Who Needs Another Mother?

This one was inspired by two great tastes that probably DON'T taste great together: the no-nonsense prose style of Paula Danziger... aaaaand kidnapping. For those of you who don't remember, kidnapping was HUGE in the '80s! It was like the Snuggie of 20 years ago. (Speaking of Snuggies, you could probably use one to lure unsuspecting children into your windowless van. "Want to try on my blanky? It has SLEEVES! Sleeves filled with candy!!!" Just brainstorming here...)

Nothing conspicuous about this, no siree.

[My mom gave us very strict instructions not to take any candy or other gifts from strangers. "And if someone tells you they'll take you to the toy store and buy you any toy you want," she prompted, "what do you say?" My sister quickly answered, "Thank you!"]

The late '80s and early '90s gave us a veritable smorgasbord of child stealing. For instance:

• In The Face on the Milk Carton, a teen girl sees her face on—you guessed it!—one of those Missing Child ads that were all the rage on dairy containers of the '80s. [Sidenote: What was up with that? The ones with the creepy age-progression photos were the worst/best. I was always hoping I'd recognize someone, because solving a crime at age 10 would have completely ruled.] Anyway, this book was awesome because the girl might have been kidnapped by Hare Krishnas (the hell?!), plus it was made into a TV movie starring Kellie Martin! Double the awesome! EDIT: I don't know HOW, but I forgot that the movie also had a CHARACTER NAMED SADA in it, making it awesome to the infinite power. Is it out on DVD yet?!
  
• How about the Diff'rent Strokes episode where Sam gets kidnapped? The kidnapper uses the old "Can you help me find my lost puppy?" line. Of course, the villains are just some sad couple who want to replace their dead son—not murderous child molesters like the kidnappers in real life.
• And of course there was I Know My First Name Is Steven, the TV miniseries in which Luke Edwards/Corky Nemec DOES get kidnapped by a child molester, because it's based on a true story. This miniseries scared the piss out of me. Almost as much as the one where Farrah Fawcett shoots her kids while "Hungry Like the Wolf" is playing. ALMOST.
  

Who Needs Another Mother? took more of the "lighthearted" Diff'rent Strokes–style approach to kidnapping, by which I mean the 'nappees didn't get touched in bad places or end up in a dumpster outside Burger King with their fingertips chopped off. (Fact: I've watched waaay too many true crime shows.) Nay, they were kidnapped out of LOVE!

But actually, we won't get to most of that. What we WILL get to is gratuitous descriptions of masticated potato chips and fat men in mismatched Hawaiian print. The kidnapping thing? Myeah, not so much.

Who Needs Another Mother?

School was out.

I graduated from fifth grade.

I'm scared about going to middle school.

So the key to writing like Paula Danziger is to use the first person, present tense. Obviously. But I was unaware that you also have to keep all of your paragraphs annoyingly short.

Today is the last day of school. Now I'm walking home. Well, what's going to be my home when Alicia hears about her uncle's will.

Alicia is my mom.

I don't remember calling her mom. I don't remember calling her anything but Alicia.

That's our first—and, actually, in these three chapters, ONLY—clue that Alicia is in fact NOT her mom. I seem to have called upon a reserve of subtlety previously absent in my writing—a subtlety wholly unhelpful for the purposes of the Kidnapping Foreshadowing.

I have a sister.

Her name is Justine.

Alicia calls her Tina.

I call her Brat.

Brat is a boy-crazy little snot. She wants to be a cheerleader. It's sexist to be a cheerleader. Besides, she's only 10.

A cheerleading Brat? I can't stop picturing this:

Sexist!!!

Also, is she wearing HIGH-TOP CHUCK TAYLORS? I don't want to think about this for too long.

I open the door.

"It's about time." Brat yells from the kitchen. She walks in, stuffing her face with potato chips. The pig. How does she stay so skinny?

Ummm... she's 10?

I ignore her.

"The house?" I ask Alicia.

"I'm glad you asked that question." says Alicia. She isn't smiling. "My uncle didn't leave me the house."

Brat pretends to faint in a chair.

A potato chip piece flies out of her mouth and onto my chin. How disgusting. [I second that...] I wipe it off.

"Did he leave you anything?" I ask.

Alicia sticks her tongue in her cheek. That's her annoying habit. "Well, this is so embarrassing." begins Alicia. "No. My uncle didn't leave me anything."

I'd like to know how they weaseled their way into the house in the first place. That Alicia must be one sweet-talkin' kidnapper.

"WHAT." I screech.

"Erin, calm down." Alicia says. She's blushing.

"Sorry, Alicia." I tell her.

"I'm sorry, Alicia." mimmicks Brat, pretending to cry. Brat also wants to be an actress, which will never happen because she can't act.

