Juice and I ran into Borel at the mall again today. She was wearing purple, again.
“They’re selling live turkeys!” Juice exclaimed as we walked by the ice cream parlor. She's currently in her oversized referee uniform phase, and I'm impressed that she can see anything beneath that giant white cap.
“Mmm,” I said, cradling my tummy and licking my freckles. “I love live turkeys. The way those feathers tickle!”
“I’m a turkey,” Borel practically bubbled over. “Eat me! My hair is like feathers and I can gobble.”
“I know. I’ve seen you eat. What makes you think you’re a turkey, though?”
“Yeah,” Juice smirked. “Besides the way you smell, we mean.”
“I use my imagination,” she gushed. “Right now I’m imagining myself under a starry sky, in front of a picket fence made out of giant french fries welded together with ketchup.”
“That’s all very well, but imagining won’t make it so,” said Juice.
“That’s what you think,” Borel scoffed, folding her arms. “I’ve been called a turkey nine times today already.” She thrust her left hip out and stretched her right leg as far away from the left as it could go, as if she were playing compass with her body. She plowed her hands into the back of her laundry pile of lemon-blond hair, flipped open her vertical-venetian-blind grin (minus the pearl buttons), squinted her eyes shut, and twisted her torso to the right, causing her purple-people-eating purse to swing out in the air to catch up with her. “I’ve got the turkey strut, the turkey bill, the turkey wings, and with one twist I can smack you with my purse. Gobble, gobble!” She began to walk away with her head tilted back.
“That boy who just walked past with the heart embroidered on the back pocket of his pants was admiring me,” she added without opening her eyes. “Face it, I rule the turkey roost.”
“As if we wanted to be turkeys,” I said, rolling my eyes after Borel had walked into the men’s restroom. “Talk about living apart from reality! Borel has no life.”
“Sticking out my tongue this much makes me dizzy,” said Juice. “Yeah, she’s one turkey I’ll never eat. Where are we going now, Jolly?”
“Up into the sky,” I said, my energy revived. “Turkeys can’t fly, but we popcorn girls can!”
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Speaking of fashion mistakes....
Today I made the mistake of going shopping with Juice during her cowgirl phase. She can’t actually tell the difference between a cow and a girl, so needless to say she has no idea how to dress like a cowgirl. She just keeps making the ok sign to signify that she's an Oklahoma cowgirl. I've tried to convince her that Oklahoma is just a movie, but she still insists that it exists.
So we went shopping for no reason in particular, as always. Juice played spectator as I performed Barbie poses for her in the dressing room hallway.
“A little bit too much like that one part of Little Orphan Annie’s dance routine,” she said as I posed in a flimsy white piece that managed to cover the most freckly part of my rear.
“You mean in the movie Annie or the play?” I asked, examining my orphanic pose in the dressing room hallway mirror. “Do my lips look black?”
Juice groaned and slouched in her dressing room spectator seat, muttering, “Here comes Borel, professional Barbie.”
Sure enough, our fake friend Borel flounced up in a dress that closely resembled my comforter in its prefaded stage. “Honestly, Jolly, that’s too simple,” she huffed. “You should try a Barbie pose in something challenging, like flowers.” She pulled a big puffy white dress with bigger, puffier pink flowers out of the dressing room reject pile.
“I’m allergic to flowers,” I whispered to Juice.
“You never should have tried to pose like Barbie,” she whispered back, standing up, folding her arms, and attempting a pose of her own, “Oklahoma-style.”
“Hurry up and change!” gushed Borel, shoving me into my little changing chamber with the dress. “Now we’ll see who looks like Barbie, you orange poophead!”
“I’m allergic to pink too!” I cried before she pulled the door shut on me.
“Jolly doesn’t really care that much about Barbie,” I heard Juice saying, “but I bet she can outpose you any day.”
The pressure was making me dizzy as I left my chamber in the dress.
“Here comes Jolly, the next knockout of the doll world.” Juice smirked, still folding her arms and posing “Oklahoma-style.” She and Borel were both sticking out their best hip so far that they seemed to be brandishing the hips towards each other like swords.
“I can’t pose,” I cried, trying to bring their attention away from their apparent hip duel. “I’ve never been so embarrassed since yesterday!” (Yesterday after school I went to the post office to complain about the small amounts of cereal in each box, and all I got for my effort was a lot of laughter and some spitwads the employees made out of stamps.)
“Then I’m still the best Barbie poser in the world!” Borel squealed. “You suck!” She switched hips, folded her hands and pressed them to the cheek opposite her projecting hip. Her pearly-toothed smile reached so high on her face that her upper cheeks covered her eyes. It was the perfect Barbie pose.
