The Pencil in the Rye

Hello? Hello? Are any of you still here? I think I may be jeopardizing my standing in the Worst Blogger Ever contest by posting, but screw it! I've missed you all terribly! Sorry for dropping off the face of the Internet the last couple of months. But I'm back (for now; let's not get too crazy with the promises), and—even more exciting—I've brought pencils with me.

But these aren't just any pencils. They are, like, the pencil equivalent of Jeff from Today's Special. Except they aren't mannequins, don't accessorize with vests and magical hats, and aren't friends with scooter-riding mice. They COME TO LIFE, is what I'm getting at.

Like this, only a pencil. And with less dancing.

[Image courtesy of Megsplace.com, which has way more info on Today's Special for those of you who are not mid-'80s Nickelodeon aficionados but would love to learn more about magical bevested mannequins. Possible disappointment alert: This mannequin does not make out with Andrew McCarthy.]

But where was I? Oh yeah, pencils. Our first inanimate objects were brought to life not by a magical newsboy cap, but by guest author Sarah.

Sarah says: In my school district, they gave you your permanent record when you finished high school, and my old writing competency tests were in there. I wrote this one when I was 8, in 1986.

The Pencil Story

Once there was a pencil who lived in a box. "I would die to get out of this box!" he said. He hated the box and all the other pencils too.

One day a kid with messy hair and grubby fingers picked him up. The boy took him to school. In his desk was a little red pencil "hi" she said. She looked just like him only red!

They had lots of fun together then the weekend came, they decided to run away. The red pencil said "Am I glad to get out of that dump." They went and moved under a low shelf. That was the greatest. They said "let's stick together forever"

Sarah says: I was given the minimum passing score for this story, which is totally unfair because once you look past the bad punctuation, it's basically the Catcher in the Rye of 120-word test essays—except for the uplifting ending where the pencils quit their jobs and live off the grid. Of course, this story does raise some disturbing questions (that no one ever asked because there were no mental health workers in my school. Plus, if you were quiet and did your work, no one ever wondered why your essay was not only written from the viewpoint of an opposite-sex protagonist, but also replete with phallic imagery...). But maybe it doesn't mean anything. Maybe a pencil is just a pencil, and I didn't hate everyone in my class...

Sada says: It's okay, Sarah. I'm glad you got out of that dump. I hope you've moved on to a "low shelf" of your own. I hear that's the greatest.

But don't think you're alone in channeling your preadolescent anxiety through phallic imagery. Part of the reason it took so long to post this (a small part, to be fair, but a part nonetheless) is that after reading Sarah's story, I had the craziest pencils-coming-to-life deja vu and was 99.9% sure that my sister, Genie, had written about the same thing. And? I was right.

Unfortunately, it took me three months to find it.

Pencil Tales offers a bit of a pencil potpourri, if you will (not literally—that probably wouldn't smell very good). It's also partially dedicated to our elementary school gym teacher, Mr. Powell, "who is a special friend, and has taught me many things I'll never forget." Is it just me, or is that a little weird? Especially in light of the whole pencils-being-shaped-like-manbits thing? Or do I just have lingering ill feelings toward Mr. Powell for forcing me to play newcomb?

"PENCIL PALS FOREVER"

Some people think pencils are just used to write with. Well, I'll tell you something, they're not. When you leave school at the end of the day, what do you think us pencils do? We climb out of those little slits in the desk.

Sada says: Freud would have a field day with this.

Well, it was a typical day. I was in my owner's desk, tired because he had used me so much today. The custodians were doing their usual nighttime watch to make sure no one's in the school that's not supposed to be in the school.

Sada says: That's right, the custodians had to clean toilets, sprinkle sawdust on our vomit, and then? They didn't even get to sleep at night! They had discourage intruders from breaking in and stealing high-cost items like the gym parachute or our green-screen Apple IIs. God knows someone had to make sure we could still play Lemonade Stand in the morning!

When I saw the flashlight fade away, I popped the two paint tabs off my eyes. Paint tabs are little tabs of paint that I used to cover my eyes and other things [Sada says: ?!] with, so no one sees my eyes. After I pulled them off, I blinked about 20 times. My eyes adjusted to the light. I pushed 2 other paint tabs off the spots where my arms are, then my legs. I got ready and squeezed out of the slit.

I got up to explore. I was on the chair. I jumped off, and landed standing up. I ran to our usual meeting spot. PiLinda, Paul, Pete, and Petunia were already there.