"I'm sorry, too." says Alicia, looking around. "Think of all the space."

I do.

Alicia is what some people would call a struggling artist. So we usually don't have a lot of money. I mean we buy food and clothes and shoes and art supplies and stuff. It's not like we're poor.

Homeless, yes.

Poor, no.

They are SO poor.

"So where are we going to live?" asks Brat. The snot. I was just about to say that.

"I'm glad you asked that question, Tina." says Alicia. She is sticking her tongue in her cheek.

Not a good sign.

"After I found out about Uncle Frank's will, it was about 1:00 so I decided to do some house-hunting." Alicia starts smiling. "And I found the perfect place. You guys are gonna love it."

WE'LL SEE ABOUT THAT, I think.

Uh, you'd think whole "homeless" thing would make Erin a little less picky. Who's the friggin' brat now?

Chapter Two

The place Alicia found wasn't just any place. Alicia lived in a boarding house before I was born. So this was kind of like a boarding house. Except it was like an apartment building too. It was a mansion.

The people who owned the house rented out the rooms, except they decided to put a sink and stove in each "apartment". So then it wasn't a boarding house or apartment building.

So, it's a mansion that's been converted into apartments. In other words, EXACTLY LIKE AN APARTMENT BUILDING. I lived in a house, so I didn't understand such distinctions.

Alicia wanted to rent half of the attic. There were four rooms in the attic, two big, two small, and one bathroom. Some people named the Walker's had rented the other half. Half was one big room and one small room. They had to share the bathroom.

A Quick Lesson in Being Poor: Poor people can't afford their own bathrooms.

Alicia decided to rent it that night. She asked them to get her a pole to hang a curtain on.

...And starving artists can't afford their own curtain rods.

When we get home, to Uncle Frank's home, we pack right away. I'm finished at 10:52.

Brat went to sleep at 9:47, but she's not done packing. Alicia calls for my help.

"I'm having a nervous breakdown." says Alicia. She is packing the dishes. "I'm having my mid-life crisis."

I believe Alicia is in her mid-30s.

"Really, Alicia." I say. "You're more responsible than that." I'm smiling.

"Erin." Alicia says. "Don't you lecture me about responsibility. Even if it is in humor." She isn't smiling.

That really hurt me.

It's like she can lecture us about anything and then we make a joke and she jumps on our backs and says don't lecture her, but she can lecture us, even if we were only joking.

It's like Erin keeps repeating herself and talking in circles and saying the same thing over and over.

What am I saying we for?

I meant me.

As you can see, I wasn't big on editing.

So I left Alicia to finish packing by herself. I always leave when I'm mad at her. Because when she does things like that it bugs me.

This is how mature kidnapper/kidnappee relationships work. Take note.

Now it's 9:14.

Brat finished packing 18 minutes ago.

Alicia stayed up last night and finished.

We eat doughnuts for breakfast. I eat the maple one. Maple is my favorite kind of doughnut.

Brat likes chocolate with chocolate sprinkles.

All that chocolate is going to catch up with her.

She'll have a million zits because she ate chocolate doughnuts for breakfast all this week. I can't wait to see her face next week.

Dude. She's 10. Plus, chocolate doesn't cause acne. That's an urban myth perpetrated by YA literature of the '80s.

* * * * *

Now we moved. We don't have any furniture, so we didn't need a truck or van or anything.

A Quick Lesson in Being Poor: Furniture? Nope. Can't afford it. But at least there's money for shoes and art supplies. And maple doughnuts!

We brought boxes over in Alicia's neon pink bug.

A pink Volkswagen?!?! Alicia is shattering all KINDS of kidnapper stereotypes!

But I bet she'll still give you free candy.

We get over to the house. The number on our door is 16. That's Brat's lucky number. YUCK.

Alicia wants us to seperate the big room in half. Half will be the bedroom and the other half will be Alicia's studio.

That's why she asked for the curtain pole thing.

She has me and Brat working away on sewing a loop in some old sheets.

The things we do for that woman.

There is a Knock at the door.

"Keep sewing." says Alicia. She runs to the door.

"Slavedriver." Brat whispers.

Aha! So maybe Alicia is part of some CHILD SLAVERY RING???

It's Mr Walker.

He looks really weird. He's really fat with tiny glasses. He's [wearing?] bulging Hawaiin print shirt and shorts that don't match. And he's wearing sandals. Can you believe it? SANDALS?

Oy, the mandals.

Although Mr. Walker was probably wearing Birkenstock knockoffs. Am I right or am I right?

I don't think I want to live next door to them.

Chapter Three

Mr. Walker's creepy family is walking in. Mrs. Walker is wearing a gray skirt and a white blouse. The skirt comes down to her ankles. She has straight gray and blond hair that comes down to her chin.

