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
Monday, November 17, 2008
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.”
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