Wii Wii Wii All the Way Home

This is the first time I've ever gone out on (intoning deep, ominous voice) Blaaaack Friiiiday. But Rob wants a Wii for Xmas and they are difficult (read: impossible) to find, even though they came out this time last year. My neighbor called the local Game Stop and was told that they would have some Friday. So off I went, at 6:45am, knowing that I would probably be too late, since the store opened at 7:00.

Sure enough, there was a line already, but only about 20 people, not hundreds like there were at Best Buy. My neighbor's husband, Kevin, was in the first dozen or so. I decided to take my chances. I got in line, then called Kevin on his cell phone and asked, "Why do you have a coffee cup in your back pocket?" It was fun to watch him spin around like the target in a spy thriller movie. He laughed and replied, "It has always been my dream to watch the sun come up over Wal-Mart." (Game Stop is in the same strip mall).

So the Game Stop dude comes out and he's all like, "We're going to have two cashiers. Pick a line and we'll get your stuff." Someone shouted out, asking how many Wiis (Wii's?) they had. Mr. Game Stop, being all secretive and feeling important replied, "We can't tell you. Security reasons." Like what security reasons? Did he think we were going to storm the counter? Take the employees hostage? Fight over video game systems? Rob them? Cut the line?

Anyway, the doors opened and in we went. I chose a line and waited. And waited. A woman in the other line kept yelling out, asking how many Wii's they had. Finally the Game Stop dude said they had received in the "upper teens." At that time, I was eleventh in my line. Oy. Things not looking good. In the corner was a closed-circuit TV which showed what was behind the counter and I could see the stacks of Wii's dwindling.

My line was not moving at all because the first people to the counter had questions. Now, please, could they have not asked questions the day before? Or the month before? No. They have to ask questions NOW. Lots of questions. Finally my lined moved...slowly. The lady asked again, "How many?" Mr. Game Stop said seven left. I was still pretty far back in my line.

Finally I was third in my line. The guy at the counter? The electronic strip on his credit card didn't work. OMG are you kidding me? Mr. Game Stop had to go find the slips and machine to make a manual impression of the card. While that was going on, the other Game Stop dude yelled that there was ONE WII LEFT. And I was second in my line.

The guy in the other line was cashing out. I looked at at the youngish man in front of me and said, "I guess that one's yours." He replied, "I'm not here for a Wii. Do you want to get in front of me?" At that point I fainted and the rescue squad had to be called. No, at that point I kissed him and he slapped me. No, really, at that point I jumped on the counter and danced.

Actually, I got in front of the very nice man and told my cashier that I wanted that Wii, and the Wii Sports game, and two of the thingies that attach to the end. He didn't know where the attachment thingies were so I was pointing them out, on a rack behind the other line. He went over to get them and left my Wii on the floor behind the counter. I leaned across to the other register, where the man was cashing out and said sternly, "Forget your PIN."

The other cashier picked up my Wii, at which point I leaped over the counter and bit his hand. No, actually I grabbed his hair, jerked his head back and said, "Do. Not. Even. Think. About. It." Really I just said, "You're not giving that to someone else are you?" (See how aggressive I am in tense situations? A tiger, I tell ya) He said no, he was just bagging it. So, in summation I got the LAST Wii.
Whew!

The end.

Breakfast of Champions

Because I love the internet - really - I wanted to share this indulgence.

There I was, post-Halloween, looking at a BIG-assed bag of candy. Rob collected fifteen pounds of candy. FIFTEEN. POUNDS. He weighed it. I double-checked. We divided it into two big bowls: chocolate, and not chocolate. Since I'm a librarian I'm really good at developing precise and efficient organizational systems.

From the chocolate bucket I immediately extracted all the Almond Joys. Hey, they aren't called JOY for nothing. So here is the amazing thing I discovered.

Take one nice, firm banana (stop that. you have a dirty mind.) and your kid's Halloween bucket filch three fun-size Almond Joys. (since when is 2 bites considered fun? fun would be an Almond Joy that weighs 2 pounds) Open the Almond Joys and lay them on their wrappers. Now lay them end to end and celebrate how much JOY that is. Now try to stack them. Oooo! You can't! The almond makes them fall over.

Take a bite of that banana. (again with the dirty mind? your mother would be ashamed.) Now a bite of an Almond Joy. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat until all gone.

And if you don't like Almond Joy, e-mail me. I'll send you my address.

Foot in Mouth?

Rob has this game he likes to play in the car. I'm all about playing word and/or math games while driving somewhere. Cuts down on bloodshed and headaches. Anyway, this new game is called "Would You Rather?" I hope you get the gist of it from the title. If not, drink some coffee, then try again.

So on Saturday, while we were running an errand, Rob turns to his friend James in the back seat and announces game on. Rob throws out the first, thought provoking query...

Rob: Would you rather go to jail or eat your own foot?

James: (thinking) Could I cook it?

Rob: (considering) Yes.