Mrs. Walker is hold a fat, almost bald baby in diapers. "I'm Carolyn and this is Clyde." Mrs. Walker says. She's pointing at the baby. The baby, Clyde, looks like Mr. Walker, with a frizzy puff of red hair on top of his head and gray eyes.

Be careful, little Clyde! Your new neighbor likes to STEAL KIDS!

Mrs. Walker pushes a girl in. "I'm Veronica." says the girl. She hands Alicia Something covered in foil. "Happy house-warming." she mutters, staring at her feet.

How ominous is it that the Something is capitalized? I fear it might be a Severed Head. Or a Tupperware's Worth of Pig Blood. Happy housewarming!

"You'll have to excuse Veronica." says Mrs. Walker, glaring at her. She's not in a very good mood."

I don't know what to make of Veronica. She's still staring at her feet. She has gray eyes and snarled red hair that comes down to her shoulders. She probably hasn't brushed it in weeks. She's very skinny and wearing a dirty green shirt with green and white striped shorts. And her shins are all black and blue. She's carrying yellow plastic sunglasses.

A Quick Lesson in Being Poor: Poor people are dirty and don't brush their hair. But they have rad sunglasses!

"And this is my son, Joel." says Mrs. Walker. "He's thirteen." She winks. What a major geek. I feel sorry for her kids.

Joel has red hair that's straight and brown eyes. He looks thirteen, with a lot of zits.

And that's where it ends. But I swear to you, this WAS going to be about kidnapping. Eventually. At some point. For sure. The preadolescent promo material gives us a glimpse of the drama that was to come:

WHO NEEDS ANOTHER MOTHER?

Erin and her sister, Justine, have lived all their lives with their mother, Alicia. Alicia is an artist and she never has very much money. So when they settle down in an apartment, Erin feels at home for the first time. She has even met her first friend since second grade. Then they find out Alicia isn't their real mother. Their mother disappeared and their baby-sitter, Alicia took them and kept them after their mother returned. The court gives them back to their real mother. Living with their new family is anything but easy. Erin is ready to give up. Who needs another mother? Not Erin. She just wants Alicia.

[I axed the "She just wants Alicia" line because I thought it made Erin sound like a big lesbian. I wish I was joking.]

So, hmmm. Their mother "disappeared" and their babysitter—instead of calling the police like ANY SANE INDIVIDUAL—was all, "What happened to my employer? Don't know. Oh well, guess I better keep these kids and move out of state and change our identities and relocate every few months." (Where was their mother anyway? Did SHE get kidnapped too?! Because a kidnapping within a kidnapping would be pretty stellar.)

I have no idea how the kidnapping was going to be revealed. I probably—you're going to be shocked!—hadn't thought that far ahead. The Face on the Milk Carton wasn't published until 1990, so that idea wasn't yet mine to steal.

I do remember that Erin and Justine were going to be returned to their real mother, who lived in Friendship, NY (but of course!) with her new hubby and his two kids. (What was up with Erin and Justine's dad? Bah! Who cares?)

I love how the promo material implies that the meat of the conflict is about whether Erin wants to stay with her real mom or return to Alicia. Like Alicia wouldn't be LOCKED UP IN FRIGGIN' PRISON.

NEXT TIME: Guest author Michelle treats us to an array of awesomeness, including a tale about Shorlock Homes the Cowgirl. That's right. Shorlock Homes. The COWGIRL. Get psyched!

Ivy Twists

I'M BACK! I didn't mean to be gone so long, but extracurricular activities topped with an arm pain flare-up kind of effed me up for a while. You don't even want to KNOW how many unread items I have in Google Reader. But enough of the excuses! Let's hit the proverbial road and learn more about the 5th grade residents of Friendship, NY.

If Friendship were a TV show, this one might qualify as a Very Special Episode. Unintentionally. Now I'm not really up on the latest version of the DSM, but it doesn't take a psychiatrist to figure out that young Ivy Swanson is maaaaaaybe teetering on the edge of dissociative identity disorder (or, in 1989 parlance, MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORDER) here. Seriously, guys. There are imaginary friends and then there's.... THIS.

IVY TWISTS

dear jo,

i wish you didn't have to move. you're my best friend i mean life isn't fair. i wish your parents would go to you know where. [Whoa! I think she might mean H-E-double hockey sticks!] no offense, jo. i mean well it's not their fault i'm just mad about the whole thing really. this isn't the right thing to do. promise you'll never get another best friend, ok. well see you soon. i will. i will see you. bye for now.

Your Very Best Friend,
I!V!Y R!E!N!E!E S!W!A!N!S!O!N

God, I was really a huge fan of unnecessary punctuation, wasn't I?