Sada says: I guess there's a writing utensil law mandating that all pencil names start with the letter P. Hence the extremely catchy "PiLinda."

"Hey, Peggy." Pete greeted me. None of us were related because we got shipped to this school by different pencil companies.

Sada says: Whoa, was that just an allusion to PENCIL SEX? I was unaware that you could breed pencils. They didn't show that kind of stuff on Mr. Rogers.

In related news, I just did a Google image search for "pencils having sex" and came up with nothing. The Internet is useless.

"Hi, what's up? I'm beat. Today my owner bit me. I felt so slimy," I said.

"The feeling is mutual." everyone agreed. They were all older than I, and had many more teeth marks.

I leaned against a piece of paper. I was beat.

Sada says: It's hard out here for a pencil.

Your days are numbered, buddy.

PiLinda's paint tabs were almost all the way back on(she's sleeping).

"PiLinda!!"I called. Her paint tabs pop off and fly half way across the room. She looked surprised, embarassed, and tired at the same time.

"I'm sorry." I tried to look sorry, but I cracked up, not on purpose, but it just all came out at once. Paul and Petunia joined me. Pete looked as serious as ever. We tried to get serious. It worked, kind of.

PiLinda ran away.

"See what you did?" Pete yelled as he followed PiLinda.

I ran after Pete and easily caught up.

"I said I was sorry, and I am." I was getting mad at Pete. I think that PiLinda has an awful bad temper. PiLinda and I are best friends. I met her when I came from a pencil company. I know PiLinda well. I ran past Pete. I almost caught up with PiLinda, but as soon as she saw me she sped up.

Sada says: So basically, a bunch of pissed-off pencils are sprinting around a darkened classroom? Just checking.

Also, it has not escaped my attention that these two are named Peggy and Pete.

You want to hire me to do your pencil portrait now, I know it.

PiLinda was out of breath, so she stopped.

"I'm really sorry."I say.

"That's ok." she says. "I just have been through a lot lately. My mother disappeared and my father's gone too, but, please, try not to tell anybody."

Sada says: You see what happens when you lose a pencil? YOU TEAR A FAMILY APART.

Just then Pete walked up, looking REAL mad.

"Are you all right, PiLinda?" he asked her.

"Yeah, but I really need to talk to Peggy. It's important, but I would appreciate it if you went back and told everybody else we're ok."

Pete nodded, and started jogging back.

Jogging pencil clip art FTW!

(Not that this in any way makes up for the lack of pencils sexing it up.)

(Also, I can't for the life of me figure out why the pencil has fangs. Twilight, must you ruin everything?)

When he was out of sight, PiLinda started again, "Everyone has been ignoring me lately. I feel as if I belong somewhere else..." She caught her breath. "I miss my parents, and lately, I'm so sleepy and mad...but I feel so awful."

"Don't worry." I said and started to cry. "My parents died before I got shipped here." I sniffled.

Sada says: Angst: a universal theme in pencil lit.

"Oh-my-goodness." PiLinda said sadly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that. I'm really sorry. I am."

"I didn't tell anyone because I didn't want any special treatment." I admitted.

"That's ok, I like you just the way you are, Peggy. Pencil Pals Forever?" she asked and started to giggle about how dorky that sounded.

"Yeah," I laughed. "Pencil Pals Forever."

Sada says: Aaaaaand that's nearly the same ending as the first story, with the disaffected pencils swearing their allegiance to one another. Pencils... so predictable!

If you weren't already in pencil paradise, this story is followed up with some pencil poetry. I'll scan this so you can fully appreciate the genius. It's an acrostic poem, in which the first letter of each line spells the word "PENCILS" (the "L" line is my favorite, btw), but also? Those letters are themselves MADE OF PENCIL.

"PENCILS"

Perfect writing utensils

Erasers at the bottom

Needs to be sharpened when it gets dull

Constructed out of wood

In them is lead

Like pens

Sharp pencils are best

Sada says: In them is actually graphite, but I guess I shouldn't quibble with a fifth grader.

In the book's final installment, Genie gets post-apocalyptic on our asses.

"IF I HAD THE LAST PENCIL IN THE WORLD, I WOULD WRITE..."

If I had the last pencil in the world I would write...

Sada says: The next section is handwritten in pencil. I know that seems like a no-brainer in a book called Pencil Tales, but the rest of it was typed. Perhaps to better impart the seriousness of this message scrawled by the world's lone pencil.

