For a while my new friends and their exciting conversations have been distracting Juice and me from pursuing boys, but Juice has developed a crush on a guy she knows nothing about. She keeps insisting that she doesn't need to get to know him because they're soulmates. For that reason she was convinced that he would come to our church’s Christmas Eve service, so she dressed up in blue net tights with a fluffy blue sweater. She is currently having a fanny-free phase, which means she searches for alternatives to the conformative skirts and pants that so many oppressed teen girls wear.
Needless to say, Juice was freezing in church, and her crush never came. Fortunately, a little girl in the pew in front of us had been crawling under every pew in church during the sermon, picking off the old dried gum stuck to the bottom of the pews. The sight made me feel nostaligic for the good old days when Juice and I used to do that. We never made anything with the gum though; we just collected it and molded it into a ball. This little girl remoistened each piece of gum and molded the pieces into a hat, which Juice promptly stole in order to plug up the chilling holes in her net tights. She used the remaining gum to mold mittens for herself while the children’s chorus line was performing the final song of the evening, “Silent Night” to the tune of “Jingle Bell Rock,” complete with high kicks.
As we left church. I avoided commenting on Juice’s fashion choices by saying, “Golly, my hands are cold. Aren’t yours, Supergirl?”
“Yes,” Supergirl said as we walked outside into the biting cold, “but what’s worse is that my eyes froze shut as soon as I stepped outside.”
I ripped Supergirl’s eyelids open so that she could see my latest accomplishment. With my new water-resistant brown coat I have learned to mold and throw snowballs with my elbows. I threw a snowball at Juice just as she was fashioning herself a gumband for her hair.
After a few more snowballs, I said, “ I hope you learned your lesson, Juice.”
“Sure I did,” Juice smirked. “Hey Supergirl, what’s wrong? Your look like your lips fell off.”
“They did,” Supergirl said, using her index and middle fingers as makeshift lips. “I told you I was cold. Oh, here they are.”
She picked up her lips by our church’s outside nativity set, which was chained to the pavement. Juice and I walked over to her because she still seemed pretty upset.
“Why aren’t those people in the stable moving?” she asked, her eyebrows nearly vertical with worry. “Are they frozen? And they’re so small. The cold must have shrunk them!”
“They’re plastic, stupid,” I said.
“Plastic?” she echoed. “I thought we were supposed to recycle plastic. This manger scene just stays here.”
Juice’s eyes lit up at that comment and I’m sure mine did too. An excuse to go to our favorite place on earth, Sink World! (For those of you who live in caves or are Roachel, they have a plastic-melting department and are open on Christmas Eve.)
“You’re right,” I said, patting Supergirl on the shoulder. “Let’s break it up into pieces to recycle.”
“We can have it melted down at Sink World,” Juice said, jutting her thumb over her shoulder.
So we went to Sink World and practiced football huddles over melted plastic. The great thing about Sink World isn’t the sinks, in my opinion, but the store’s pet pigeon, except that on this particular occasion it pooped on both me and Juice. We stayed there until Supergirl complained that the warmth of the melted plastic was making Juice’s gum-mittens darker and stickier, and her hand was stuck to one of them.
When I got home, I let Whitey unwrap my presents. I no longer cared about them. In memory of that great evening I wanted to keep the pigeon poop on my cheek, but it got in my eye. That upset me because I never have problems with my eyes, nor does anyone else I’ve ever known, hence it's a problem inconsistent with real life.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
I'm friends with Supergirl!
One new friendship deserves another. This morning I was running up to Juice and Roachel outside on the street, shouting, “Watch me as I sing, fa la.” I had the most incredible gossip to spout.
“We’re too busy hitchhiking,” Roachel called back to me.
“That’s the only way guys will notice us,” Juice smirked.
“Omigosh!” I squealed, forgetting what I had run to tell them. “Juice, one of your eyes has a smaller iris than the other. What happened?”
“My puppy swallowed one of my eyes and I put one of his in as a substitute.”
“Well anyway, what did I run to tell you? Oh yes--on Friday I found this blond girl all alone out by the stadium right after we lost the game against Monument High, and she was crying. She was like, ‘People think I’m Supergirl because of my ears,’ cuz they were shaped like Ss and stuff. And I was like, ‘There, there,’ all soothing-like and ‘At least I can talk about you to Juice.’ Then she was like, ‘When I’m confused, my ears turn to question marks,’ and I was like, ‘All the more reason to be called Supergirl.’ And she was like protesting, ‘But I don’t want to be Supergirl! I have a sore throat and my mouth is all white and scaly inside!’ So I said, ‘Big deal, I get that way every time I watch a summer camp movie. Maybe you are Supergirl, though. If so, you’ll glow when you really have to go to the bathroom.’ So we sat right there on the steps of the stadium until we both really had to pee.”
I paused to catch my breath.
“So, is she Supergirl, Jolly?” Juice asked.
“Would my nose keep disappearing like this if she wasn’t, Juice?” I asked with a beaming smile. “I’ve discovered her secret, so she’s obviously put a curse on me.”
“Your nose is always disappearing,” said Roachel.
Suddenly my face froze up in that beaming-smile position. I couldn’t lower my eyebrows. I couldn’t stop smiling and my eyelids wouldn’t shut. My face wouldn’t budge even when I put my hand to it. “Omigosh, what’s happening to me?” I said behind my frozen face. “What’s going on?”
“Supergirl must have put a curse on you,” Juice smirked, slapping me on the back to keep my face from staying that way forever.
“I’m growing my bangs out,” said Roachel.
“We’re too busy hitchhiking,” Roachel called back to me.
“That’s the only way guys will notice us,” Juice smirked.
“Omigosh!” I squealed, forgetting what I had run to tell them. “Juice, one of your eyes has a smaller iris than the other. What happened?”
“My puppy swallowed one of my eyes and I put one of his in as a substitute.”
“Well anyway, what did I run to tell you? Oh yes--on Friday I found this blond girl all alone out by the stadium right after we lost the game against Monument High, and she was crying. She was like, ‘People think I’m Supergirl because of my ears,’ cuz they were shaped like Ss and stuff. And I was like, ‘There, there,’ all soothing-like and ‘At least I can talk about you to Juice.’ Then she was like, ‘When I’m confused, my ears turn to question marks,’ and I was like, ‘All the more reason to be called Supergirl.’ And she was like protesting, ‘But I don’t want to be Supergirl! I have a sore throat and my mouth is all white and scaly inside!’ So I said, ‘Big deal, I get that way every time I watch a summer camp movie. Maybe you are Supergirl, though. If so, you’ll glow when you really have to go to the bathroom.’ So we sat right there on the steps of the stadium until we both really had to pee.”
I paused to catch my breath.
“So, is she Supergirl, Jolly?” Juice asked.
“Would my nose keep disappearing like this if she wasn’t, Juice?” I asked with a beaming smile. “I’ve discovered her secret, so she’s obviously put a curse on me.”
“Your nose is always disappearing,” said Roachel.
Suddenly my face froze up in that beaming-smile position. I couldn’t lower my eyebrows. I couldn’t stop smiling and my eyelids wouldn’t shut. My face wouldn’t budge even when I put my hand to it. “Omigosh, what’s happening to me?” I said behind my frozen face. “What’s going on?”
“Supergirl must have put a curse on you,” Juice smirked, slapping me on the back to keep my face from staying that way forever.
“I’m growing my bangs out,” said Roachel.
Monday, November 17, 2008
OMG, I cannot even describe the bittersweetness of this day. Oh wait....
If you thought my last blog post was tragic, HA! That was rumpunch compared to the latest disaster of my sophomore year. I was gradually awaking to the peace of my room this morning, minus my comforter, which my cat had peed on one too many times. I was beneath a fluffy pink blanket, smiling into my drool-bedewed pillow until Mom whispered, “Jolly, I’m sick of massaging your back. Wake up and do mine. I’m going to try to be a teenager today.”
“That’s nice,” I mumbled amidst the comfort of my warm drool. Then my drool was suddenly chilled and I sat up in bed. “What did you say?” I shrieked. “I thought you were just kidding about that! You can’t go back to school with me, Mom. You’ll embarrass me!”
“But I can be a cool babe,” Mom smirked a la Juice. “How many moms do you know that have bathed in a kiddie pool full of banana pudding?”
“I told you, that was a combination of commercial pus and bird poop,” I called after her as she waltzed away reciting the latest quotable punchlines from my favorite show, Comedy Something. I dressed hastily, thinking that if I was ready to leave before Mom was, Dad would just leave her behind. No such luck. The two were in cahoots against me.
Mom ran ahead of me once we reached school grounds. I had hoped she would hang around Dad, but since he was a teacher Mom insisted that would threaten her potential popularity. She ran around outside before school like that bratty puppy I tried to save from my caninivorous neighbor, except that Mom was introducing herself to everyone.
“Hi, Jolly’s mom,” Juice said with a wave. “Hi, Jolly.”
“Out of my way, Mom,” I said, shoving her to one side when she stopped to greet Juice, thus blocking my direct view of my best friend. Mom then ran off and caught her leg on the leg of some Asian girl exactly the same height as Juice and me. Mom’s leg seemed to be stuck. In fact, Mom’s leg, the Asian girl, the top half of Juice’s body, and my head all seemed to be frozen in time, just like in one of those coloring book versions of the cartoon movies where some cute little airplane with a heart of gold saves the world.
I forget how Mom freed herself. What matters is that she dropped out at the end of the day because student-teacher relationships were illegal and she would have cost Dad his prestigious, high-paying job. What matters even more is that Mom, of all people, led Juice and me into friendship with Roachel Sute, the aforementioned Asian girl.
“Mind if I stroke your sleeve?” Roachel asked Juice by way of introduction after being freed from Mom’s leg. “I love yellow polyester.”
“That’s just because she’s your mom.” said Juice. “No one else can stand her. She’s a tolerance teacher; what can you expect?”
I became entranced by Roachel’s long, delicate, carefully-manicured index finger as she stroked Juice’s sleeve. I hadn’t been so fascinated by anything since watching that documentary on the invention of concert tickets. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “Look at that finger. I must have it.”