I put the letter to Jo in my basket. I keep all my special stuff in my basket.

I also had a "special place" where I kept top-secret items—except instead of a basket it was a purple tin featuring a jazzy saxophone [please pause for a moment and try to imagine that in all of its 1989 glory], and it was EXTRA special because it had once been filled with chocolate-covered pretzels instead of secrets! Yum!

I don't really have a best friend named Jo but I wish I did.

Here's where The Crazy starts.

I don't even have a best friend. But I keep on dreaming. Jo is an old dream. When I was little she was my imaginary friend.

Now, I'd like to state for the record that there's nothing inherently wrong with imaginary friends. In fact, they're generally very healthy. I even had one myself when I was in preschool. His name was Jonka, and he lived in my basement with his wife and their 500 children. (300 were girls, and 200 were boys. Because girls are better.) Oh, and also, he looked like Ziggy.

Jonka! My old (imaginary) friend!

The problem is that Ivy takes it to a Whole New Level—a level that involves keeping a diary about your fake friend's many adventures. Actually, I wonder what Jonka's diary would have been like...

Hung out next to the washing machine with my 500 kids. AGAIN. Really need to talk to the wife about birth control. The 4-year-old came down and talked to me for two minutes. No one else seems to realize I'm here. CHRIST, what I wouldn't do to get out of this fucking basement.

Jo helped me through kindergarten, but in first grade Jo stopped coming to school. I started writing stories about my best friend, Jo Ann. Jo was so real to me. She still is. I know just what she looks like. She has red hair that's usually up in a ponytail and she has brown eyes that look like melted chocolate.

Uh, why am I comparing organs to foodstuffs? I point the finger of blame squarely at Ann M. Martin. Damn Claudia Kishi and her damn almond-shaped eyes...

Jo's birthday is on July 5th 1977 and right now she's almost 10 and she's in fourth grade just like me except she started early. The summer after first grade, Jo began to keep a diary. The diary was all about Jo's life and her friends. She went to my school and she was very popular.

So Ivy has an imaginary friend who lives a parallel—but much cooler—life? Jo is rapidly becoming this story's younger, less bloody Tyler Durden.

Jo has a mother and a father and a big sister named Lindsay. I stopped calling Jo a dream. To me she wasn't a dream. She was real in my eyes.

What do you think those eyes look like? A pair of green M&Ms maybe?

I began calling everything about Jo "twists". It was something new and Jo was so lively and so much fun that the word seemed to fit her.

Lively AND fun!

But now I am starting to think Jo is a little babyish. So I made her move away. Jo moved away to Florida yesterday. Her dad is a photographer and he moved the whole family down there because that's where he's working down in Florida on another assignment. I wish I could make Jo move back, but twists are something I can't change no matter what.

The first rule of twists is that you can't talk about twists. The second rule of twists is that you can't talk about twists. The third rule is that twists can't be changed. The fourth rule is that if things are getting a touch babyish, you can ship your alter ego off to Florida on a photo assignment. A PERMANENT assignment.

Learn at your own risk! Apparently there's no going back.

So this is what the letter at the beginning referred to, when Ivy wished to damn Jo's (made-up!) parents to the depths of hell and then made her promise she'd never get another best friend. Even though she's, y'know, NOT REAL. Because that's not babyish at all.

And you wouldn't believe what Jo wrote in her diary today!

You know what else isn't babyish? Continuing to write in your pretend friend's diary!

Here's what it said:

Dear Diary.

I can't believe we moved. Mom and Dad never tell me and Lindsay anything! And already I miss Ivy. New York is so far away! But today I met this girl named Alora and she is very nice. Alora is such a pretty name. I think Alora and I are going to be good friends. VERY good friends. [AHEM.] And my kitten, Mouse loves the new house. So do I! My new room is the best. The kids at school are real nice and already I'm a hit! Maybe things aren't as bad as I thought!

L♥ve,
The 1 & The Only,
Jo Ann Maureen Memphis

And then there's a drawing of her prettily named (but equally fictitious) ladyfriend:

Nice barrettes. Too bad they're not real.

This one definitely ended prematurely. I really wanted to see Ivy get jealous about the relationship between two entirely fabricated persons. You KNOW she was about to lose her shit. I imagine it would have been like an elementary school version of that made-for-TV movie where Nancy McKeon all of a sudden becomes schizophrenic. Because that? Was awesome.

NEXT TIME: While we're on a roll with the Very Special, how about a kidnapping book? Or, more accurately, a book that's SUPPOSED to be about kidnapping, but never really gets there?

