Anatomically Incorrect

As an elementary schooler, I loved to draw. Girls. I loved to draw girls. My magic markers and I had a pretty rigid "no boys allowed" policy. There were several reasons for this:

1. Boys. Grody. (Okay, okay, so hating boys was just a front. Really I loooooooved the boys, but sometimes a girl has to save face in front of her USA co-Crushers.)
2. Because I was so accustomed to drawing girls, on the rare occasion that I did try to conjure the male form, dude usually ended up looking like a lady.
3. Even when I managed to sketch a passably boyish boy, he'd end up looking like this:

Bo-bo?! On top of drawing them, it seems I had a problem naming boys too.

Bo-bo here—I don't even want to hazard a guess as to how that's short for Timothy, lest my gray matter implode—may be wearing super-cool sneaks and a mildly obscene sweater (don't try to tell me that dog isn't exposing itself to me!), but you guys? Where is his crotch? WHERE IS BO-BO'S CROTCH? Wherever it is, I hope his forehead is there too. If there's an opposite of the Tyra Banks fivehead, then our pal Bo-bo has it:

One-and-a-half-head?

And on top of that (literally), I gave him a Three Stooges haircut. I was not doing Bo-bo any favors.

But this was not an isolated incident. Take a look at some more boy wreckage:

No, that's not a fat suit.

Yes, I know it looks like one.

Jimmy Ray is all, "Bo-bo? I see your vacant stare and hillbilly moniker, and I MOTHERFUCKING RAISE YOU." Also, I submit that the only way Jimmy Ray could be more froglike is if he changed his name to friggin' Kermit—and come to think of it, that might be an improvement.

"But," you say, "maybe we should take the boy out of the sweatpants [ew!] and find out what a cool guy would look like." Well, you asked for it.

The face of cool. No, that's not lipstick.

Shut up! He's just a pretty boy.

I mean, the only thing that could make him cooler is a half-shirt.

Brief aside: My sister & I used to coerce our mother into making us paper dolls drawn to our precise specifications, and one of them was a "hot boy" named Chris (because Chris was my go-to cool boy name circa 1988) who's wearing a motherloving half shirt. Think I'm joking?

Dude. I don't joke about half-shirts. Well, not this time, anyway.

But back to A. Tanner. Once again we have a boy with lifeless Orphan Annie eyes. Once again he has a bizarrely shortened midsection that makes me question his ability to digest food sans medical intervention. And once again his name is printed with an enormous lack of subtlety across his clothing (though I think that's justified in Jimmy Ray's case—he looks like the type who'd forget his own name). So just what makes A. Tanner one-and-a-half-head and shoulders above the rest? Two things (and no, his stylish baby blue smock isn't one of them):

1. The hair. Behold the magnificently spiky hair!
2. The earring, a sparkling beacon of awesome in a sea of otherwise humdrum earlobes.

Yes, men with solo earrings were so widespread in 1986 that I felt comfortable co-opting this look for a third grader. But! There were very strict guidelines for male ear piercing in the '80s. The golden rule was this: If the earring was in the left ear, the guy was straight; if it was in the right ear, he was gay, gay, a thousand times gay! Because in the '80s sexual preference had to do with which earlobe a dude punctured, not which gender he wanted to put his penis in. And God for-freaking-bid someone might think you wanted to make out with another dude.

So, because Aaron Tanner was the cutest, most heterosexualest boy in town he had his earring in the... oh, FUDGE.

The right—and simultaneously, wrong—earlobe.

But hey, this wasn't exactly a science. Right, George Michael?

Earring in the left ear = STRAIGHT?!

[Image found here.]

I rest my case. Anyone care to Google Chad Allen's earlobes?

NEXT TIME: If pencils could talk... apparently they'd be quite cynical.

Show Me the Bunny

You know how when you were a kid, having a favorite animal was a Really Big Deal? And every time you'd be at a carnival or a gift shop or Carlton Cards at the mall, you'd pester your mom into letting you buy a miniature version of that animal? And you'd keep the entire collection on your bedroom wall in a wooden curio shelf shaped like a house? Well, for me that animal was the rabbit.

For full effect, imagine this filled with tiny, tacky bunnies.