“But this is the finger I pick my teeth with,” said Roachel, flipping her eyebrows as she gave us a free demonstration. “How can I bear to part with it?”
“You don’t have a choice,” I said. “Juice is in her tough girl phase.”
“That’s right, missies,” Juice grumbled in a low, Rockyesque voice. “If y’all don’t gimme no fingas, I’ll give you my fist.”
“Eek!” Roachel and I shrieked in harmony. “What would we do with an ugly fist like that?”
The bell rang for homeroom, so I grabbed the first opportunity for stalling that I could think of. I grabbed Juice’s ugly left fist with my right hand and we each put our remaining hand on one of Roachel’s shoulders.
“Let’s teach Roachel how to flip over frontwards so she can star in a martial arts movie,” I squealed.
“What’s martial arts?” Roachel asked with a smile.
“Don’t you ever stop asking questions?” I snapped.
She did stop asking questions, by the way, and I've learned so much from her already! namely the following:
Turtle power!
Go Joe!
Raise your hand if you’re sure
I’m half-human and half-pink-cow
Always keep Juice in a plastic container
“That’s nice,” I mumbled amidst the comfort of my warm drool. Then my drool was suddenly chilled and I sat up in bed. “What did you say?” I shrieked. “I thought you were just kidding about that! You can’t go back to school with me, Mom. You’ll embarrass me!”
“But I can be a cool babe,” Mom smirked a la Juice. “How many moms do you know that have bathed in a kiddie pool full of banana pudding?”
“I told you, that was a combination of commercial pus and bird poop,” I called after her as she waltzed away reciting the latest quotable punchlines from my favorite show, Comedy Something. I dressed hastily, thinking that if I was ready to leave before Mom was, Dad would just leave her behind. No such luck. The two were in cahoots against me.
Mom ran ahead of me once we reached school grounds. I had hoped she would hang around Dad, but since he was a teacher Mom insisted that would threaten her potential popularity. She ran around outside before school like that bratty puppy I tried to save from my caninivorous neighbor, except that Mom was introducing herself to everyone.
“Hi, Jolly’s mom,” Juice said with a wave. “Hi, Jolly.”
“Out of my way, Mom,” I said, shoving her to one side when she stopped to greet Juice, thus blocking my direct view of my best friend. Mom then ran off and caught her leg on the leg of some Asian girl exactly the same height as Juice and me. Mom’s leg seemed to be stuck. In fact, Mom’s leg, the Asian girl, the top half of Juice’s body, and my head all seemed to be frozen in time, just like in one of those coloring book versions of the cartoon movies where some cute little airplane with a heart of gold saves the world.
I forget how Mom freed herself. What matters is that she dropped out at the end of the day because student-teacher relationships were illegal and she would have cost Dad his prestigious, high-paying job. What matters even more is that Mom, of all people, led Juice and me into friendship with Roachel Sute, the aforementioned Asian girl.
“Mind if I stroke your sleeve?” Roachel asked Juice by way of introduction after being freed from Mom’s leg. “I love yellow polyester.”
“That’s just because she’s your mom.” said Juice. “No one else can stand her. She’s a tolerance teacher; what can you expect?”
I became entranced by Roachel’s long, delicate, carefully-manicured index finger as she stroked Juice’s sleeve. I hadn’t been so fascinated by anything since watching that documentary on the invention of concert tickets. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “Look at that finger. I must have it.”
“But this is the finger I pick my teeth with,” said Roachel, flipping her eyebrows as she gave us a free demonstration. “How can I bear to part with it?”
“You don’t have a choice,” I said. “Juice is in her tough girl phase.”
“That’s right, missies,” Juice grumbled in a low, Rockyesque voice. “If y’all don’t gimme no fingas, I’ll give you my fist.”
“Eek!” Roachel and I shrieked in harmony. “What would we do with an ugly fist like that?”
The bell rang for homeroom, so I grabbed the first opportunity for stalling that I could think of. I grabbed Juice’s ugly left fist with my right hand and we each put our remaining hand on one of Roachel’s shoulders.
“Let’s teach Roachel how to flip over frontwards so she can star in a martial arts movie,” I squealed.
“What’s martial arts?” Roachel asked with a smile.
“Don’t you ever stop asking questions?” I snapped.
She did stop asking questions, by the way, and I've learned so much from her already! namely the following:
Turtle power!
Go Joe!
Raise your hand if you’re sure
I’m half-human and half-pink-cow
Always keep Juice in a plastic container
Monday, November 10, 2008
Eyes suck!
I think my last blog post well illustrates how crappy my life had become. Not convinced? Here’s another example guaranteed to suck the pity out of anyone.
This weekend I sat at home alone with only a two-story house shielding me from raindrops of various sizes that were skiing healthily down our window panes. At first I had tried whiling away the time with exercise videos but got sick of the parts where the lady told me to try each one. Those moves were way to gymnasticky. So then once I finally found an alternative time-waster my mom came up to me and said, “Jolly, I wish you would stop reading wallpaper sample catalogs.”
“But they’re so easy,” I cried.
“The doctor says if you don’t give it up soon, you may choke because your allergy to dogs may be triggered by the smell of the samples.”
“Oh no! I’d better tell Juice to stop too.”
I dashed out of the house, thinking as I ran to Juice’s, “Maybe if I run fast enough the trees will stop throwing wet leaves at me. I hope it’s not too late!”
Juice met me at her front door in a purple sweatsuit. By that time the rain had stopped.
“Juice, we’ve got to stop reading wallpaper samples!” I panted.
“Just let me change clothes,” she said. “Meet me in the backyard. I want to swing while it’s still muddy outside.”
By the time I reached the backyard, Juice was already waiting for me on the tree swing. She was wearing red pants, a gray turtleneck, and a white leopard-print jacket.
“Why did you have to change your clothes, Juice?” I asked. “Sudden phase change?”
“No. My eyes leaked on the others.”
“Oh no!” I cried, kneeling beside her as she swung back and forth, nearly hitting me in the face with her right hip every swing. “The wallpaper samples have already struck! Is there anything I can do, my dear friend? Need a tissue?”
“It’s no use,” she sniffled as her eyes leaked black goo. “My doctor sent me a generic informational e-mail telling me I’ll have to have eye implants. My only comfort is sitting on this wet swing and pretending I’m being kissed.”
I watched as Juice’s leaking eye goo became clear. “If I were a boy, I’d kiss you, but I have a better idea,” I said. “I could give you my eyes. I’m sick of seeing my ugly face.”
“So am I.” Juice wept. “Plus I’ve always hated your eyes. They look like frogs. Still, I’d rather you be blind then me.”
“Thanks, Juice,” I said, stopping her swing and hugging her. “You can be my special seeing-eye dog, and I’ll give you a biscuit every time you roll over. Whoops!”
I had just realized that my eyes were leaking too.
This weekend I sat at home alone with only a two-story house shielding me from raindrops of various sizes that were skiing healthily down our window panes. At first I had tried whiling away the time with exercise videos but got sick of the parts where the lady told me to try each one. Those moves were way to gymnasticky. So then once I finally found an alternative time-waster my mom came up to me and said, “Jolly, I wish you would stop reading wallpaper sample catalogs.”
“But they’re so easy,” I cried.
“The doctor says if you don’t give it up soon, you may choke because your allergy to dogs may be triggered by the smell of the samples.”
“Oh no! I’d better tell Juice to stop too.”
I dashed out of the house, thinking as I ran to Juice’s, “Maybe if I run fast enough the trees will stop throwing wet leaves at me. I hope it’s not too late!”
Juice met me at her front door in a purple sweatsuit. By that time the rain had stopped.
“Juice, we’ve got to stop reading wallpaper samples!” I panted.
“Just let me change clothes,” she said. “Meet me in the backyard. I want to swing while it’s still muddy outside.”
By the time I reached the backyard, Juice was already waiting for me on the tree swing. She was wearing red pants, a gray turtleneck, and a white leopard-print jacket.
“Why did you have to change your clothes, Juice?” I asked. “Sudden phase change?”
“No. My eyes leaked on the others.”
“Oh no!” I cried, kneeling beside her as she swung back and forth, nearly hitting me in the face with her right hip every swing. “The wallpaper samples have already struck! Is there anything I can do, my dear friend? Need a tissue?”
“It’s no use,” she sniffled as her eyes leaked black goo. “My doctor sent me a generic informational e-mail telling me I’ll have to have eye implants. My only comfort is sitting on this wet swing and pretending I’m being kissed.”
I watched as Juice’s leaking eye goo became clear. “If I were a boy, I’d kiss you, but I have a better idea,” I said. “I could give you my eyes. I’m sick of seeing my ugly face.”
“So am I.” Juice wept. “Plus I’ve always hated your eyes. They look like frogs. Still, I’d rather you be blind then me.”
“Thanks, Juice,” I said, stopping her swing and hugging her. “You can be my special seeing-eye dog, and I’ll give you a biscuit every time you roll over. Whoops!”
I had just realized that my eyes were leaking too.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Butt-stinky day
Today I’m writing this while my cat looks on and scoffs at me like everyone else always does. My new electric chalk, which I’ve been praising so much in previous entries, electrified everyone in geometry class, even me. That was especially strange since I hadn’t even brought the chalk to school; it simply appeared and began writing on the chalkboard by itself: “It’s brave to be nice, expensive to be warm, and cold to be free.” My chalk earned me a detention even though I had no control over what it wrote, because my geometry teacher said its statements were too much like truth, which is banned in Jiltin High because it’s considered to be a form of religion. Fortunately detention is also banned at my school because it hurt some kid’s feelings once.
To cheer myself up I put glue on my band leader’s right hand during practice since he’s always covering his eyes with that hand when he looks in my direction. That went well, but my new fashionable skirt was so tight my butt ripped all the way up to my ribs in self-esteem class. It felt like a zipper unzipping and only hurt a little, but Mrs. Renkin, who is still wearing that frowny-face pin on her shirt every day, was offended by my huge wedgie and blamed the whole class for conforming to such dangerous fashions. She made everyone pay me so I could buy a new butt and she gave me permission to leave school early for butt shopping, but as I was in the hallway getting all my stuff out of my locker two teachers caught up in the winds of socialization saw a red pebble pop out of my head and started calling me Pebbles. I was mortified and jogged unevenly out the door as fast as I could. Then, on my way out, I saw the boy I loved trying to steal another girl’s books. So much for Mort Mervin.