November 14, 2059

I know that in a few hundred years someone will find this and wonder what a pencil was. Pencils were things used for writing. They are made of wood and lead. (I am using a pencil to write this right now. Trees have wood in them. I have heard from my grandmother (who lived in the 90's) When she was a little girl, at her school (and in the whole state) was celebrating "Earth Day."

Sada says: Grammar and punctuation have degenerated by 2059. Also, trees have wood in them!

Earth Day was a time to think about our Earth, how to save it. At my grandmother's school they gave out seedlings to everyone. The purpose was to have 500 children plant them to provide more oxygen for us + more wood, etc. Earth Day also encouraged people to recycle. Obviously, no one did, or there would be a much better Earth today. This pencil is about to brea (k)

BY ARIA KAWILDON

Sada says: The final bit was in pen (which we all know is like pencil) because the last pencil in the world couldn't stand to write another word about the farce that was Earth Day. And apparently the last pencil sharpener in the world bit the dust first.

Here's my question: What kind of damage would we need to do in the next 49 years in order for a fifth grader to wind up with possession of the world's last pencil? Man, we better start recycling!

NEXT TIME: What is quite possibly the storytelling-est picture of all time. It contains an exercise montage. And a third grader with cleavage.

The Future Is Now!

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

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

Watch-a-call

It's a watch with a phone inside!

No extra for long distance calls!

$99.89 Just $50.00!

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

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

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

The world's most sloppily drawn keypad.

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

Watch-a-call in action!

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

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

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

Survey Says

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

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

questions

name: Will P.

age: 10

date: June 23, 1994

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

Babysitters Club 9#. Because it's cool.

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

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

What is your favorite movie? Why?

Bugsy Malone. Because they have a marshmallow fight.

What is your favorite song and album and group?

New Kids on the Block. Because their hip.

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

Who is your favorite actor?

Steve Urkel

Working toward that Oscar nod!

actress?

Madonna

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

No one

What qualities in a person really make you sick?

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

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

Shaq

Would you rather be deaf or blind? Why?

Blind. Donno?

What are some things you appreciate about the opposite sex?

I don't have to have the babies.

Do you believe in love at first sight?

NO. Because I'm blind.

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

My mom made me.

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

NO Yes

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

NO

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

I want to be a Superman!

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

I'm weird

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

No

What do you want to be when you grow up?

A man and a dog.

Dare to dream!

What are your plans for the future?

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

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

What was the best year of your life? Why?

Kindergarden because Mrs. Collins was sexy

Sexy!

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

What is your most prized possession?

My tiger.

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

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

Animals and family

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

Madonna and Mrs. Collins

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

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

My mom

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

Been a billionaire

What is the biggest problem facing the world?

death.

thank you. iI hope you enjoyed it.

You suck!

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

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

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

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

Dear Sig: The Saga Continues

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

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

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

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

Raise your hand if you're embarrassed already.

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

July 15, 1988

Dear Sig,

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

*The "ports" are in New York.

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

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

Er, like this one?

There is absolutely nothing acceptable about those bangs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I ended the letter with:

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

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

P.S. WRITE BACK SOON

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The saga? To Be Continued...

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

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

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

Fashion Backward

You guys? Why do I have this blog format where I write novella chapter book–length entries? It's killing me. Not to get all Woe Is Me on you here, but the main reason for my spotty blog performance is that I have chronic forearm pain. (Starting a blog? Maaaaybe not the most brilliant idea I've ever had.) And I have two jobs! I don't want you guys to think I'm just lazy. Okay, SOMETIMES I'm lazy, but other times I'm like, "I want to blog! I want to blog! Blogging... blogging... Ouch! Ouch ouch OUCH." And then I have to stop. And wait a few days. And try again. So, I'm sorry. Rest assured that even when I'm not blogging, I am thinking about blogging and yearning to recount my prepubescence in embarrassing detail.

I have a bigger entry in the works, but I thought I'd get this little one out for you in the meantime. Because some of you have been writing very nice things about me on your blogs (thank you!), and I'm feeling especially guilty. This one is dedicated to That Kind of Girl, who I would totally give a blog award to if I had the arm capacity for such a thing (speaking of which, Sadako, I owe you one too) and fashion blogger Sara M., who apparently doesn't realize I was born all the way back in 1977. Thank you, Sara M., THANK YOU. For that I am bringing you this fashion-tastic post.