So obviously, when we had to write an animal report in third grade, I chose to research rabbits. I enigmatically titled the report "Rabbits: Breeds of Rabbits and other things about them."

The report's cover rabbit. Note: Those are paws, not a pair of saggy bunny boobs.

This report was chock full of information. Did you know that rabbits aren't rodents, because rodents have two pairs of front teeth whereas rabbits have only one? Or that rabbits differ from hares because rabbits give birth to ugly, hairless little creatures with closed eyes while hares have attractive, furry newborns that can see?

On the other hand, I may have included a bit TOO MUCH information. One of the "other things" I felt it necessary to (over)share about rabbits? If they eat too many greens they will get diarrhea. Seriously. This report has the word diarrhea in it.

A large part of the reason for my bunny love was that my sister and I were the proud owners of our own big-toothed boxes of hair. Realistically, owning rabbits should have made us despise them. Our rabbits (unconventionally named Bun-bun and Cottontail) seemed to fear for their lives whenever we got within 10 feet of them and would use any means necessary to avoid human contact. This made the normal things you do with a pet—like, I don't know, petting them—exceedingly difficult.

Me in a dress straight outta Oleson's Mercantile, Cottontail (that damn Bun-bun was next to impossible to catch!), and my sister.

Because this report was about breeds of rabbit (and other things about them), I note that Cottontail is "probably Dutch." As you can tell, it was an extremely scientific report. It also has illustrations on the right way to hold a rabbit...

You can see I was used to rabbits expressing abject terror when handled.

...and the wrong way to hold a rabbit (which I noted as my preferred method—whatever, "professionals"):

"Most books don't say to hold them this way, but I do anyway."

Then I compare the Angora and Dutch rabbit breeds. Third-grade conclusion? Angoras and Dutches are very different. (If you were wondering, I got an A+ on this project. 32-year-old conclusion: I could make a KILLING ghostwriting reports for third graders.)

Here's the Angora:

And here's the Dutch:

But what does all of this rabbitry have to do with my burgeoning writing career? Well, learning about the different rabbit breeds inspired me to draft a book about animals. Anthropomorphic animals. Very fashionable, hip, and emotional anthropomorphic animals. Chapter 1? BUNNIES. (And don't get your hopes up—there is no Chapter 2.)

First stop on our Tour de Rabbit Breeds is the cottontail. Cottontail was not just the name of our pet rabbit, it's also a breed! Kind of like how Cy Sperling's not just the president of the Hair Club for Men, he's also a client. For comparative purposes, here's a photo of a real-life cottontail rabbit:

Image found here.

And here's my version, Cool Carrie Cottontail:

Because even when I drew a friggin' rabbit, it ended up looking like a prostitute.

You can see that the actual, factual cottontail rabbit has neither a pig snout, false eyelashes, nor fishnet stockings. Hell, it doesn't even have high heels or little ribbons on its ears! However, the jury's still out on its ability to duplicate choreography from Saturday Night Fever.

Next we have my version of the Dutch rabbit:

Image found here.

Dancing Denise Dutch (oh, the alliteration!) looks less like a sex worker and more like a reject from Breakin' 2: Bunny Bugaloo:

"Out of my way, fools! There are rec centers to be saved! With BREAK DANCING!"

Is it just her markings, or is Denise wearing some sort of facial sling? Maybe her jaw was breakin' also (zing!). But I stick by my theory that she has on fingerless gloves and fashionably holey tights. And maybe a prison-issued muumuu?

But my favorite here is the Angora. Which, once again, in actuality looks like this:

Image found here.

Mine, on the other hand? That'd be Angry Amy Angora:

Yeah, Amy (once again with a pig nose; though I owned a rabbit, I seem to have had no idea what their little sniffers looked like) is pouting huffily in a chair. Meanwhile, she has scrawled "I HATE YOU! Sincerely, Amy" on the ground. Man! I wonder what Passive-Aggressive Paula Patagonian would have looked like...

NEXT TIME: Why I never drew boys.