My Life as a Pre-Teen

This week's Book That Never Was™ takes us back to the rural outskirts of Friendship, NY, where Samantha Rhodes and her two younger siblings have moved in with their Gram and Gramps... for reasons that are never quite explained. The story unfolds (or, more accurately, doesn't unfold) through a series of letters exchanged between Sam and Anita, her BFF back home—a series of letters that quickly degenerates into boy craziness and a roll call of Santa's reindeer.

No, really.

Dear Sam,

I know we were fighting when you left and I wanted to say sorry. Carolyn asked why weren't you here at camp. I told her about your parents. She says shes sorry, but you're tough and you can make it. I know you can too.

Love, Anita

So, it sounds like her parents are dead, right? And that she'll just have to be a tough little orphan and muddle through this hard-knock life, right?

WRONG.

Dear Anita,

Apology accepted and I'm sorry too. Out here we wake up at 5 to eat breakfast. Gram is cooking and Gramps is milking the cows. Missy and I dress in 5 minute flat. Then we dress Jason. Missy has been having bad dreams. I get up and comfort her. We may be back next year.

love - sam sam sam

W*R*I*T*E B*A*C*K S*O*O*N

Ahh, old habits die hard.

Okay, so Gram and Gramps own a farm. What did I know about farms?

Farm Fun Fact #1: People on farms wake up early! Crazy early!

Farm Fun Fact #2: People on farms milk cows. Does this mean Gram and Gramps own a dairy farm? Hardly! That's because...

Farm Fun Fact #3: ALL farms have cows. They, like, come with the barn or something.

Also, we learn that Missy's been having bad dreams, which seems to support the Dead Parents theory. But then the "plot" "thickens": The kids may be returning to their hometown next year? How? Why? What the frig?

But wait—I bet you guys don't even CARE about dairy farms and mysteriously absent parents! I know what you want to hear about: BOYS!!!

Dear Sam,

I think Adam Lone likes me. He calls himself Lone Star. (boys) APOLOGY ACCEPTED.

Love: Ani

Anita? Is that you?

I also like how Adam has nicknamed himself after the state of Texas. Oh, boys!

Dear Ani(ta),

Old Lone Star? Do you like him? Jason rides the donkey and ponies. Missy has a boyfriend named Eddie. He is 8, like her. We went to a county square-dance. This boy called Jeremy asked me to dance. I didn't want to because it was like pimple city. [Pimple City = my new band name.] Gram and Gramps told him yes without asking me. He sprayed me through his retainer. To top it off this cute guy named Brian kept looking at me. He had been about to ask me when old puss-face had.

MY REPUTATION IS RUINED.

love - sam sam sam

According to the Friendship Info folder, Jason is 3. Who lets a 3-year-old ride a donkey?? This leads us to several more Farm Fun Facts.

Farm Fun Fact #4: All farms have donkeys and ponies, strictly for your riding pleasure.

Farm Fun Fact #5: What do you do for fun on a farm (aside from riding the abundant donkeys and ponies)? Why, go to a square dance, of course!

Notice how Sam's coerced interaction with Jeremy and his newly straightened teeth, metropolis of acne, and kitten face (eh?) is FAR more important the nightmare-inducing events that befell her parents. OBVS.

Dear Sam,

Yes, I like Old Adam Lone Star. What are the ponies names? What does Brian look like. Adam got his braces off and his hair buzzed. He's cute. How are your parents. I have been hanging out with Jo and Sari. They are nice. Jo has a cute new haircut. Do you have any new friends? WE ALL MISS YOU, SAMMI.

Love, Ani.

P,S, everyone calls me Ani now.

It is you! Or... is it Lone Star with his newly buzzed hair?? Crap!

Did you notice it? Did you notice it? She asked (or, rather, stated—there's no question mark involved), "How are your parents." Based on that, I think we have to assume they are NOT DEAD, unless there is something incredibly, frighteningly wrong with Ani.

Something wronger than this weave, even.

Also, what is this funny business about kids get their braces OFF in fifth grade? Keep dreaming, sister.

Oh, but let's see how Sam answers this pointed question about her parents' welfare.

Dear Ani,

Lone Star? Grow up and drink some coffee to wash down that Kool-Aid. Brian is so gorgeous I can't describe him. [...But I will.] Okay, he's got blond/brown hair and blue/greenNOturquoise eyes. He's about 4'11". He's nice and sweet and cute and funny and gorgeous and GREAT. The ponies are called Cinnamon and Ginger. The donkey's name is Tucker. We call him Tuck. The horses names are Dasher, Dancer, Comet, Cupid, Donder, Blitzen, Rudolph and Snow Ball Prancer.