I settled for the cheapest butt I could find since Ope’s Ice Cream Shop had just come out with a new flavor, Snowball Supreme, and I had to try it. Tastes just like snow. Definitely worth every dollar.
Now I think I’ll lick my redyed purple comforter. I hope my cat won’t watch. Mm. Luscious starch.
My cat just told me it peed where I was licking.
To cheer myself up I put glue on my band leader’s right hand during practice since he’s always covering his eyes with that hand when he looks in my direction. That went well, but my new fashionable skirt was so tight my butt ripped all the way up to my ribs in self-esteem class. It felt like a zipper unzipping and only hurt a little, but Mrs. Renkin, who is still wearing that frowny-face pin on her shirt every day, was offended by my huge wedgie and blamed the whole class for conforming to such dangerous fashions. She made everyone pay me so I could buy a new butt and she gave me permission to leave school early for butt shopping, but as I was in the hallway getting all my stuff out of my locker two teachers caught up in the winds of socialization saw a red pebble pop out of my head and started calling me Pebbles. I was mortified and jogged unevenly out the door as fast as I could. Then, on my way out, I saw the boy I loved trying to steal another girl’s books. So much for Mort Mervin.
I settled for the cheapest butt I could find since Ope’s Ice Cream Shop had just come out with a new flavor, Snowball Supreme, and I had to try it. Tastes just like snow. Definitely worth every dollar.
Now I think I’ll lick my redyed purple comforter. I hope my cat won’t watch. Mm. Luscious starch.
My cat just told me it peed where I was licking.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Electric Chalk
I am so serious about electric chalk being the best thing ever invented. No other writing utensil even comes close. I should be the national spokeschick. I want to have electric chalk babies. End of story.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Congrats Juice!
On your speed-ranting prowess!
I'm only cool with your victory because I love the second-place prize.
Electric chalk is the new black.
I'm only cool with your victory because I love the second-place prize.
Electric chalk is the new black.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Witty Day
Today Juice came to school with cheese molded in the shape of hearts stuck all over her dress. I almost didn’t walk home with her, but her mom was baking cookies.
“Cooking the hearts on my dress?” Juice joked as we entered her house.
“Yum yum, fiber,” I said.
These two comments are by far the wittiest things Juice and I have ever said.
“Oh no, it’s Jolly,” Juice’s mom moaned, pulling a sheet of freshly-baked cookies out of the oven. “She always eats all my chocolate chip cookies, the pig.”
“Hey, we cookies are alive! Don’t eat us!” the cookies screamed.
“I love eating alive cookies while watching my sister,” Juice said as her sister wailed, holding a Lick-N-Stick sticker book to her mouth.
“My tongue thtuck!” she cried.
“Too bad she’s still noisy,” I commented, successfully pulling off the second wittiest thing I’ve ever said. After I yanked the kid’s tongue off the book, I asked her if she loved me better than Juice.
“She can’t hear you,” Juice said. “I plugged her ears with cheese hearts from my dress.”
This wit competition was getting tight. Fortunately, Juice’s ex-boyfriend Smarty barged into the house saying, “Juice, I still love you. I brought you this.” He held out a spider in a jar.
“Ugh. I thought I dumped you,” Juice said, sticking out her tongue as we made our way upstairs to practice for our school’s upcoming recital race. Juice and I are going to compete directly against each other in the Academy Award acceptance speech category.
“I wish you hadn’t dumped that nice boy,” Juice’s mom said, stopping us mid-staircase. “That’s a rare species of spider he brought you.”
The answer Juice’s mom got was “Try to guess which one of us is speaking, Jolly or Juice. We’re both taking ventriloquism to improve our speed-ranting techniques.” The truth was that we were speaking in unison, but Juice’s mom didn’t care enough to guess.
“My mouth turned into a triangle during our attempt at ventriloquism,” Juice said as we entered her room and she tried to shut the door on Smarty.
“That’s what you get for dating a geometry wizard,” I scolded her. “You should have dumped him for Joely sooner. Then you would be sick of Joely by now and I could have him.”
“You’re just jealous because I got an A on our first geometry test and you thought it was a snack,” Juice smirked.
“I got to retake the test.”
“At least I dumped him,” Juice said, still smirking and holding Smarty off as he struggled to keep his head and one arm in Juice’s room.
“What a dork!” I laughed.
“It’s a great spider,” he said, responding to my compliment with an optimistic smile. “It even talks!”
“Yo,” said the spider.
“Cooking the hearts on my dress?” Juice joked as we entered her house.
“Yum yum, fiber,” I said.
These two comments are by far the wittiest things Juice and I have ever said.
“Oh no, it’s Jolly,” Juice’s mom moaned, pulling a sheet of freshly-baked cookies out of the oven. “She always eats all my chocolate chip cookies, the pig.”
“Hey, we cookies are alive! Don’t eat us!” the cookies screamed.
“I love eating alive cookies while watching my sister,” Juice said as her sister wailed, holding a Lick-N-Stick sticker book to her mouth.
“My tongue thtuck!” she cried.
“Too bad she’s still noisy,” I commented, successfully pulling off the second wittiest thing I’ve ever said. After I yanked the kid’s tongue off the book, I asked her if she loved me better than Juice.
“She can’t hear you,” Juice said. “I plugged her ears with cheese hearts from my dress.”
This wit competition was getting tight. Fortunately, Juice’s ex-boyfriend Smarty barged into the house saying, “Juice, I still love you. I brought you this.” He held out a spider in a jar.
“Ugh. I thought I dumped you,” Juice said, sticking out her tongue as we made our way upstairs to practice for our school’s upcoming recital race. Juice and I are going to compete directly against each other in the Academy Award acceptance speech category.
“I wish you hadn’t dumped that nice boy,” Juice’s mom said, stopping us mid-staircase. “That’s a rare species of spider he brought you.”
The answer Juice’s mom got was “Try to guess which one of us is speaking, Jolly or Juice. We’re both taking ventriloquism to improve our speed-ranting techniques.” The truth was that we were speaking in unison, but Juice’s mom didn’t care enough to guess.
“My mouth turned into a triangle during our attempt at ventriloquism,” Juice said as we entered her room and she tried to shut the door on Smarty.
“That’s what you get for dating a geometry wizard,” I scolded her. “You should have dumped him for Joely sooner. Then you would be sick of Joely by now and I could have him.”
“You’re just jealous because I got an A on our first geometry test and you thought it was a snack,” Juice smirked.
“I got to retake the test.”
“At least I dumped him,” Juice said, still smirking and holding Smarty off as he struggled to keep his head and one arm in Juice’s room.
“What a dork!” I laughed.
“It’s a great spider,” he said, responding to my compliment with an optimistic smile. “It even talks!”
“Yo,” said the spider.
Friday, October 10, 2008
most heartwarming day EVER
For those of you who were asking, the library nerds never paid enough attention, so eventually we and our emotions took a hike elsewhere and Juice went on to another fashion phase.
This phase is called the watermelon phase, given her preference of colors. She even joked that her skin represented the seeds. She tolerates my teasing, but today another subject made her blow up at me completely, though she retained her bodily form. As we were walking home from school she told me to read the word on her shirt and I flatly refused, saying, “I can’t. I can’t read anything at all.”
“You can’t even read the word on my shirt?” she shouted.
“Of course not.” I smiled and turned away from her. “I’ve forsworn reading. I can’t read.”
“Yes, you can!” she screamed as she ran away from me. “Just because you’ve forgotten what words look like doesn’t mean you can’t read, Jolly!”
“Get a new outfit!” I called after her.
I stormed home from school thinking things like, “Reading is for idiots. Pulling up my skirt is so much more fun.” This would be a good time to point out that I am in a short-skirt phase.
Once at home, I marveled that my skirt didn’t slide down on the couch even when I propped my knees up. I figured that had something to do with my cat sleeping on my feet. After getting through several rounds of my new handheld video game, “Poet Elimination,” and giving up because Wordsworth just wouldn’t die, I opened a book to reassure myself of my immunity to reading, and realized that, shock of all shocks, there were words all over the pages of the book! They were really small. I decided to kiss the book just to see what would happen, and immediately my lips swelled up. “Maybe the book warned about that!” I thought. “Maybe I should read again. I keep thinking about Watermelon Juice.”
“Don’t knock me over, Jolly,” Mom said as I ran out the door at the same time she was entering the house. “I just won a day as prime minister of Canada. You should treat me with more respect and less running.”
“I have to run in this skirt so everyone can see my undies!” I cried.
Of course my best of friends was running toward me as well, consistent with what television commercials lead us to expect from everyday encounters.
“Juice!” I cried. “You really do look like a watermelon! That is so sad!”
“Jolly!” she cried back. “I kissed a book and my lips swelled up!”
We had a long, heartfelt talk about the entire situation up in my room, and Juice agreed to join me in forswearing reading. She added that she would end her watermelon phase if I would get rid of “that hideously ugly outfit.”
“Not till I look good naked, Juice,” I snorted. Then I turned to finish reading a magazine article about how to see your boyfriend in others you love.
“I can see myself in my parents,” I said after explaining the gimmicky premise to Juice. “I guess that means that I’m my own boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend does look like you,” Juice said, patting me on the hand. “But his idiot father wants him to break up with me. I heard them yelling back and forth yesterday as I was working on Joely’s tasting project in his room--you know, the one where he has to go around tasting everything. His father was saying, ‘Your idiot girlfriend made pee come out of the side of my head when she performed brain surgery on me! Plus she put my tie in a waffle iron!’”
I pretended to care, and then said, “There must be a boyfriend out there for me who looks like me.” I remembered a few days back to when my caninivorous neighbor told me I looked like Joely, the gorgeous young whippersnapper hunk she was after. I hoped Juice was picking up on my hints for her to break up with him for my sake.
“Tee hee,” Juice said, then suddenly halted her giggles. “Jolly, why did you let your mom in the room?”