Before I end this, I'd like to give a big thank you to everyone who has been following 30 is the new 13 in spite of my spotty updating. Chronic arm pain and blogging don't really mix, but what can I say? I'm a rebel. A very sore-armed rebel. Also, I know about 800 of you (or maybe five?) are waiting to be guest authors, and I want you to know I haven't forgotten you! I'm planning to have some guest author posts up soon—although, considering my recent record, "soon" may be a subjective term. I'll do my best!

No boy bands allowed

Do we have to talk about how long I've been gone? I've been gone a long time. A long, looooong time. The past two months were unexpectedly busy, but now it looks like I will—just as unexpectedly—have a lot more time on my hands. This is probably bad news for my bank account, but hopefully good news for the blog. So... yay?

This installment of Every Picture Tells a Story was probably drawn during the height of my obsession with wanting to form a band. (Third grade? Fourth grade? Did I ever STOP want to form a band? Do I STILL want to form a band, even though I would now be in the 26th grade? The answers are probably, maybe, definitely not, and oh hells yes, respectively.)

Behold the titular girls of Girls Only, a band whose members sky-rocketed to fame after they adopted questionable pseudonyms and started rocking malls across the U.S. of A.:

Where to start? How about the band's obvious leader, Sax-o? And if you don't think a saxophone player could be the key component to a band, you clearly do not remember the '80s, wherein there was at least one gratuitous sax solo in every song, sometimes two. I think Reagan may have signed it into law at some point. What I'm saying is, the '80s? They were saxy. Like, this is what a saxophone player looked like in 1987:

Body grease courtesy of i-mockery.com.

Well, this and the littlest orphan girl on Rags to Riches, who I totally would have pulled a Single White Female on, except I was nine and Single White Female wouldn't come out for another five years.

After the '80s? Dudes with saxophones looked like this:

Small favor: At least Kenny wasn't into the "g-string with chain belt" look.

Plus you can tell Sax-o was the brains behind this operation because I drew a heart around her and gave her a rad belly shirt in the Before drawing:

You can't have an entire band of Plain Janes; someone has order the side ponytails. And I don't see any hologram-generating supercomputers around here—do you? Plus, it's really impressive that Cindy is a sax player WITHOUT ANY ARMS. Do you see arms? Or just copious hair? Observe her post-makeover:

NARY AN ARM TO BE FOUND! But who needs 'em when you have giant segmented pigtails and a saxophone that strongly resembles a fat banana? I kind of don't want to know how she keeps that thing in her mouth.

Sax-o's partner in coolness is Keys—which, quite frankly, I could only tell because of the handy heart encircling enhearting. Tell me, was slicking your bangs back with an eyebrow-level headband ever fashion-forward?

You are treading dangerously close to Geordi La Forge territory, my friend.

It seems like it would be hard to play the piano with hooves for hands, but this band does have an armless saxophone player, and that one-armed drummer from Def Leppard seemed to do all right for himself, so who am I to judge? You can see that Keys' awesomeness only increased when she started wearing choir robes instead of real clothing:

That has to be a keyboard, right? I mean, her name is friggin' Keys, not Desks.

If I could pick Sax-o's second-in-command again, I probably would go with Dray, because she looks kind of like Joan Jett:

Also loves rock 'n' roll.

You'd think that the addition of a drum kit would make her a total badass, but...

Noooooo! Make it stop!

Yeah, someone (read: me) forgot the "kit" part. It's like she swiped this from a drum circle on her way back from a scuba lesson. (Those are flippers she's wearing, are they not?) And just in case you guys didn't know what a flower drum song sounds like, it's this: "bom bom." The saxophone and the keyboard, they make music. The drum? Bom bom.

Next we have Getta, who looks a little like one of the girls in One Crazy Summer who got slapped on the back and discovered her face really would stay like that:

Sax-o: "Want to join our band?"

Keys: "Don't look so surprised. You can play... um... a large string instrument?"

WHAT IS THAT THING? A bass that must be played violin-style? And what kind of advanced yogi shit is she doing with her arms? Does anyone in this band have normal appendages?!

Then we have the Commitmentettes TrayLaas, identical triplets who could sorely use some advice from the author of Curly Girl:

After? They're basically the honky version of Crystal, Ronnette, and Chiffon in Little Shop of Horrors. (Yes, our taped-off-of-HBO copy of Little Shop had its fair share of viewings.) Oh, and on top of being white, they also have wilty, singing beehives.