So you know how when I "wrote a book" (is there any way I can not put that in quotes?), I often liked to whip up a nice visual representation of my protag? Well, sometimes I'd just do the character illustration and skip the whole "book" part. I was crazy like that! This post features such potential heroines in search of a plotline.

Oh, and the best part is that they're all drawn on random Dun & Bradstreet paper that has this awesomeness at the top:

Only imagine it SUPER GINORMOUS.

My keys to success? First off, character names stolen from Can't Buy Me Love (click the images to enlarge; if you suffer from an irrational fear of poofy hair and geometric-shape earrings, DO SO AT YOUR OWN RISK):

Why yes, I'd like to spill a glass of wine on ALL OF THIS, thanks!

So instead of Miss Popularity, my Cindi Mancini is... um... a moderately snazzy Hasidic Jew? Unless you have some other explanation for that skirt? Actually, I'm not convinced that Cindi Mancini is her name. It might just be the name of both of her arms and her right leg. And the utterly bewildered rabbit on her chest. But if so, what's the abandoned sailor shirt's name? Ronald? No no, you're right, it's DONALD.

Next up is another Cindy. A New, Cool, and IMPROVED Cindy. (Wait, I just realized that all of these gals have roughly the same name. But such different styles! *cough*)

Really? Huh. I'm not so sure I want to see the old Cindy...

Nothing like announcing how cool and improved you are VIA SWEATSHIRT. Baby Hands here looks like she's struggling to maintain balance. That bow on her head may be a little too tight...

Also, if The Make-Out Team ever breaks up, my next band is definitely going to be called Baby Hands and the Vast Improvements.

And then, you guys? Then? There's Cynthia Viot (not Voit, VIOT), who has outfits for all seasons and time. Don't believe?

For all time! But especially for four o'clock.

Where do we even start? How about with the Stylish ("Mini-mini") look. Which... is that a joke? Because this is Cynthia Viot! All of her looks are stylish!

Anyone else picturing this on Verne Troyer right now, or is it just me?

"Mini-mini" should maybe be renamed "Quintessentially '80s." Side pony? Check. Off-the-shoulder sweater dress? Check. Oversized belt, squiggly earrings, and stack of bangle bracelets cutting off circulation to a critical limb? Check, check, and CHECK! (Helloooo, her arm is quite clearly stunted.) The flats with anklets are just a bonus.

But the "Mini-mini" is not for every day. No sir. For that we have the "Totally Me."

More like "Totally Saddlebags."

Totally mom capris and geyser hair! And weird bug-eyed monkey face! That's totally me! But look how I've brought the geometric shapes and the squiggles TOGETHER AT LAST.

And now for a completely different season (oh, wait), it's Casual Summer, aka "Sunglasses":

Dude. Her sunglasses might be wearing sunglasses.

She's wearing sunglasses, her shirt's wearing sunglasses, and her belt is made o' sunglasses. It's not clear what her earrings are, but I'd say sunglasses are a safe bet. Say, what's that you've got behind your back, Cynthia? Oh, let me guess... [Note: I meant sunglasses, but if you were thinking "baby hands," you're probably right too.]

But it's not all fun and games with Miss Viot. Sometimes she has to go to school, and that's when she reveals the "Uniformed" look:

"You're taking a fashion risk. I like that."

Everything I knew about school uniforms I learned from watching Girls Just Want to Have Fun. Namely, that they were better when fastened with Velcro and accessorized with giant dinosaur hair clips. Or, as pictured here, just plain ol' giant hair.

Actually, I'm noticing that Cynthia's hair always reaches to her shoulders, no matter what her hairstyle (one exception: the Hair Fountain, which... yeah, you know you want to scroll back and look at that mess again). Huh. How does that work?

When she's not in school, sometimes our girl just has to fancy it the hell up, with "Bows, Bows, Bows" (really, is there any other way?):

That's a fuck-ton of bows all right.

The bow epaulets are particularly nice. Bows: the '80s equivalent of bling?

The real question is how did this deserve three "bows" when Casual Summer got but a single "sunglasses"?

NEXT TIME: The Sig Saga continueth. For real, you guys. For really real.

In the meantime, you might enjoy Psyched on the Prairie, wherein a grown woman is reading all of the Little House books for the first time (and learning a lot about pig anatomy, woolen veils, and Pa's beard in the process), or the pee-your-pants hilarious Awesomely Bad High School Diary trilogy on Steam Me Up, Kid. Click here for parts 1, 2, and 3, respectively. I only WISH I'd written poetry about the possibility of boys scamming on me! So many opportunities lost... So, so many...