“Somebody left the door open and I don’t know how to close it,” I shrugged as my mom opened my dresser drawers. “I don’t know why she keeps coming in and putting clothes away. Those aren’t even my clothes.”
“That’s right, Jolly, and I’m not even your mother,” she said, turning toward us. She began to glow all over. “I’m an angel, sent by the most-beloved television networks, to provide answers to all your problems. I’ve come to tell you, Juice, not to feel guilty about what you did to your boyfriend’s father. For a happy ending, I’ve arranged for the three of us to be in a toothpaste commercial together.”
“Nice lipstick,” I said to my fake Mom during the spontaneous and ill-prepared commercial shoot. Then I sniffed and embraced her. “I’ll never forget you, fake Mom,” I told her, “or the money I’m making from this commercial.”
This phase is called the watermelon phase, given her preference of colors. She even joked that her skin represented the seeds. She tolerates my teasing, but today another subject made her blow up at me completely, though she retained her bodily form. As we were walking home from school she told me to read the word on her shirt and I flatly refused, saying, “I can’t. I can’t read anything at all.”
“You can’t even read the word on my shirt?” she shouted.
“Of course not.” I smiled and turned away from her. “I’ve forsworn reading. I can’t read.”
“Yes, you can!” she screamed as she ran away from me. “Just because you’ve forgotten what words look like doesn’t mean you can’t read, Jolly!”
“Get a new outfit!” I called after her.
I stormed home from school thinking things like, “Reading is for idiots. Pulling up my skirt is so much more fun.” This would be a good time to point out that I am in a short-skirt phase.
Once at home, I marveled that my skirt didn’t slide down on the couch even when I propped my knees up. I figured that had something to do with my cat sleeping on my feet. After getting through several rounds of my new handheld video game, “Poet Elimination,” and giving up because Wordsworth just wouldn’t die, I opened a book to reassure myself of my immunity to reading, and realized that, shock of all shocks, there were words all over the pages of the book! They were really small. I decided to kiss the book just to see what would happen, and immediately my lips swelled up. “Maybe the book warned about that!” I thought. “Maybe I should read again. I keep thinking about Watermelon Juice.”
“Don’t knock me over, Jolly,” Mom said as I ran out the door at the same time she was entering the house. “I just won a day as prime minister of Canada. You should treat me with more respect and less running.”
“I have to run in this skirt so everyone can see my undies!” I cried.
Of course my best of friends was running toward me as well, consistent with what television commercials lead us to expect from everyday encounters.
“Juice!” I cried. “You really do look like a watermelon! That is so sad!”
“Jolly!” she cried back. “I kissed a book and my lips swelled up!”
We had a long, heartfelt talk about the entire situation up in my room, and Juice agreed to join me in forswearing reading. She added that she would end her watermelon phase if I would get rid of “that hideously ugly outfit.”
“Not till I look good naked, Juice,” I snorted. Then I turned to finish reading a magazine article about how to see your boyfriend in others you love.
“I can see myself in my parents,” I said after explaining the gimmicky premise to Juice. “I guess that means that I’m my own boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend does look like you,” Juice said, patting me on the hand. “But his idiot father wants him to break up with me. I heard them yelling back and forth yesterday as I was working on Joely’s tasting project in his room--you know, the one where he has to go around tasting everything. His father was saying, ‘Your idiot girlfriend made pee come out of the side of my head when she performed brain surgery on me! Plus she put my tie in a waffle iron!’”
I pretended to care, and then said, “There must be a boyfriend out there for me who looks like me.” I remembered a few days back to when my caninivorous neighbor told me I looked like Joely, the gorgeous young whippersnapper hunk she was after. I hoped Juice was picking up on my hints for her to break up with him for my sake.
“Tee hee,” Juice said, then suddenly halted her giggles. “Jolly, why did you let your mom in the room?”
“Somebody left the door open and I don’t know how to close it,” I shrugged as my mom opened my dresser drawers. “I don’t know why she keeps coming in and putting clothes away. Those aren’t even my clothes.”
“That’s right, Jolly, and I’m not even your mother,” she said, turning toward us. She began to glow all over. “I’m an angel, sent by the most-beloved television networks, to provide answers to all your problems. I’ve come to tell you, Juice, not to feel guilty about what you did to your boyfriend’s father. For a happy ending, I’ve arranged for the three of us to be in a toothpaste commercial together.”
“Nice lipstick,” I said to my fake Mom during the spontaneous and ill-prepared commercial shoot. Then I sniffed and embraced her. “I’ll never forget you, fake Mom,” I told her, “or the money I’m making from this commercial.”
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Walks
Juice was moaning at my kitchen table today, saying, “I can’t believe I ate an apple while I’m wearing cherries. This is such an inconsistent phase!”
“I can’t believe you’re studying from a blank notebook,” I said. “Nothing you do is consistent, Juice, but I take French. I’m smart.”
“Are you smart enough to know what a ‘walk’ is?” Juice asked.
“Um, no.”
That’s when Juice introduced me to the world of “walks.”
“A walk is when you walk somewhere, enjoying the outdoors,” she explained as we walked toward Greasy Burgers.
“Makes sense,” I said, pushing the glass door open without using the pushbar. “I love putting my greasy fingerprints on Greasy Burger’s glass doors,” I told her. “That makes sense too. See how logical I am?”
“You wanna talk logical?” Juice smirked. “Look. When I touch this super-size cola painted on the wall, it looks like I’m holding it.”
“Big deal,” I said.
Borel then interrupted us, gushing that the library had received a new supply of French books.
“Floating hearts come out of them when you open them,” she said.
So Juice and I are heading to the library, figuring the floating hearts will visibly express our love for the dreamy nerds who work there. Wish us luck!
“I can’t believe you’re studying from a blank notebook,” I said. “Nothing you do is consistent, Juice, but I take French. I’m smart.”
“Are you smart enough to know what a ‘walk’ is?” Juice asked.
“Um, no.”
That’s when Juice introduced me to the world of “walks.”
“A walk is when you walk somewhere, enjoying the outdoors,” she explained as we walked toward Greasy Burgers.
“Makes sense,” I said, pushing the glass door open without using the pushbar. “I love putting my greasy fingerprints on Greasy Burger’s glass doors,” I told her. “That makes sense too. See how logical I am?”
“You wanna talk logical?” Juice smirked. “Look. When I touch this super-size cola painted on the wall, it looks like I’m holding it.”
“Big deal,” I said.
Borel then interrupted us, gushing that the library had received a new supply of French books.
“Floating hearts come out of them when you open them,” she said.
So Juice and I are heading to the library, figuring the floating hearts will visibly express our love for the dreamy nerds who work there. Wish us luck!
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Puppies my butt!
Last week one of my next-door neighbors put her dog up for adoption after finding out that she had caninivorous tendencies. As soon as I heard the news I ran over to her house and rapped on the door. She wasn’t home, but I came back later and told her that I wanted to adopt her dog.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she exclaimed.
“Me too,” I said. “I love dogs. It’s fashionable.”
She brought me into her house and brought forth an adorably tiny lump of fluff and flesh.
“Here’s my puppy-shnuppy-cuppy-fluppy-yuppy.”
“He’s got dots for eyes!” I squealed.
I toted home my new pet, set him on the floor, and watched him jump up and down in front of me. “I’m so glad I didn’t let her eat you,” I said. “But stop sticking your tongue out at me.”
“Eat me,” barked the puppy.
That was only the beginning of my problems with that stupid dog. He proceeded to reassemble my mom’s nasty-smelling citrosa plants, which I had toppled over and kicked around in hopes that Mom would think the stinky things committed suicide. Then, when I tried to feed the dog, he wouldn’t eat.
“You’re going to eat these shoes whether you like it or not!” I screamed, trying to shove a heel sole into his little mouth.
“You can’t make me,” he barked, backing away from me.
Then I decided to teach him to fly so that he could migrate with those droppings-happy sparrows come winter, but I had no luck. Finally I called up my caninivorous neighbor, who rushed over with a bag of groceries, saying, “So you say he wants to be eaten?”
“Yes!” he barked.
“Munch away,” I panted.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she exclaimed.
“Me too,” I said. “I love dogs. It’s fashionable.”
She brought me into her house and brought forth an adorably tiny lump of fluff and flesh.
“Here’s my puppy-shnuppy-cuppy-fluppy-yuppy.”
“He’s got dots for eyes!” I squealed.
I toted home my new pet, set him on the floor, and watched him jump up and down in front of me. “I’m so glad I didn’t let her eat you,” I said. “But stop sticking your tongue out at me.”
“Eat me,” barked the puppy.
That was only the beginning of my problems with that stupid dog. He proceeded to reassemble my mom’s nasty-smelling citrosa plants, which I had toppled over and kicked around in hopes that Mom would think the stinky things committed suicide. Then, when I tried to feed the dog, he wouldn’t eat.
“You’re going to eat these shoes whether you like it or not!” I screamed, trying to shove a heel sole into his little mouth.
“You can’t make me,” he barked, backing away from me.
Then I decided to teach him to fly so that he could migrate with those droppings-happy sparrows come winter, but I had no luck. Finally I called up my caninivorous neighbor, who rushed over with a bag of groceries, saying, “So you say he wants to be eaten?”
“Yes!” he barked.
“Munch away,” I panted.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Pus = Profit
Last week I was lounging in a yellow inflatable kiddie pool in my back yard one afternoon when Juice, in her prairie dog phase, rose out of the ground and rested her cheek on my legs, which were hanging over the side of the pool. When I asked Juice why she had risen out of the ground she said, “So I can flick pool water at you like so.”
She began flicking, but I smiled with my eyes closed and said, “Sorry, I’m not annoyed. Plus, I can’t feel my legs. I disconnected them.”
“Gross!” Juice shrieked, causing me to open my eyes. “This isn’t pool water! Your legs are pussing! I think some pus went down my shirt!”
“I’m growing pus to sell to florists. I figured if hangnails will grow a decent amount of pus, imagine how much detached legs will grow!”
“What do flower shops want pus for?” Juice asked, gazing over my increasingly pus-filled pool as I stirred my precious white commodity with my hands. “Pus can’t be more valuable than my little bunny Foofoo,” she added, holding up two fingers to form her current finger friend.