“I’m gonna cry,” I whispered to Juice.
“Good. I don’t like you,” she whispered back. Then she added out loud, “You know, the first requirement of Barbie posing is the danger of butt display, since international-level Barbie posers aren’t allowed to wear underwear. That’s what makes it an Olympic-approved sport. But the dress Jolly’s wearing has no threat of butt display.”
“Underwear,” Borel murmured, as if remembering a long-lost love. “Sweet, precious, soothing cotton. Jolly!” Her voice suddenly held a commanding edge. “Get out of that dress and give it to me. I’ve found my calling--well, maybe not my specific calling, but I now know it includes underwear. Thanks for the wake-up call, Juice.”
I ended up buying my flimsy white orphanic-posing costume, for the mere sake of using up the rest of my Monopoly money.
“Funny,” I said, examining my purchase as we left the mall. “This only has two little pearl buttons. I thought it had about six more when I tried it on.” I stopped short of running into a giant carrot made out of icing, which was on display in front of Maze Supermarket. “Hey! So that’s why Borel’s smile was so pearly-toothed! She cheated, and stole my buttons in the process!”
“What does it matter? It’s only a nightgown,” Juice said with a smirk and a shrug.
Snuh.
So we went shopping for no reason in particular, as always. Juice played spectator as I performed Barbie poses for her in the dressing room hallway.
“A little bit too much like that one part of Little Orphan Annie’s dance routine,” she said as I posed in a flimsy white piece that managed to cover the most freckly part of my rear.
“You mean in the movie Annie or the play?” I asked, examining my orphanic pose in the dressing room hallway mirror. “Do my lips look black?”
Juice groaned and slouched in her dressing room spectator seat, muttering, “Here comes Borel, professional Barbie.”
Sure enough, our fake friend Borel flounced up in a dress that closely resembled my comforter in its prefaded stage. “Honestly, Jolly, that’s too simple,” she huffed. “You should try a Barbie pose in something challenging, like flowers.” She pulled a big puffy white dress with bigger, puffier pink flowers out of the dressing room reject pile.
“I’m allergic to flowers,” I whispered to Juice.
“You never should have tried to pose like Barbie,” she whispered back, standing up, folding her arms, and attempting a pose of her own, “Oklahoma-style.”
“Hurry up and change!” gushed Borel, shoving me into my little changing chamber with the dress. “Now we’ll see who looks like Barbie, you orange poophead!”
“I’m allergic to pink too!” I cried before she pulled the door shut on me.
“Jolly doesn’t really care that much about Barbie,” I heard Juice saying, “but I bet she can outpose you any day.”
The pressure was making me dizzy as I left my chamber in the dress.
“Here comes Jolly, the next knockout of the doll world.” Juice smirked, still folding her arms and posing “Oklahoma-style.” She and Borel were both sticking out their best hip so far that they seemed to be brandishing the hips towards each other like swords.
“I can’t pose,” I cried, trying to bring their attention away from their apparent hip duel. “I’ve never been so embarrassed since yesterday!” (Yesterday after school I went to the post office to complain about the small amounts of cereal in each box, and all I got for my effort was a lot of laughter and some spitwads the employees made out of stamps.)
“Then I’m still the best Barbie poser in the world!” Borel squealed. “You suck!” She switched hips, folded her hands and pressed them to the cheek opposite her projecting hip. Her pearly-toothed smile reached so high on her face that her upper cheeks covered her eyes. It was the perfect Barbie pose.
“I’m gonna cry,” I whispered to Juice.
“Good. I don’t like you,” she whispered back. Then she added out loud, “You know, the first requirement of Barbie posing is the danger of butt display, since international-level Barbie posers aren’t allowed to wear underwear. That’s what makes it an Olympic-approved sport. But the dress Jolly’s wearing has no threat of butt display.”
“Underwear,” Borel murmured, as if remembering a long-lost love. “Sweet, precious, soothing cotton. Jolly!” Her voice suddenly held a commanding edge. “Get out of that dress and give it to me. I’ve found my calling--well, maybe not my specific calling, but I now know it includes underwear. Thanks for the wake-up call, Juice.”
I ended up buying my flimsy white orphanic-posing costume, for the mere sake of using up the rest of my Monopoly money.
“Funny,” I said, examining my purchase as we left the mall. “This only has two little pearl buttons. I thought it had about six more when I tried it on.” I stopped short of running into a giant carrot made out of icing, which was on display in front of Maze Supermarket. “Hey! So that’s why Borel’s smile was so pearly-toothed! She cheated, and stole my buttons in the process!”
“What does it matter? It’s only a nightgown,” Juice said with a smirk and a shrug.
Snuh.
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