The Strangest Thing Happened on Halloween

According to my fifth grade journal, my three favorite books that year were Just As Long As We're Together, The Search for Grissi, and Sister of the Quints. You see, I was into realistic fiction. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed a good yarn about dolls reenacting murders or a ghost who turned roses to mush while helping to uncover some hidden savings bonds as much as the next gal, but horror? Suspense? Mystery? I wouldn't say they were "my thing." So when we had a class assignment to write a Halloween story, I tried to come up with something I could actually imagine taking place. The result: The Strangest Thing Happened on Halloween.

Maybe I should have defined strange, because if we're being honest, stranger things have definitely happened on Halloween. Stranger things might even be happening to you, like, right this very second. Cleaning out my refrigerator? Possibly stranger that what happens in this story.

Okay. Now that your expectations have been sufficiently lowered, proceed.

The Strangest Thing Happened on HALLOWEEN...

This book is dedicated to Katie, who thought up the name, "rat zoid"

Okay, let me start my story. My name is Carol. All of this started when I had my Halloween sleepover...

(First, let me tell you I invited: My best friend, Tina, plus: Janey, Melissa, Ginger, and Tracy.)

It's worth noting that each girl's name is penciled in a different handwriting. Melissa cops the obligatory Stacy McGill, but it's Tracy who takes it to the next level. Her T looks like it was crafted out of cotton candy, and the Y is so curlicued that it resembles a snail shell more than a letter.

They all came.

The first thing we did was eat. We ate: pepperoni and sausage pizzas from "Little Caesars," 1 liter of Minute Maid orange pop, 1 liter of Coke, and ice cream for dessert.

Apparently none of them know how to make their own dip. Amateurs.

Then we changed into our pajamas (which was mostly shirts). We set up the sleeping bags. I popped "Beetlejuice" into the VCR.

Let me clarify this "mostly shirts" thing. Because there will be no pillow fights leading to preteen make-out sessions here. In 1989, it was perfectly acceptable to wear just a shirt to a sleepover. That's because the shirt would be approximately 25 sizes too large for you and come down past your knees. My best (read: hugest) one was purchased at Cedar Point, after my sister and I had been soaked to the frigging bone on the Log Ride and desperately needed a wardrobe change. So, technically, grossly oversized shirts were not just for sleepovers. They could, in a pinch, be worn around amusement parks.

Halfway through, my big brother, Rob (he's in high school) came down and insisted that after we watched the second movie (Psycho III) to come up to his room.

After Beetlejuice, we couldn't stop exclaiming over what we liked best. The special effects were so neat!

Neat!

I excused myself to make some popcorn. I came back soon, carrying a huge bowl of buttered, salted popcorn.

Where were they? The girls had disappeared!

"I VANT TO SUCK YOUR BLOOD!" cried Ginger, cackling. The other girls followed her lead.

I turned around quickly. They had come out of thin air. NO KIDDING!

I screamed. I didn't mean to, I just did. It was like some demon... "I'm posessed!" I shrieked.

By that time Tracy had had it. She fell on the floor. She was crying. WAIT A SECOND! She was laughing so hard she was crying!

"Oh, come on, Carol, can't you take a joke!" exclaimed Tina. She trying to ignore hysterical Tracy.

"Oh, get off it, Tracy!" snapped Melissa. "Grow up!" Tracy immediately stopped.

"Boy." I heard her mutter.

Well, I don't care if they dot their i's with hearts or not, Tina and Melissa seem like a-holes.

Obviously, Janey had to [I believe she'd "had it too"] because she said, or she cleared her throat and said, "Let's watch Psycho III." She rolled her eyes at the same time.

So we did.

Melissa pouted because she couldn't eat the popcorn (braces). Janey refused to go to the bathroom without someone guarding the door. The bathroom scene had really freaked her out.

During the bathroom scene, someone is beheaded while, ahem, using the facilities. A screening of Psycho III pretty much guaranteed that at least one sleepover attendee would be afraid to pee for the rest of the night.

While Tracy guarded, the rest of us went into my room. Janey didn't know the vent in there led to the vent in the bathroom.

Really? The vent in the bathroom leads to her bedroom? That sounds awfully unfortunate for Carol. In my house, there was a vent in the living room that led to the basement, and this architectural boon figured prominently in many of our haunted houses. In my mind, vents were an obvious vessel for auditory terror.

"Oooweee!" moaned Melissa.