Oh, sorry, she was too busy naming farm animals and describing the indescribable Brian to explain anything relevant to the plot of this story. Though, to be fair, Brian DOES sound pretty indescribable, what with the hair that's blond... or is it brown? And the eyes that are blue? Or green? Or—dare I say!—turquoise? But Sam does know that he's 4'11", which seems... odd.

Anyway, that's it! If you thought we were going to get to the bottom of this parental mystery, HA! You better grow up and drink some coffee to wash down that Kool-Aid!

NEXT TIME: My characters like writing letters so much that they start writing to people who don't even exist.

Also, sorry if I've been slacking a little on the posting. (I know, MY REPUTATION IS RUINED.) I've been busy lately in my non-blog life, but I promise I'm not going anywhere. I'll try to keep posting at least once a week.

Gilford Girls

The contents of the Gilford Girls folder (which is actually labeled Don't Be Yourself, though it contains not a word of that story) proves once and for all that I spent far more time drawing my characters—and coming up with their favorite colors!—than I ever did coming up with a plot. Any sort of plot. At all.

The story that's actually in the folder, Living in a Princess's Land....When You're Not a Princess, is a Book That Never Was™ several times over. I rewrote this sucker THREE TIMES, and yet I never got past page two. That's a profound dedication to lack of plot. For your reading enjoyment, I'm going to include all three versions, for each contains a variation in hilariousness that cannot be excluded.

But before we get to all that, let's go back to where it all began, with some pencil sketches of the Gilford Girls themselves—plus a listing of their vital statistics. [Note: If you need a closer look at, say, Anita's boombox, clicking on the drawings will enlarge them.]

The eldest of the sisters is Melanie, whose windswept hair and vacant, glassy-eyed stare seem indicative of a drug problem. She IS a tortured poet, after all.


She SO locks herself in her room and blares the Smiths because NO ONE UNDERSTANDS. Then she scribbles some poems about it—with her MELANIE pencil. She's so deep!

Name: Melanie Gilford
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Color: Black
Age: 14
When grows up: Poet

Then we are treated to a bit of her verse:

Sweet Spring Morning
Dew drop mist
hung sweet on trees.
Robins sing
the Early Song.
Breathe Deep!
Bring in the
fragrance of roses.
Wake Up!
It's a sweet spring morning.

Um, 'scuse? Shouldn't that be about 7,000 times more angsty? Apparently I did not yet realize that you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders at 14.

Next we have Anita, who has a passion for dancing in spite of her raging case of hydrocephalus (and at least one bizarrely malformed ear).


Good God, that HEAD! This may have been my first and last attempt at drawing in profile.

Name: Anita Gilford
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Color: Rose
Age: 12½
When grows up: Dancer

Then we have Doreen, the Claudia Kishi sister. She looks utterly shocked, and I can't tell if it's because her hair has inexplicably turned to beads or because she's unfortunate enough to have acquired Michael Jackson's current nose.


Name: Doreen Gilford
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Color: Rainbow (all)
Age: 11
When Grow Up: Artist

Then, to demonstrate Doreen's artistic prowess, I included this:


Because nothing says "precociously talented artist" like a blind mouselady with a side ponytail and pointy elf ears!

After Doreen is Gloria, the actress. I don't know how to break it to her, but there is no WAY she's going to make it in Hollywood with that weak chin and set of lopsided eyes.



Name: Gloria Gilford
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Color: Blue
Age: 10
When Grow Up: Actress

And because I KNOW you couldn't get enough of Doreen's artistry:
Gloria was going to be the narrator of Don't Be Yourself. (Don't be yourself! Because she's an actress! Get it???) To that end, the folder contains... uh... inscriptions from Gloria's yearbook? Um, WTF? We didn't even have yearbooks when I was in fifth grade! Please tell me someone else did this!

The yearbook is basically a thinly veiled excuse for various Friendship characters to plug their own books. And for me to practice my mad handwriting skillz. Check it out:



Regina Grubble's book: One of the Best Friends You Ever Had.


Anne Montgomery's book: If the Shoe Fits, Wear It. (p.s. What self-respecting 10-year-old willingly refers to herself as Fanny?)


Sara Doone's books: Me, Super-Girl and its heavily foreshadowed sequel, Super-Girl Flies Again.



Melanie Tibbets' book? You'll never believe it!: Life After Death. Which makes for a totally creepy yearbook inscription, no?


What, I couldn't think of a way to work in Take-Out Order? How about "You were great! I'll see you this summer when you pick up your take-out orders! Love, Lisa"? BOOM.


Justine didn't have her own book, but her older sister did, and the "tough times" she's referring to? That would be finding out that the woman she thought was her mom? Yeah, not really her mom at all, but someone who SECRETLY KIDNAPPED HER AS A CHILD. Tough times indeed.

No book title here, but I dare say there should be.