“The presence of my pus grows white roses, which are valuable,” I said.
Needless to say, Juice stripped to her bathing suit and joined me. “Golly, Jolly,” she said, sinking her body deeper into the pus. “Detaching one’s legs is fun.”
“Help me detach my arms,” I squealed, glad for the encouragement. After Juice obeyed, I leaned my head back against the poolside and said, “Now I can grow twice as much pus. I’ll be rich! I can finally buy hairless armpits!”
“What, is there a sparrow town meeting up in that tree or something?” Juice asked, tilting back her head as well.
I looked above me. We were in the direct shade of my oak tree, which seemed to be holding more sparrows than leaves. Then my vision was blurred when a white substance other than pus plinked down on my face.
“One bird dropping and you’re scared out of the pool,” Juice smirked at me as we watched from inside my house a few minutes later. The sparrow convention was raining down their droppings all over my yard, contaminating my pus pool beyond repair. “How many birds are there?” Juice asked.
I leaned my reattached arms on the window sill and said, “They’ll be done soon.”
They've been there for SEVEN FRICKIN DAYS!!!!!!!
She began flicking, but I smiled with my eyes closed and said, “Sorry, I’m not annoyed. Plus, I can’t feel my legs. I disconnected them.”
“Gross!” Juice shrieked, causing me to open my eyes. “This isn’t pool water! Your legs are pussing! I think some pus went down my shirt!”
“I’m growing pus to sell to florists. I figured if hangnails will grow a decent amount of pus, imagine how much detached legs will grow!”
“What do flower shops want pus for?” Juice asked, gazing over my increasingly pus-filled pool as I stirred my precious white commodity with my hands. “Pus can’t be more valuable than my little bunny Foofoo,” she added, holding up two fingers to form her current finger friend.
“The presence of my pus grows white roses, which are valuable,” I said.
Needless to say, Juice stripped to her bathing suit and joined me. “Golly, Jolly,” she said, sinking her body deeper into the pus. “Detaching one’s legs is fun.”
“Help me detach my arms,” I squealed, glad for the encouragement. After Juice obeyed, I leaned my head back against the poolside and said, “Now I can grow twice as much pus. I’ll be rich! I can finally buy hairless armpits!”
“What, is there a sparrow town meeting up in that tree or something?” Juice asked, tilting back her head as well.
I looked above me. We were in the direct shade of my oak tree, which seemed to be holding more sparrows than leaves. Then my vision was blurred when a white substance other than pus plinked down on my face.
“One bird dropping and you’re scared out of the pool,” Juice smirked at me as we watched from inside my house a few minutes later. The sparrow convention was raining down their droppings all over my yard, contaminating my pus pool beyond repair. “How many birds are there?” Juice asked.
I leaned my reattached arms on the window sill and said, “They’ll be done soon.”
They've been there for SEVEN FRICKIN DAYS!!!!!!!
Monday, August 11, 2008
My Rankings of Sir Walter Scott novels
Due to popular demand (if by popular you mean Juice, and I do), below is my ranking of Sir Walter Scott novels. As most of you know, he is my second favorite author after Ryan Rhodes, author of Life Pus. I'm still holding out for the movie version of Life Pus, though Rhodes has apparently turned down multiple offers so far. Anywho, the list:
1. Quentin Durward: I just love positive protagonists. None of these modern "life sucks cuz I don't get what I want but at least I found myself along the way" craptagonists. Quentin is optimistic, idealistic, and his cuteness just leaps off the pages. Plus he finds true love. Too bad no GOOD movie was ever made from this story. I did see the old crappy movie version, and am still having anger-management issues as a result of that butchery. A+
2. The Fair Maid of Perth: This book has it all--romance, violence, drama, violence, death, kidnapping, violence, a hero who kicks butt, and a heroine who converts from anti-violence to "Oh, violence has merit." We'll never see a book that awesome again. A+
3. Ivanhoe: Juice will disagree with me because of one or two chapters where she had no idea what was going on, but this was the first Scott book I read so it will always have a special place in my heart. Who needs characterization when you have a medieval setting? A+
4. The Pirate: I loved the characters, loved the ending, and unlike alot of Scott's books that I ranked much lower, this one had a plot that actually moved, and you got where it was going before the midway point of the book. Always a plus. A+
5. Count Robert of Paris: Again, I got interested in this one pretty quickly. It helped that it was shorter and had a medieval setting. Scott does this setting well. A
6. Peveril of the Peak: This is my favorite of Scott's 17th century novels. The plot sounds dumber than it is when I describe it, but it really is a good read. A
7. Waverley: Scott's first novel, and a very good one. The female characters were underdeveloped, and it was a little predictable, but the plot moved well and kept me interested. A
8. Castle Dangerous: I'm a little surprised I placed this book so high. It was Scott's last novel, and I did get a sense he was a little tired of novel writing during the book. It took a little while for the story to get going, and the end seemed rather implausible, but it was a good way to spend a few long flights during vacation. A-
9. Redgauntlet: This book's title makes it sound a lot cooler than it is. It's actually a book that's half made of letters between two best friends who just graduated, and one of them ends up getting kidnapped, so the other one goes on a quest to find him. The epistolary parts get a little cheesy, but I really liked it for all that. I'm a sucker for epistolary cheese, I guess. A-
10. The Talisman: Again, title much cooler than book. The talisman has little to do with the story and was probably just chosen in order to sell the book. There's a ton of Saladin-worship in it, so if you're a Saladin fan you might enjoy it more than I did. Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but I get it already, Saladin is perfect. B+
11. The Betrothed: More boring, romantic girls might like this book alot more than I did. Very cliche plot about a couple in love, but she's betrothed to his uncle. Gee, I don't know where that's going. The medieval period makes up for some. B+
12. A Legend of Montrose: This title is actually accurate. It's a short book, so maybe it would have been ranked higher if the story was more fleshed out. Or it might have been ranked lower, because the story would have moved more slowly. B+
13. The Fortunes of Nigel: I liked this book, but I hated Nigel. Biggest baby ever. Dude couldn't even dress himself, the priss. He didn't deserve a happy ending, but I was happy for him anyway. B
14. Woodstock: Rather contrived plot that takes place during the time of Cromwell. Some good fight scenes and other dramatic scenes. Nothing special. B
15. Anne of Geierstein: This book is one of Scott's weird ones that kind of take place outside of a bigger story, or multiple bigger stories. The action is very sporadic. It's like Heidi with a little political intrigue and war tossed in there. B
16. Guy Mannering: Scott's third book. I liked the characters, but the plot was all over the place. It's like he made it up as he went along, which would be ok if the plot ended up being plausible. He really should have made fewer of his books about kidnappings. B-
17. The Black Dwarf: Like A Legend of Montrose, lengthening this book might have made it better or worse. It was fine for what it was. B-
18. The Heart of Midlothian: This is supposed to be one of Scott's best novels. It was fine, but the female characters were a bit overkill. This one could have been alot shorter. B-
19. The Abbott: I would have liked these characters much better in a different story. Basically they're stuck guarding Mary Queen of Scots the whole time, until she gets taken away to be killed or something. Mmm-kay. B-
Everything below this point should not be read unless you really want to waste your time.
20. Rob Roy: The worst of Scott's titles that were obviously chosen to sell books. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but come on, Rob Roy was a tertiary character in this story at best, and the real plot isn't a speck as interesting as anything Rob Roy was involved in, and the end was such a rip-off. D+
21. The Antiquary: Scott's second novel, written solely for Scott's enjoyment of writing about a character who was a geek about all thing ancient. The plot teetered between boring and nonexistent, but what there was of plot was predictable. D+
22. The Monastery: This book had potential, but it sucked. D+
23. A Tale of Old Mortality: Do not read this book. It was an excellent book up until the last chapter, and then it became the stupidest, most cliche and unsympathetic book ever. You begin the book being set up to think that Old Mortality is a character in the book, and that one of the male characters will become him. Turns out Old Mortality is NOT a character in the book, he was just used to set up the story and has nothing further to do with it, causing most of the interest of the book to be taken away. I hate this book. The ending makes me so angry! F
24. The Bride of Lammermoor: It's pretty much like the opera, only not as good. F
25. Kenilworth: This was praised as one of Scott's best novels. Huh? Why? The only decent thing in it was two tertiary characters. F
26. St. Ronan's Well: Scott's only contemporary novel. No one in the history of mankind liked it, including Scott himself. F-
27: Chronicles of the Canongate: A couple lame short stories. F-
1. Quentin Durward: I just love positive protagonists. None of these modern "life sucks cuz I don't get what I want but at least I found myself along the way" craptagonists. Quentin is optimistic, idealistic, and his cuteness just leaps off the pages. Plus he finds true love. Too bad no GOOD movie was ever made from this story. I did see the old crappy movie version, and am still having anger-management issues as a result of that butchery. A+
2. The Fair Maid of Perth: This book has it all--romance, violence, drama, violence, death, kidnapping, violence, a hero who kicks butt, and a heroine who converts from anti-violence to "Oh, violence has merit." We'll never see a book that awesome again. A+
3. Ivanhoe: Juice will disagree with me because of one or two chapters where she had no idea what was going on, but this was the first Scott book I read so it will always have a special place in my heart. Who needs characterization when you have a medieval setting? A+
4. The Pirate: I loved the characters, loved the ending, and unlike alot of Scott's books that I ranked much lower, this one had a plot that actually moved, and you got where it was going before the midway point of the book. Always a plus. A+
5. Count Robert of Paris: Again, I got interested in this one pretty quickly. It helped that it was shorter and had a medieval setting. Scott does this setting well. A
6. Peveril of the Peak: This is my favorite of Scott's 17th century novels. The plot sounds dumber than it is when I describe it, but it really is a good read. A
7. Waverley: Scott's first novel, and a very good one. The female characters were underdeveloped, and it was a little predictable, but the plot moved well and kept me interested. A
8. Castle Dangerous: I'm a little surprised I placed this book so high. It was Scott's last novel, and I did get a sense he was a little tired of novel writing during the book. It took a little while for the story to get going, and the end seemed rather implausible, but it was a good way to spend a few long flights during vacation. A-
9. Redgauntlet: This book's title makes it sound a lot cooler than it is. It's actually a book that's half made of letters between two best friends who just graduated, and one of them ends up getting kidnapped, so the other one goes on a quest to find him. The epistolary parts get a little cheesy, but I really liked it for all that. I'm a sucker for epistolary cheese, I guess. A-
10. The Talisman: Again, title much cooler than book. The talisman has little to do with the story and was probably just chosen in order to sell the book. There's a ton of Saladin-worship in it, so if you're a Saladin fan you might enjoy it more than I did. Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but I get it already, Saladin is perfect. B+
11. The Betrothed: More boring, romantic girls might like this book alot more than I did. Very cliche plot about a couple in love, but she's betrothed to his uncle. Gee, I don't know where that's going. The medieval period makes up for some. B+
12. A Legend of Montrose: This title is actually accurate. It's a short book, so maybe it would have been ranked higher if the story was more fleshed out. Or it might have been ranked lower, because the story would have moved more slowly. B+
13. The Fortunes of Nigel: I liked this book, but I hated Nigel. Biggest baby ever. Dude couldn't even dress himself, the priss. He didn't deserve a happy ending, but I was happy for him anyway. B
14. Woodstock: Rather contrived plot that takes place during the time of Cromwell. Some good fight scenes and other dramatic scenes. Nothing special. B
15. Anne of Geierstein: This book is one of Scott's weird ones that kind of take place outside of a bigger story, or multiple bigger stories. The action is very sporadic. It's like Heidi with a little political intrigue and war tossed in there. B
16. Guy Mannering: Scott's third book. I liked the characters, but the plot was all over the place. It's like he made it up as he went along, which would be ok if the plot ended up being plausible. He really should have made fewer of his books about kidnappings. B-
17. The Black Dwarf: Like A Legend of Montrose, lengthening this book might have made it better or worse. It was fine for what it was. B-
18. The Heart of Midlothian: This is supposed to be one of Scott's best novels. It was fine, but the female characters were a bit overkill. This one could have been alot shorter. B-
19. The Abbott: I would have liked these characters much better in a different story. Basically they're stuck guarding Mary Queen of Scots the whole time, until she gets taken away to be killed or something. Mmm-kay. B-
Everything below this point should not be read unless you really want to waste your time.
