun-bun was not my life, and I could give her up after all.

Resolution #3: Failed miserably.

#4: To get a real baby-sitting job.

I was 11, and my name is neither Mallory Pike nor Jessi Ramsey.

Resolution #4: Not this year! Thanks for nothing, Ann M. Martin.

#5: To pass my ice-skating class.

According to my journal, I did pass, but I should have flunked. I also hated my ice-skating teacher, Sue, and my woeful inability to execute a "mohawk."

Those creepy kite/stick people are achieving what I never could. And it looks like they're doing it on a tightrope! Show-offs.

Resolution #5: Technically achieved. Way to go! Though I'm pretty sure I did not pass the next class thanks to those accursed mohawks.

#6: To finish my 3 stories I started.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Hahahahahaha. Ha ha. Haaaaaaa.

Resolution #6: No way in hell.

#7: To put on the "Really Rosie" play.

I don't know if you've seen Really Rosie, but it is a musical revolving around a 10-year-old animated Brooklynite with an overactive imagination, a very high opinion of herself (sample lyric: "I can tap across the the Tappan Zee / Hey, can't you see? / I'm terrific at everything!"), and the voice of Carole King. In other words, TOTALLY AWESOME.

1/12/89
Really Rosie

"Really Rosie" is actually a movie. My mom rented it [...if by "rented" you mean "borrowed from the library"]. Maurice Sendak made it. The characters are: Rosie, Johnny, Alligator, Pierre, Chicken Soup, and a girl (we) named Jennifer. We wrote [ahem, transcribed] a script and the songs. It is going to be a play. The school in the basement's students [aka my four-year-old brother and his friends] can put it on for their parents.

THE CAST:
Rosie – Sada
Jennifer – Genie
Pierre – Josh
Johnny – Will
Alligator – Luke
Chicken Soup – "Molly" ("Molly" is a doll!)

Molly was a very large doll with a very unfortunate haircut given to her by her previous owners. My dad rescued her at a garage sale.

I was the director and I also gave myself the juiciest role. Josh, as Pierre, had only one line, repeated over and over: "I don't care."

THE SONGS:
#1: Really Rosie
#2: One Was Johnny
#3: Alligators All Around
#4: Pierre
#5: Such An Ordinary Day
#6: Chicken Soup With Rice

– Really Sada

Yes, it "really" says that. Little did I know, HarperTrophy had published a book version of Really Rosie, which would have been very, very handy to have back in 1989. For instance, turns out Jennifer's name is actually Kathy! Who knew?


We definitely slaved away in rehearsals, but our cast of four- and five-year-olds were not really committed to the full-scale production. Molly was a trooper, though.

I just asked my brother if he could remember whether we ever performed this (he could not), and this is what he had to say about Really Rosie: "Yeah, I didn't like that."

Resolution #7: Not even under duress.

#8: To take the baby-sitting class.

The baby-sitting class was offered by the Red Cross, and I believed it would help me to attain Resolution #4. My friend Jessica and I took this class together, and although I didn't snag a proper baby-sitting job for several more years, the baby-saving lessons did help spark a subplot in my (forthcoming) book Quintuple Trouble.

Resolution #8: Achieved with unexpectedly awesome side effects!

#9: To make improvements with the "school in the basement"

My sister and I were really into forcing my brother and his friends to be "students" in the fake school we held in our dungeon basement. Unfortunately, we lost most of our students after our move.

Resolution #9: Vastly unimproved.

#10: To redecorate my room.

Well, I moved in April of 1989, so I acquired an entirely new room! How's that for redecorating?

Resolution #10: Achieved and then some!

Well, what do you guys think? Four out of ten ain't bad. In fact, I think that might be a Meatloaf song. And at least I got to redecorate my room.

NEXT TIME: The guest authors are back! The first installment in Deathycat's Dear Sister trilogy features murder, sibling rivalry, and even more murder.

Happy New Year, everyone! Thanks so much for reading my little blog this year! I resolve to bring you even more embarrassment in '09.