Wilty beehives: "Feed us, Sax-o!"

And finally? Minnie. Actually, stop the presses, er, blog-publishing mechanism! Was I wrong? Was Minnie always the one in charge? Because she doesn't even merit a "Before" drawing, that's how frappin' sophis she is. You can tell because she has CLEAVAGE.

Oooo indeed.

She also has a scary man-arm (maybe she's been stealing everyone else's limbs and somehow injecting them into her right arm? ...or else she's an avid bowler?) and a bizarre Princess-Leia-meets-Orthodox-Jewish-fellow hairstyle, but? Forgivable. Because she has a fancy dress on and CLEAVAGE. Have I mentioned the cleavage?

Sadly, we can only imagine the amazing music produced when saxophone, keyboard, conga drum, bassolin, saggy beehives, and cleavage at last meet.

NEXT TIME: Rabbits in fishnets. I so, so, SO wish I was joking.

Prostitution People

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

No, really.

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

Personality plus!

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Okay, NOW you should click to enlarge.]

The fun has been AT LEAST doubled.

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

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

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

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

Jet: confirmed call girl.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, that's it.

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

Welcome to Tademy Academy: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to Tademy Academy

Ch. 2

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

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

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

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

“ Nice look, Tara,” Fliss said.

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

After that, we all went to our dorms.

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

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

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

Dearest Darling Charlotte,

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

XOXO,

Dominick Fitch

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

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

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

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

“Ew, what’s that smell?”

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

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

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

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

“OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

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

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

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

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

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

Charlotte decided to text him.

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

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

From: Dominick

To: Charlotte

For what?

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

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

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

From: Dominick

To: Charlotte

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

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

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

Sada says: Is it, though? IS IT?

From: Dominick

To: Charlotte

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

I’m serious.

From: Charlotte

To: Dominick

Oh. I’m sorry I bothered you.

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

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

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

Ch.3

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

“Jerk?,” Fliss said.

“Me too.”

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

Just then, we heard a knock on our door.

“ I’ll get it,” Rosie shouted.

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

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

“What happened to Charlotte,” Kenny asked nervously.

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

No wonder you looked so, like, ashamed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ It’s worth a shot,” Kenny sighed.

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

“ No way! EEEEKKK!!!!”

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 16

7:00 PM

WISH UPON A STAR

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

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

We all groaned.

“Here comes Casey now,” Rosie said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to Tademy Academy: Part 1

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

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

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

Welcome to Tademy Academy

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

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

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

“ Yeah,” Fliss replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey Jayne and Lottie,

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

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

Love,

Frankie Chapman & Fliss Dillon

Aka Mrs. Francesca Efron and Mrs. Felicity Sanborn.

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

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

P.S. I’m hosting SIGMA!!!!!!! - Fliss

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

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

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

P.P.P.P.P.S I can’t help it.- Fliss

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

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

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

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

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,” Rosie squealed.

“ Guys, check this out,” she yelled.

“ OMG,” Fliss said.

Dear Francesca Chapman, and Rosita Fine,

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

Felicity Dillon

Kendra Lindsay

Lindsay Sandburg

Kirsten Johnston

Sarah Jo Hansen

Holly Malloy

Mallory Lazarus

Emma-Jean Greene

Piper Tademy

Sarah-Charlotte Hopkins

Gillian Tompkins

Melissa Perkins

And remember, only five gals will make it.

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

Sealed with a Kiss,

(squeal) Andrea Tachman

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

My cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Frankie, is that you?’’

“Kenny, what’s up?”

“I just got the best news….”

“You’re about to be a Delta, right?”

“And so are you!”

“I know, isn’t it amazing?”

“I can’t believe it!!!”

“Frankie,” Fliss shouted.

“I’ve got to go, bye.”

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

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

“OK.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it,” we all said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To: Frankie

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

Drop The Donut!!!!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

My phone began to vibrate.

From: Maree

To: Frankie

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

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

From: Frankie

To: Courtnee

Total fate! Awesome, right?

Kylie says: I was right!

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

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