20. Rob Roy: The worst of Scott's titles that were obviously chosen to sell books. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but come on, Rob Roy was a tertiary character in this story at best, and the real plot isn't a speck as interesting as anything Rob Roy was involved in, and the end was such a rip-off. D+
21. The Antiquary: Scott's second novel, written solely for Scott's enjoyment of writing about a character who was a geek about all thing ancient. The plot teetered between boring and nonexistent, but what there was of plot was predictable. D+
22. The Monastery: This book had potential, but it sucked. D+
23. A Tale of Old Mortality: Do not read this book. It was an excellent book up until the last chapter, and then it became the stupidest, most cliche and unsympathetic book ever. You begin the book being set up to think that Old Mortality is a character in the book, and that one of the male characters will become him. Turns out Old Mortality is NOT a character in the book, he was just used to set up the story and has nothing further to do with it, causing most of the interest of the book to be taken away. I hate this book. The ending makes me so angry! F
24. The Bride of Lammermoor: It's pretty much like the opera, only not as good. F
25. Kenilworth: This was praised as one of Scott's best novels. Huh? Why? The only decent thing in it was two tertiary characters. F
26. St. Ronan's Well: Scott's only contemporary novel. No one in the history of mankind liked it, including Scott himself. F-
27: Chronicles of the Canongate: A couple lame short stories. F-
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Vicious Pirate Trainees Suck!
We've ended our stint as Vicious Pirate Trainees mainly because they changed the dress code. The bigwigs kept the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt but replaced the rest of the wardrobe with khaki shorts. I’m all for wearing khaki shorts on my butt, but wearing additional pairs as earrings, bracelets, a hat, a belt, and a necklace was a bit much for me.
So today I was sitting in the park with my mother. She was sitting on the seat of a park bench, and I was trying to balance on the seat’s back so as to distance myself from her as we read separately. I managed to keep my balance by fitting my toes into a pair of paper cups littered beneath the bench. While we were reading, along came Borel.
“Hi Jolly and Mrs. Rogers,” she gushed. “You look like you’re in uncomfortable positions.”
Mom, whose legs were crossed several times over, said, “I really have to pee, but I’m trying to shrink these pants.”
“Shrink your pants? You’re too old for such trends!” Borel squealed. “You’re aging as we speak!”
“But according to The Idiot’s Guide to Fake Youth, age can be fought,” Mom replied with a wrinkle-ridden smile. “Not with scalpels or acids, but with meditation and a nighttime neck brace named Fluffy.”
“Ok, I won’t say anything. Anyway . . . Jolly, you’re reading Pork Hockey? Wasn’t that book banned by the Vicious Pirate Trainee Association?” Borel gasped, looking at me.
“I don’t care,” I said, leaving my uncomfortable seat. “I find it to be a very moving account of a girl who’s a loser but finds that she has a gift for playing hockey as long as a frozen pork chop is used as the puck, which conflicts with her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. Besides, I’ve quit the Vicious Pirate Trainees.”
“Oh pooh!” she gushed. “No real Vicious Pirate Trainee would ever quit. Look at me. I’ve never taken off this red shirt since I joined. It may have cost me my friends, what with the odor and the festering sores, but I’ve been elevated to the rank of hypnotee. I gape like a big screen actress and my hands take on a life of their own.”
“Don’t listen to Borel, Jolly,” said Mom. “Vicious Pirate Trainees may have clout and fan clubs, but they can’t fight age. Here.” She held open her book for me to see. “Gaze at these words of wisdom and--oh wait, this is a blank page for notes.”
“Borel, wait,” I said as she began to turn and strut away. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather be a Vicious Pirate Trainee than bond with my mom. Help!”
“Forget it,” she scoffed. “You had your chance. I’m going tooth shopping, and then I’m going to convince the association never to readmit you!”
We watched Borel strut away singing.
“Looks like she’s composing a song about your failures as a Vicious Pirate Trainee,” Mom said to me. “This is all my fault, isn’t it sweetie? I feel ready to cry. Oh wait . . . no, that’s just gas. Oops. That one didn’t sound too good.”
I regained my uncomfortable seat and edged further from my gaseous mom as she muttered, “Must shrink pants! Must not wet pants beforehand. Now my slimmed neck is sinking into my lungs. Aack! The trials of youth!”
“Ha!” I said, my face resting on my palm. “You think you’ve got problems? I have a wedgie.”
So today I was sitting in the park with my mother. She was sitting on the seat of a park bench, and I was trying to balance on the seat’s back so as to distance myself from her as we read separately. I managed to keep my balance by fitting my toes into a pair of paper cups littered beneath the bench. While we were reading, along came Borel.
“Hi Jolly and Mrs. Rogers,” she gushed. “You look like you’re in uncomfortable positions.”
Mom, whose legs were crossed several times over, said, “I really have to pee, but I’m trying to shrink these pants.”
“Shrink your pants? You’re too old for such trends!” Borel squealed. “You’re aging as we speak!”
“But according to The Idiot’s Guide to Fake Youth, age can be fought,” Mom replied with a wrinkle-ridden smile. “Not with scalpels or acids, but with meditation and a nighttime neck brace named Fluffy.”
“Ok, I won’t say anything. Anyway . . . Jolly, you’re reading Pork Hockey? Wasn’t that book banned by the Vicious Pirate Trainee Association?” Borel gasped, looking at me.
“I don’t care,” I said, leaving my uncomfortable seat. “I find it to be a very moving account of a girl who’s a loser but finds that she has a gift for playing hockey as long as a frozen pork chop is used as the puck, which conflicts with her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. Besides, I’ve quit the Vicious Pirate Trainees.”
“Oh pooh!” she gushed. “No real Vicious Pirate Trainee would ever quit. Look at me. I’ve never taken off this red shirt since I joined. It may have cost me my friends, what with the odor and the festering sores, but I’ve been elevated to the rank of hypnotee. I gape like a big screen actress and my hands take on a life of their own.”
“Don’t listen to Borel, Jolly,” said Mom. “Vicious Pirate Trainees may have clout and fan clubs, but they can’t fight age. Here.” She held open her book for me to see. “Gaze at these words of wisdom and--oh wait, this is a blank page for notes.”
“Borel, wait,” I said as she began to turn and strut away. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather be a Vicious Pirate Trainee than bond with my mom. Help!”
“Forget it,” she scoffed. “You had your chance. I’m going tooth shopping, and then I’m going to convince the association never to readmit you!”
We watched Borel strut away singing.
“Looks like she’s composing a song about your failures as a Vicious Pirate Trainee,” Mom said to me. “This is all my fault, isn’t it sweetie? I feel ready to cry. Oh wait . . . no, that’s just gas. Oops. That one didn’t sound too good.”
I regained my uncomfortable seat and edged further from my gaseous mom as she muttered, “Must shrink pants! Must not wet pants beforehand. Now my slimmed neck is sinking into my lungs. Aack! The trials of youth!”
“Ha!” I said, my face resting on my palm. “You think you’ve got problems? I have a wedgie.”
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Vicious Pirate Trainees
Summer hasn't been all fun and games for Juice and me. One day we were just walking along the outskirts of a cemetery when little stars started bubbling out of the many scrapes on our arms. (The outskirts of that cemetery were a pretty hazardous trek, let me tell you.) Our predicament outraged me because it was so unrealistic, and I am consistently a realistic and logical person. Juice, currently in her Jewish gay man phase, said we were at fault for examining our nails so much, which prevented us from watching where we stepped. My response was to puke my grape popsicle all over my shirt.
When we reached my house we tried to scrub off the star-bubbling scrapes in the kitchen sink, but the boiling water splashed soap in Juice’s eyes, making her mad. Our efforts were only partly successful; the stars stopped bubbling for a while, but the scrapes remained. We sat outside on my front doorstep, hoping the scrapes would fade in the sun. Waiting for scrapes to fade away makes people pensive, so before long Juice said, “You know, we should stop slouching so much. We might suffocate and die.”