James: I'd eat my foot.

For whatever reason (because I have a slightly warped mind, perhaps?) I found this hysterical. Later James throws out this zinger...

James: Would you rather have no parents or never have a home in your life?

Rob: Well, I love my parents. But it would be hard to live without a home. (thinking...thinking... realizes his mother is DRIVING THE CAR...) I'll keep my parents!

Smart boy. And cute too!

Furballs

My older son, Mac, is FRESH. That is, he is a freshman in high school this year. To ease the transition to this whole new world, we encouraged him to get involved in clubs and/or sports. He settled on ultimate Frisbee team and bowling. Since he is neither large nor particularly athletic, these are actually good choices.

Bowling must be a popular activity at his school; the club consists of a dozen teams of four kids each. On the computer screens at the alley, the teams are indicated as "Team 1," Team 2," etc. But my son's group decided to give themselves a name instead. To stand out, ya know. Somehow they settled on The Balls of Fury. I don't even want to know what discussion process led four boys to decide on this gem.

Today I was able to go watch Mac bowl. I looked at the screen and noticed that the entire team name didn't fit. So the name, proudly displayed, was THE BALLS OF FUR.

Yeahhhh, chalk one up for puberty!

Yard Sale Queen

I lurrve me a yard sale. Name brand clothes for $1 or less? A Fire King mixing bowl for $0.50? I am so there. Since I am kind of known for my "sale-ing" prowess, my family and neighbors tell me what they need and I keep a mental list. My sister, a fabulous knitter, once asked me to look for a knitting machine. Yeah, sure, I'm going to find one of those at a yard sale. The next Saturday I went out...a knitting machine. For $25. Booo-ya! Neighbor wanted a trike bike for her mom. Found it within a month. La la la...look at me! I have a superpower!

This weekend I snagged a brand new pair of Chanel sunglasses for $40, complete with protective pouch, case, box, certificate, and even the Chanel bag. Seller said he works for the company that makes them. A neighbor who actually bought a pair at a store looked them over and confirmed that they are the real deal. Serial number on the ear piece and all. Going to be a nice birthday prezzie for my sister.

So, what is the point of this post? Bragging? Nope. I want to encourage others to grab a fistful of ones and some quarters and get out there one fine Saturday morning. Maybe you'll find a replacement for that Pyrex lid you broke four years ago. Or a paper grocery bag filled to the top with real wood Lincoln Logs for $4 (another one of my finds). And if you are the person who bought the tractor seat garden cart for $5, I WANTED THAT.

I've heard people say they aren't comfortable negotiating prices at yard sales. Well, I usually don't, unless it is a big ticket item like that knitting machine (I got the seller to throw in a free skateboard). I figure people have a right to set their price and if I don't want to pay, fine, no biggie. If the seller wants to get rid of stuff (rather than make money) they are quick to say, "Make me an offer!" or "How about fifty cents?" Another common issue is getting "used" items. I yard sale in some pretty nice neighborhoods, so I assume they have washing machines. And showers. If the clothes are dirty or the people look like they have cooties, I steer clear.

I also avoid what I call "permanent yard sales." Have you seen one of these? They leave the sawhorses and plywood tables up all week and drag the same ole' crapola out of a ramshackle shed on Friday afternoon. Or, worse, the stuff is on the porch and they carry it out to the tables. Worst of all, they leave the stuff on the tables and cover everything with a mangy plastic sheet or a tarp. Sorry, but, ICK.

Ick aside, yard sale-ing is fun. In fact, this weekend is my neighborhood's annual yard sale. Y'all come now, ya hear? I have some niiiiice Christmas tins you'll be wanting for only twenty-five cents each.

Letter to My Cat

Dear Ash -

We need to talk. Yeah, I know you can't talk - or read - so just sit there and look fuzzy while I talk. Look, I want you to know that I do love you. Seven years ago, when Rob's babysitter asked me to take you in, I said yes. Because I just had "SUCKER" tattooed across my forehead.

I've never considered myself a cat person, mainly because that whole litterbox thing creeps me out. Crapping in a pile of sand in my house? Uhhh, no. Nasty. The fact that the dogs will gladly clean the litterbox does not make the situation any more acceptable, actually.

But there you were, new to the house, hiding behind the washing machine all day. Eventually you began exploring the rest of the house....after we had gone to sleep. It was so sweet, the way you would sit and yowl in the hallway right outside our bedroom. Rob enjoyed that, since he was only a year old at the time and needed just one more reason to scream and not sleep. That endeared you to me from the start.

So here we are, older and grayer. Wait! You've always been gray! Anyway, you are now my favorite pet. And apparently I am yours. Don't think I haven't realized that you follow me around. Yeah, I'm sure in your super-cool cat mind it is totally a coincidence that after I enter any room you just happen to come in and settle yourself where you can see me. I understand that you want to be close to me. Buuuuuuut...