Her handwriting looks so popular!


Last up is tomboy Patsy, who looks frighteningly like a young Paula Poundstone. She seems to be wearing a batting helmet for fun, and is definitely giving some unfortunate soul the crazy eye.

Name: Patsy Gilford
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Color: Purple
Age: 9
When grow up: First ever woman baseball player!

This was circa 1989, so A League of Their Own hadn't come out yet.

Young Patsy is the narrator of our oft-rewrit tale. Now that you have some (disturbing?) mental images to accompany the prose, let's hop to it!

VERSION #1:

LIVING IN A PRINCESS'S LAND....WHEN YOU'RE NOT A PRINCESS

Do you have any idea what it's like to be the baby of the family? To have 4 accomplished big sisters? Well I do. My name is Patsy Gilford. I guess I'm sort of a tomboy. The reason is this: The thing I love most in the world is baseball. Every other one of my sisters has some special talent. But not me. Not Patsy. NO WAY.

I like how, in my mind, athleticism was not a talent. Have I mentioned that I used to get picked last in gym class?

MELANIE GILFORD. The oldest in the family. Sophisticated Melanie is 14. Her poems never rhyme; And I quote, "Rhyming is babyish." If I need to write a poem for English, I come to her for help and she says, "Patsy, dear, that would be like cheating, having an experienced poet like myself, helping you." So my poems always rhyme. Melanie's favorite color is black because, and I quote, "Black, to myself and most other poets, seems to have more life than hot pink."

Settle down there, Johnny Cash. By the way, my idea of a "poet" was based entirely on Myron Krupnik's students in Anastasia Krupnik. Key point: Poets wear black. Lots of black.

ANITA GILFORD. She is the most serious dancer you will ever meet. [Booyah, Baryshnikov!] Ballet/Dance class after school Monday-Friday. Every morning she wakes up at 5:30 and exercises. I quote, "A dancer has to stay in shape. Exercise and plenty of sleep. Relax your muscles." She goes to bed at 7:30. She's always asleep by 8:00. Well, her ballet class is doing "The Nutcracker", Anita's favorite movie, for their show. It's between Anita and her best friend, Amie South, of who will get the lead female role of Clara.

What the hell Nutcracker movie am I talking about? Does anyone recall a popular Nutcracker film?

DOREEN GILFORD. This 11-year-old was a born artist. And she still is. [Good thing I clarified that!] Doreen does not have a favorite color because, and I quote, "All colors are equal. It's not really the color itself that's important; it's the color's meaning that counts." Doreen, for some queer reason, likes sleeping in until noon on the weekend. [Probably so she can avoid Anita and her gartantuan head.] Living with her bedroom like an art museum, this stylish girl loves sunlight and nature.

Why does this all of a sudden feel like an ad for mail-order brides?

GLORIA GILFORD. We didn't realize what Gloria's talent was until last year when she snatched the leading female role of Cinderella out of the 5th graders hands and elegantly strolled past their faces with a peculiar grin on her face. [Creepy!] At that time she was only a 4th grader. Everyone was amazed with Gloria's new-found talent. Before that, Gloria and I had searched for talents so we could be like our big sisters. After Gloria found hers it left me on my own.

I gave up. I admit it. I'm a quitter. But the others didn't find theirs when they were looking. So why should I bother to look anyway? Give me one good reason why and I will. Can you think of any thing. NO. Well, I didn't think you could anyway. Now don't give me any flimsy

You can see I was rapidly running out of steam. The plot of the book was supposed to be Patsy searching for—and ultimately discovering—her own talent. Whatever that was. I decided to give it another shot, this time without quite so much quoting.

VERSION #2:

Living in a Princess's Land

You have no idea what it's like to be the baby of the family. To have 4 older, accomplished sisters who do everything right. They're perfect. They have good manners, style. They're perfect young women!

My name's Patsy Gilford. I'm 9. I just started 4th grade yesterday. My sisters are Melanie (14), Anita (12½), Doreen (11), and Gloria (10).

I'm sort of a tomboy, I guess. I L-O-V-E love baseball. Last year I was the best. That was at my old school. We moved because we needed more space. I mean, I was sharing a room with Gloria and Doreen.

The horror!

Let me tell you about Melanie. She's a poet. Some of her poems were even printed in magazines!

Yeah, magazines published by the International Library of Poetry, maybe.

Her long brown hair falls down to her armpits. [Always classy to mention armpits in a character description.] Every morning she wakes up early and sweeps it quickly over to the side - I think. She has pretty awesome taste in clothes, though she's a bit on the "cukoo" side. Talk about sensitive!

But is she...