I didn’t respond. I was privately wishing Juice would stop scraping out her earwax with her fingers. I looked away from her and promptly groaned. “Oh no. Here comes Borel, trotting up to us like a twenty-year-old gymnast. Aren’t you annoyed that she copies off of your patented tendency toward stupid phases?”
“At least she has geeky boots,” said Juice with a smirk.
“Why the frowns?” Borel gushed. I don’t think we were frowning.
Suddenly I recognized her outfit: the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt, the blank name tag, the yellow tablecloths tied around her waist and head, the black pants, the onion ring jewelry, and the shoulder sling-shot. “Borel!” I gasped. “Are you one of those Vicious Pirate Trainees?”
“The ones that put glue on people’s toilet seats?” Juice asked.
“But of course!” Borel gushed. “I’ve also stolen people’s underwear for my own personal use, and killed a minor celebrity!”
“And probably put itchy powder in a hamburger!” Juice called after Borel as she strutted away. “Ooh, I’m so impressed.”
“Those stars are coming out of my cuts again,” I sighed, holding up my hands.
“I’ve always wanted to glue people’s butts to things like toilets,” Juice responded.
So we are Vicious Pirate Trainees for the time being, at least until Juice progresses to her next phase. We had to cook until we were promoted, but fortunately all our ingredients were stolen: suede shoes, pooper-scoopers, bumper stickers, etc. After a week of kitchen duty we got to moon people entering the cemetery, but Juice could never do it right. She blamed it on a force of habit; she wasn’t used to pulling down her pants without pooping or peeing, so her mooning victims got an extra bonus.
When we reached my house we tried to scrub off the star-bubbling scrapes in the kitchen sink, but the boiling water splashed soap in Juice’s eyes, making her mad. Our efforts were only partly successful; the stars stopped bubbling for a while, but the scrapes remained. We sat outside on my front doorstep, hoping the scrapes would fade in the sun. Waiting for scrapes to fade away makes people pensive, so before long Juice said, “You know, we should stop slouching so much. We might suffocate and die.”
I didn’t respond. I was privately wishing Juice would stop scraping out her earwax with her fingers. I looked away from her and promptly groaned. “Oh no. Here comes Borel, trotting up to us like a twenty-year-old gymnast. Aren’t you annoyed that she copies off of your patented tendency toward stupid phases?”
“At least she has geeky boots,” said Juice with a smirk.
“Why the frowns?” Borel gushed. I don’t think we were frowning.
Suddenly I recognized her outfit: the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt, the blank name tag, the yellow tablecloths tied around her waist and head, the black pants, the onion ring jewelry, and the shoulder sling-shot. “Borel!” I gasped. “Are you one of those Vicious Pirate Trainees?”
“The ones that put glue on people’s toilet seats?” Juice asked.
“But of course!” Borel gushed. “I’ve also stolen people’s underwear for my own personal use, and killed a minor celebrity!”
“And probably put itchy powder in a hamburger!” Juice called after Borel as she strutted away. “Ooh, I’m so impressed.”
“Those stars are coming out of my cuts again,” I sighed, holding up my hands.
“I’ve always wanted to glue people’s butts to things like toilets,” Juice responded.
So we are Vicious Pirate Trainees for the time being, at least until Juice progresses to her next phase. We had to cook until we were promoted, but fortunately all our ingredients were stolen: suede shoes, pooper-scoopers, bumper stickers, etc. After a week of kitchen duty we got to moon people entering the cemetery, but Juice could never do it right. She blamed it on a force of habit; she wasn’t used to pulling down her pants without pooping or peeing, so her mooning victims got an extra bonus.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Summertime
This summer has been a blast so far. I've been basking in the sun so long my arms developed super solar powers, enabling me to stretch them far enough to touch my house from our backyard hammock. Juice has been coming by every day, now in her “Save Saturn” phase complete with a T-shirt she had designed herself, depicting a cartoonish version of Saturn. I told her the shirt was ugly.
“Nothing compares to my magical powers from the solar rays,” I said to her one day after rejecting her suggestion of a round of potato golf. “I can change the colors of the sky and the house. Look, I even made a rosebush appear and a window by the back door vanish. I’m awesome all by myself. Who needs guys like Jiff and Smarty?” (Smarty is Juice’s equivalent to Jiff.)
“Not me,” said Juice, standing up and turning away from me. “However, I intend to go to King’s Opinion with them, let them pay for everything, and then ditch them cruelly. Have fun being uncruel to dorky guys . . . or would you like to come, Jolly?”
“Must come!” I panted. “Must be cruel to dorks!”
We've gone to King’s Opinion with those guys like twenty times this summer, and they just don't get it. Every time we went with them we ditched them, and we told them that we intended to do as much.
“They’re so stupid,” Juice laughed with me as we were visibly ditching them on one such occasion.
“We’re never going to sincerely enjoy their company.” I laughed loud enough for Jiff and Smarty to hear.
“Who’s going to pay for this floating popcorn, Smarty?” I could hear Jiff ask.
“I don’t have any money left,” Smarty said. “No wonder they keep ditching us.”
You see? I told you they don't get it!
“Nothing compares to my magical powers from the solar rays,” I said to her one day after rejecting her suggestion of a round of potato golf. “I can change the colors of the sky and the house. Look, I even made a rosebush appear and a window by the back door vanish. I’m awesome all by myself. Who needs guys like Jiff and Smarty?” (Smarty is Juice’s equivalent to Jiff.)
“Not me,” said Juice, standing up and turning away from me. “However, I intend to go to King’s Opinion with them, let them pay for everything, and then ditch them cruelly. Have fun being uncruel to dorky guys . . . or would you like to come, Jolly?”
“Must come!” I panted. “Must be cruel to dorks!”
We've gone to King’s Opinion with those guys like twenty times this summer, and they just don't get it. Every time we went with them we ditched them, and we told them that we intended to do as much.
“They’re so stupid,” Juice laughed with me as we were visibly ditching them on one such occasion.
“We’re never going to sincerely enjoy their company.” I laughed loud enough for Jiff and Smarty to hear.
“Who’s going to pay for this floating popcorn, Smarty?” I could hear Jiff ask.
“I don’t have any money left,” Smarty said. “No wonder they keep ditching us.”
You see? I told you they don't get it!
Friday, May 9, 2008
My day? MY DAY??????
My new bust-enhancing backpack is making me feel confident enough to flirt with the flowers, which in turn has made the sky say to me, “I think I’m gonna puke.”
Today, a cheerful bird’s song that I heard from the window I sat near during third period helped me to forget that my desk had been stolen. That in turn inspired me to barge into band practice despite being expelled for telling the director what he already knew--that no one loved him. He looked pretty downcast and desolate when I snatched one guy-girl’s flute out of his/her hands and made it smile in tune to the bird’s song.
In our one o’clock study hall together, Jiff was smacking me so hard my paper airplane hat flew off my head.
Walking home with Juice, we showed off our bust-enhancing backpacks to a scurvy sky. We could actually hear it gag.
Coming home wasn’t too pleasant, though. I found Mom spray painting light blue over the crescent moon I had carved in our coffee table. She threatened me at vacuum-point to hop up the stepladder and clean the chandelier, all while balancing on one leg. Fortunately she rewarded me with a trendy glue pencil, although inhaling the pencil made me as pukey as the sky, so I laid my face down in my glue writing before it dried on my homework. I can still see the freckles I had to leave on that page as I tore my face away.
Today, a cheerful bird’s song that I heard from the window I sat near during third period helped me to forget that my desk had been stolen. That in turn inspired me to barge into band practice despite being expelled for telling the director what he already knew--that no one loved him. He looked pretty downcast and desolate when I snatched one guy-girl’s flute out of his/her hands and made it smile in tune to the bird’s song.
In our one o’clock study hall together, Jiff was smacking me so hard my paper airplane hat flew off my head.
Walking home with Juice, we showed off our bust-enhancing backpacks to a scurvy sky. We could actually hear it gag.
Coming home wasn’t too pleasant, though. I found Mom spray painting light blue over the crescent moon I had carved in our coffee table. She threatened me at vacuum-point to hop up the stepladder and clean the chandelier, all while balancing on one leg. Fortunately she rewarded me with a trendy glue pencil, although inhaling the pencil made me as pukey as the sky, so I laid my face down in my glue writing before it dried on my homework. I can still see the freckles I had to leave on that page as I tore my face away.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Messy entry
In lieu of a real blog post, I've decided to type alot of gibberish to fill up my life's blank pages.
patronizing Philadelphia cheesecake sausage lamb ham entry face milk turtles potato pancakes Joy lemon eight force fart cake dial nose error pizza pencil twelve cup camera lotion monitor freckles Juice breath skin elves Brian nerd cheeks butt neck knees wrist computer post-its Brittany Spears fourteen paper stapler garbage Paris Hilton Drudge Report earrings bangles mortician fingers typing numbers calendar spitwad dollar sign money friction plethora ludicrous asterisk tennis makeshift airplane rocket buttons glue Jiff necklace question worthy enemy retard tower yuppie underwear ignorant opera palace arrogant saucy depth forks spoons grace head Jolly ketchup lipstick xanthophyll zethyr cookies varnish baby nuggets unworthy machinery acorns math studies books cartilege depression ring alchohol purple monky dishwasher twirly maggot twin potato twilight crane
patronizing Philadelphia cheesecake sausage lamb ham entry face milk turtles potato pancakes Joy lemon eight force fart cake dial nose error pizza pencil twelve cup camera lotion monitor freckles Juice breath skin elves Brian nerd cheeks butt neck knees wrist computer post-its Brittany Spears fourteen paper stapler garbage Paris Hilton Drudge Report earrings bangles mortician fingers typing numbers calendar spitwad dollar sign money friction plethora ludicrous asterisk tennis makeshift airplane rocket buttons glue Jiff necklace question worthy enemy retard tower yuppie underwear ignorant opera palace arrogant saucy depth forks spoons grace head Jolly ketchup lipstick xanthophyll zethyr cookies varnish baby nuggets unworthy machinery acorns math studies books cartilege depression ring alchohol purple monky dishwasher twirly maggot twin potato twilight crane
Friday, February 15, 2008
Valentine's Day
Yesterday my locker vomited out not only my spare fleas but an envelope. Juice was in the middle of saying that maybe if she wasn’t in her pretty-in-pink hunchback phase she might be able to get a date. I was saying, “No way. You’re too ugly. Unless you won some beauty pageant for pear-shaped chics you couldn’t get a date with a chicken muscle. Hark! What’s this?” I picked up the vomited envelope and opened it.