"Auuuiiiauuuuiii!" groaned Ginger.

"Ab Eb Eeb! Ab Eb Eeb!" cried Tina.

"Eeeeek! Eeek!" I shrieked.

I'm sorry, but Ab Eb Eeb? AB EB EEB? What is THAT?!

Janey freaked. She flushed the toilet, fumbled with the lock, and freed herself.

We confessed.

Janey cried.

After she was comforted we went to Rob's room. Where was Rob? Everybody was disappearing! The door creaked open...

And a squeaking bat flew into Melissa's face! She screamed. It flew into the hallway and out an open window.

Meanwhile, we all crept inside.

We'd only gone a few steps when my foot fell in something wet. I put my bare foot back into the hall; into the light.

I screamed. BLOOD! There was blood on my foot!

The first thing I thought was Rob. A bat. A puddle of blood on the floor. It all fit. The bat must've bitten Rob!

Then I remembered.

It was Halloween. I was having a sleepover. We had just watched a scary movie. I had a rat zoid for a big brother.

"A haunted house!" Ginger squealed with delight. "I can't wait!"

So we went back in.

My sister and I were WAY into haunted houses... as long as we were staging them ourselves. Did we like being scared? Mehhhh. But we loved to scare the crap out of others! Or, uh, try.

A Few Essential Items for Your Haunted House:

1) A well-placed vent (as discussed earlier).

2) Creepy sound effects. Our tape of Disney's Thrilling, Chilling Sounds of the Haunted House (surprisingly awesome and now available on iTunes!) was a favorite, although we did make our own tape at one point. Feel free to get creative.

3) Rubber bats. We usually had a few on hand.

4) Toys covered in blood. We liked to decapitate Barbies—plus remove all of their limbs—and then depict their wounds using red nail polish. (Warning: It turns out that nail polish is kinda difficult to remove, so your Barbies may forever after have a bit of a "bloody" look.)

We all shrieked while walking through the blood. Then things started happening. Things I can't explain.

Janey tripped over a dead body.

She freaked again. She fell on the floor, crying over and over, "I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!" But we had to go on. Rob would brag at school.

They were scared, but they had to keep going ON PRINCIPLE, guys. Also, "I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!" seems like an unwieldy phrase to repeat. I swear to god I stepped on a real hand! I swear to god I stepped on a real hand! I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!

A monster grabbed Tina. She shouted, "Get off, you idiot!"

While at the same time a huge something flew into Ginger and Tracy became entangled with a real live snake.

We freed ourselves and left, shouting unkind, unladylike things at Rob's room and at Rob, wherever he was.

"Jerk!"
"RAT ZOID!"
"I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!"
"Ab Eb Eeb!"

Well, we tried to forget the haunted house.

We ate, gossiped, played Truth or Dare, told ghost stories [yeah, that'll help you forget the haunted house all right], raided the refridgerator, told secrets, said nasty things about Rob, and etc. until 5.

But we still wonder what had happened.

Where had Rob been?

Were there spirits at my sleepover?

Were there demons running the haunted house?

Was it blood that stained Janey's P.J.'s?

Was the scratch on Tina from a real monster?

WILL WE EVER KNOW?

Um, do we really need to call Robert Stack in on this one?


Because my questions are more along the lines of:

Where were Rob and Carol's parents?

Do Rob and his friends really have nothing better to do than scare a bunch of 10-year-old girls by playing dead and throwing borrowed snakes around?

Is there such thing as remote-controlled bats?

WILL WE EVER KNOW?*

*Well, I don't have any final word on Rob and his reptile-renting habits, but I'm thrilled to report that the answer to the remote-controlled bat question is a resounding YES!

Carol, have you ever thought that maybe Rob just loves technology?

So I guess... kudos to Rob? I mean, that elaborate haunted house definitely put my vent wailing and quartered Barbies to shame. I just hope it was worth it, Rob. You do realize Janey had to buy a new enormous nightshirt, right? I hope you're proud of yourself.

My teacher's verdict? "Sada, this is WONDERFULLY written." And I got a check PLUS. Booyah!

NEXT TIME: Plan A: I really wanted to reminisce about my Halloween costumes of yore, but all of the Halloween pictures have gone MISSING from my parents' photo albums! So unless Robert Stack steps in to investigate this, I'll probably have to move on to Plan B: a continuation of The Sig Saga, including one of my (thankfully, unsent) letters to my elementary school crush. The shock! The horror! And—most of all—the embarrassment.