Please, please, please, let me get what I want

Then there's Anita, the very becoming dancer. She transformed our basement into a dance studio in 1 week. Anita is quite serious about her dancing. She goes to classes everyday after school. All her radios and tapes! I mean, her favorite movie is the "Nutcracker"! Anita dresses baggy and exercises every morning, waking up at 5:30!

How many radios does one ballerina need? Also, note how I nixed the "going to bed at 7:30" lunacy. But seriously, what's up with the Nutcracker movie! Is there any way I could be referring to Six Weeks, the Dudley Moore drama in which there's a 12-year-old leukemia-riddled aspiring ballerina? The poor girl finally realizes her dream of dancing in the Nutcracker—only to pass out very dramatically on the subway afterward, and her mom (aka Mary Tyler Moore) totally freaks out because her daughter is DYING ON A CROWDED SUBWAY TRAIN, OH MY GOD. Yeah, I loved that movie.

We knew Doreen's talent was drawing - especially when she won the "Easter Bunny" drawing contest. She was 4 years old!

Ah yes, the famous Easter Bunny drawing contest. Later, she probably got into art school by drawing a turtle and pirate.

"Sweet pirate! You're in!"

She's got a studio for all her work. Doreen's got radical taste - even better than Melanie's! She's always doing something different with her hair. Doreen's so cool!

Gloria's got natural acting talent. We didn't find out until last year when her class did a play. Gloria was cast as the lead female. We were all wowed! She dresses pretty casual, like me. I'm the closest to Gloria than my other 3 sisters. We understand each other - most of the time!

* * *

"What are you doing?!?!?" shrieks Anita, as I walk into the basement.

"Looking for my old mitt." I say casually.

"It's not here." she says stubbornly. I keep looking. "I'm positively certain." I keep on. "Well, fine, look if you want. But don't make any noise."

There are those impeccable manners Patsy mentioned!

Anita gets back to her routine. She hums with the music as she performs perfect pliés. She prances across the room and does several leaps on the way back. WONDERFUL!

This is just weird.

"What're lookin' at?" asks Anita of me.

(Please remember that Anita suffers from a serious birth defect that may have damaged her brain.)

"I guess it's not here." I say absent-mindedly.

And... yeah. Once more, I drew a blank. So in sixth grade I thought I'd try it ONE MORE TIME.

VERSION #3:

The Baby Of The Family (designated as a Friendship book)

Chapter One: The Baby

Do you have any idea what it's like to be the baby of the family?

I do.

I have four older, accomplished sisters who do everything right. They have it all: good looks, manners, style. Everyone who meets them says they're perfect.

I have to agree.

My name's Patsy Gilford, and I'm nine years old. My "perfect" sisters are Melanie, who is fourteen, Anita, the thirteen-year-old, Doreen, eleven and a half, and Gloria, who just turned ten and a half.

I guess you could call me a tomboy. I LOVE sports, especially baseball. Last year I was the best player on my team at school. No one expected me, the "new girl" to be any good, but I guess I showed them.

We had moved in the middle of the school-year. It was because of dad's business. For some reason, which is unknown to me, they had to relocate here in Friendship, New York.

Oh my God, you guys, FINALLY! We're not in freaking Brockport anymore! (No offense to any Brockportians.)

I have never been quite sure of what dad's business actually does. All I know is that he works in town, away from our home in the country. Dad is always rushing off to business meetings. Sometimes he even holds fancy parties at our house. I try to focus on myself, because it all confuses me.

My dad owned a diner, so I had NO CLUE what business types did. Other than throw fancy parties at their homes in the country. That much was obvious.

Speaking of their home in the country, would you care to see the floor plans?


This time I tried to appease my mother by adding in a staircase opening. And someone sleeping in what appears to be a giant papoose! But I wasn't done yet...


That weird basket-y thing protruding from Gloria's room is a balcony. So she can practice scenes from Romeo and Juliet, no doubt. I'm not sure where Melanie's room is. Maybe she lives in the attic à la Greg Brady.

Then I got bored with the aerial view and whipped up this:


Yes, the 11-year-old has her own art studio. And the Gilford are big fans of the overstuffed couch. Okay, back to the story...

Now I suppose I should tell you about Melanie, the poet. Some of her poems were even printed in a magazine. She wears her long brown hair swept over to the side. I think she has pretty awesome taste in clothes, though my parents beg to differ. They dislike her all-black wardrobe, but I think Melanie just wants to be her own person. Besides, black is her favorite color.

Then comes Anita, the ballet dancer

Blah blah waking up at 5:30 blah blah the Nutcracker blah. I guess I couldn't take another second of the Gilford Girls and their many, many talents. And probably neither can you.

NEXT TIME: More about Friendship's happening country scene in My Life as a Pre-Teen.

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.