“Maybe if my lipstick didn’t always match my clothes--” Juice was babbling on.
Inside the envelope was a valentine from Brat, the school’s most logical dreamboat and captain of the fishing team, saying that my face was as lovely as a basketball with peas for eyes and that he loved me so much he painted half the school yellow. “I hate yellow,” I squealed, hugging my inflated rubber cheeks with my hands, “but I love him! Hearts are floating around my head, Juice!”
“Maybe if I smile provocatively at him he’ll love me too,” she said, straightening her phase-enforced hunchback posture. “I’m desperate.”
Always true to my best friend, I met up with Brat outside after school and told him, “Brat, I love your card, but you’ll have to share your love with Juice too.” I was confident enough in his logical love to manipulate it in that way.
“Are you nuts?” he said, backing into a protruding brick corner of the building. “That pretty-in-pink hunchback? I’d rather carry books in my fly. Observe!” With that he snatched the valentine from my hand, shoved his books in said fly, and ran away from me, saying, “This is uncomfortable. Hey you! Girl with the nice butt! This is for you. I hope you like guys who wear purple pants.”
“He unzipped his fly sorta-kinda in your presence,” Juice commented. “At least you can remember.”
I told her to shut up. What made matters worse, once I got home I found that Mom had gotten her hair redone, so my sobbing refrain became: “Your hair looks like snakes, and why is my stupid cat smiling? I should have left it at the pawn shop. Oh Mommy, Brat loved me for a moment.”
“I’m sick of snake jokes,” Mom said. “I like my hair.”
Just then the doorbell rang, but it was only my nerdy boyfriend.
“You’re not Brat,” I told him. “Leave me alone, Jiff.”
“I don’t know how,” he shrugged. “But guess what? I got my palms read today and I’m going to win a shoelace! Why don’t we hitchhike our way to the Shoelace Lovers Festival downtown? They have shoe-flavored ice cream floats.”
“With shoelace straws?” I exclaimed. “I’m so there!”
So we spent the evening having staring contests over a shared shoe-flavored float until my eyes dried up. I think Jiff was spitting into the float and I was sucking up his spit.
“Maybe if my lipstick didn’t always match my clothes--” Juice was babbling on.
Inside the envelope was a valentine from Brat, the school’s most logical dreamboat and captain of the fishing team, saying that my face was as lovely as a basketball with peas for eyes and that he loved me so much he painted half the school yellow. “I hate yellow,” I squealed, hugging my inflated rubber cheeks with my hands, “but I love him! Hearts are floating around my head, Juice!”
“Maybe if I smile provocatively at him he’ll love me too,” she said, straightening her phase-enforced hunchback posture. “I’m desperate.”
Always true to my best friend, I met up with Brat outside after school and told him, “Brat, I love your card, but you’ll have to share your love with Juice too.” I was confident enough in his logical love to manipulate it in that way.
“Are you nuts?” he said, backing into a protruding brick corner of the building. “That pretty-in-pink hunchback? I’d rather carry books in my fly. Observe!” With that he snatched the valentine from my hand, shoved his books in said fly, and ran away from me, saying, “This is uncomfortable. Hey you! Girl with the nice butt! This is for you. I hope you like guys who wear purple pants.”
“He unzipped his fly sorta-kinda in your presence,” Juice commented. “At least you can remember.”
I told her to shut up. What made matters worse, once I got home I found that Mom had gotten her hair redone, so my sobbing refrain became: “Your hair looks like snakes, and why is my stupid cat smiling? I should have left it at the pawn shop. Oh Mommy, Brat loved me for a moment.”
“I’m sick of snake jokes,” Mom said. “I like my hair.”
Just then the doorbell rang, but it was only my nerdy boyfriend.
“You’re not Brat,” I told him. “Leave me alone, Jiff.”
“I don’t know how,” he shrugged. “But guess what? I got my palms read today and I’m going to win a shoelace! Why don’t we hitchhike our way to the Shoelace Lovers Festival downtown? They have shoe-flavored ice cream floats.”
“With shoelace straws?” I exclaimed. “I’m so there!”
So we spent the evening having staring contests over a shared shoe-flavored float until my eyes dried up. I think Jiff was spitting into the float and I was sucking up his spit.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
winter slump
I still can’t seem to get that plaster out of my mouth, but I can talk more coherently now. I was complaining to Mom today that my bath towel kept turning into a giant sponge. Mom just told me to go jump over a candlestick. Then she made fun of my robe and how the sponge towel was wrapped around my head, saying “You can wear that to school on Middle East day.” Little does she know my robe and towel happen to be the latest fashion trend from the Parisian dumpsters, and I have every intention of wearing that ensemble to school.
I stormed into the living room, where Dad was doing arm curls with a piece of firewood. After he strained his back, Mom gave him an “I told you so” slap in the face, and to vent his feelings he started pinching my cheek like a maniac. I told him to stop and he said, “Call me a maniac one more time and this cheek comes off and goes into my mouth.”
“Stop making fun of me, you badly-dressed weasel!” I screamed.
“She has no taste in clothes, honey,” Dad said to Mom.
“Maybe she hasn’t tasted enough clothes to be able to distinguish,” said Mom, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s feed her.”
Then my parents changed their minds and once again decided to eat me for a snack.
“Not with my turban,” I pleaded.
“Go get the pepper, honey,” Mom told Dad. “We’re going to have a feast. I’ll toss her in the fire.”
After they tasted me and whined that I tasted like cafeteria water, they decided to make me smile through my flute instead, while they sang, “One hundred gospel greats on the wall, one hundred gospel greats, sing one badly, drive people madly . . . .” Aargh! I still have that in my head!
Later I bit my tongue so hard while trying to pull a s’more apart that I cried.
While typing this up, the two halves of my brain have been fighting with each other.
Right Brain: I rule because I revel in mushy love.
Left Brain: I rule because I can calculate my superiority.
They both shut up once I turned on my new blow dryer. It’s so strong it can shove my mouth to one side.
I stormed into the living room, where Dad was doing arm curls with a piece of firewood. After he strained his back, Mom gave him an “I told you so” slap in the face, and to vent his feelings he started pinching my cheek like a maniac. I told him to stop and he said, “Call me a maniac one more time and this cheek comes off and goes into my mouth.”
“Stop making fun of me, you badly-dressed weasel!” I screamed.
“She has no taste in clothes, honey,” Dad said to Mom.
“Maybe she hasn’t tasted enough clothes to be able to distinguish,” said Mom, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s feed her.”
Then my parents changed their minds and once again decided to eat me for a snack.
“Not with my turban,” I pleaded.
“Go get the pepper, honey,” Mom told Dad. “We’re going to have a feast. I’ll toss her in the fire.”
After they tasted me and whined that I tasted like cafeteria water, they decided to make me smile through my flute instead, while they sang, “One hundred gospel greats on the wall, one hundred gospel greats, sing one badly, drive people madly . . . .” Aargh! I still have that in my head!
Later I bit my tongue so hard while trying to pull a s’more apart that I cried.
While typing this up, the two halves of my brain have been fighting with each other.
Right Brain: I rule because I revel in mushy love.
Left Brain: I rule because I can calculate my superiority.
They both shut up once I turned on my new blow dryer. It’s so strong it can shove my mouth to one side.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
post-Christmas stuff
Today was my first day back at school after break. Mrs. Sute (whom everyone laughs at because her name is Polly Esther) gave a bowl-cut to some guy who sat in front of me in tolerance class. She was scolding him, “Young man, the next time you don’t want the sides of your head shaved, try not making fun of my outfit.” She was wearing a bright pink suit, but I didn’t laugh much because I was still daydreaming about my vacation.
I still can't believe that after all the Christmas shopping I did, all I bought were some empty cardboard boxes and a mini-breadstick that I had mistaken for a toaster pastry crescent roll. Then on Christmas Eve I got my holidays confused and dressed up for Halloween instead. My parents and I spent Christmas Eve making dozens of hamburgers, absorbing the grease from the hamburgers by covering them with dish soap. I cleverly wrapped up my radio as a gift so Mom couldn’t tell I was listening to ButtLovers, whom she hates. Dad tried to hang foil stars in the window like he does every year, but I had deliberately moved the Christmas tree in the way of the window--tee hee! After Christmas I used our greeting card collection as toilet paper, but Mom made me wash them all and hang them out to dry.
The only interesting gift I received for Christmas is a lip liner pencil that I can also use as an eraser, but it makes my armpits sweat so much I've been constantly drying them by our fireplace. That's ok; I've been using my time by the fire to practice clawing like a cat in the absence of Whitey, whom I had to pawn off in order to buy presents. I'm getting pretty good at clawing too, though it keeps Jiff from trying to kiss me.
I still can't believe that after all the Christmas shopping I did, all I bought were some empty cardboard boxes and a mini-breadstick that I had mistaken for a toaster pastry crescent roll. Then on Christmas Eve I got my holidays confused and dressed up for Halloween instead. My parents and I spent Christmas Eve making dozens of hamburgers, absorbing the grease from the hamburgers by covering them with dish soap. I cleverly wrapped up my radio as a gift so Mom couldn’t tell I was listening to ButtLovers, whom she hates. Dad tried to hang foil stars in the window like he does every year, but I had deliberately moved the Christmas tree in the way of the window--tee hee! After Christmas I used our greeting card collection as toilet paper, but Mom made me wash them all and hang them out to dry.
The only interesting gift I received for Christmas is a lip liner pencil that I can also use as an eraser, but it makes my armpits sweat so much I've been constantly drying them by our fireplace. That's ok; I've been using my time by the fire to practice clawing like a cat in the absence of Whitey, whom I had to pawn off in order to buy presents. I'm getting pretty good at clawing too, though it keeps Jiff from trying to kiss me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