Is it really necessary to show your love by cleaning out my ears and nose with your sandpaper tongue? All the while doing the paw massage thing on my throat with your needle-sharp claws. At 1:18am. And 3:34am. And 17 minutes before my alarm goes off in the morning. Really, must you? Also, the spouse is tired of looking at your butthole when you get between us in the bed. I'm kind of OK with that, but thought I'd mention it on his behalf.

Now, the cereal thing. Perhaps it is some kind of cat magic that enables you to know when anyone in the family is eating a bowl of cereal. If I eat some tabouli, no cat. Guacamole? No cat. Chicken noodle soup? No cat. Raisin bran? CAT! Cat on the arm of the sofa! Cat in my face! Hungry, dying, tortured cat who must have miiiiiiiilk.

Obviously you are psychic, so I have a proposition: you give me the lottery numbers it is organic milk for you every day, baby. Just a thought. I'd leave you lots of money in my will, like crazy Leona Helmsley did for her dog. Sure I will. (we've already established that you can't read)

Well, I'd better close before I get too mushy. Speaking of mushy, the next time you barf during the night could you please do so on a solid surface floor? I see no reason to do that on the carpet. Where I walk. Barefoot.

Love,
Mom

Because I'm not Normal

I find THIS very funny. Kid and workplace safe. Just don't click "Play" if you have liquid in your mouth. And if you spit iced tea all over your keyboard...well, I warned you.

Muggy Mind

Yesterday in the car, out of nowhere (which is were all great comments come from, isn't it?), Rob asks, "Mom, have you ever been mugged?"

Mom: "No, dear, I haven't. Why do you ask?"

Rob: "Because people in New York get mugged." (we're in North Carolina?)

Mom: "Well then let's call Aunt A, she lives in New York." (snicker, snicker...I'm 40 years old [shut up, Lisa] and I still like to tease my older sisters)

(dialing phone)

Rob: "Hello? Aunt Lisa?" (which is funny because he was talking to Aunt A and he always gets them mixed up, driving them crazy and making me laugh) "Have you ever been mugged?"

(listens to response)

Rob: "Because you live in New York and people get mugged in Central Park all the time."

OK, geography lesson. My sister lives a good five HOURS away from New York City. In a town where the worst crime might be some man going stir crazy due to the eleventy-seven feet of snow they get in the winter and throwing his wife out the second story window. Of course she would land in the snowbank just below the window ledge, climb back in and proceed to beat her husband about the head and shoulders with a stale loaf of Italian bread.

Where do kids come up with this stuff? Really, my kids ask me the most amazing questions, then stare at me, fully expecting that I have the answers. I don't know whether to be flattered or to take them to therapy. Of course, being a librarian, my brain is a repository of all kinds of archaic information (such as the definition of words like "repository" and "archaic"), but come on. Do I REALLY look like I know how fast a human would melt if they stood on the surface of the sun?

Actually, the answer to that is about 2% slower than the rate at which my brain is becoming atrophied due to age. Divided by pi. Or pie. As Rob so eloquently stated a couple of days ago, "I love pie!"

Good Taste, Southern Style

I just went to the refrigerator to gather the goods to make a nice sammich. I had some tomatoes that I snatched out of my neighbor's garden this morning. Without permission. They're on vacation and I am feeding their dogs, which I figure gaves me full rights to anything that strikes my fancy. Like fresh produce. And swimming in their pool.

So I'm at the fridge. Here we have the remains of the fat chicken I baked last night. Some honey mustard? Sure, why not. Now I need my mayonnaise. Where is my mayonnaise? WTF is this jar with a blue top? OMG. This is my husband's fault. The man has no tastebuds.

There are only a few items about which I am brand specific. Mayo pretty much tops the list. Lots of people have preferences about foods, but people tend to have issues about mayo. Aren't you particular about your mayo? If not, you're a freak.

Moving on. There are the Hellman's people. The Kraft people. And, bless them, the (whispering) Miracle Whip people. I'm none of these. A good Southern girl, I am a DUKE'S girl. No substitutions allowed.

Once when we were at my grandmother's, I made a sandwich for my sister Lisa, who is a worse mayo snob than I. She took one bite and declared, "This is NOT Duke's!" But since she had a mouthful of sandwich, which she was refusing to chew, it sounded like "Vif if OT ooks!" Did I mention that she can make a disgusted face better than anyone I know? The entire effect was as comical as I intended. See, I'd found an inferior bread spread in Grandma's fridge and thought I'd test Lisa. I was young at the time, and somewhat mean.

Sad I am for the people who live "away" and do not have access to either Duke's or the only acceptable substitute, my Aunt Bernice's homemade mayo. Since Aunt Bernice (pronounced "Burn-us" not "Bur-niece") died last year at the age of 102, I'm afraid she's out of the mayo-making business. So Duke's it is. Forever.

(pulls fresh jar from fridge and licks up the side in a display of true adoration)

Flora and Fauna (and fungi)

Some pictures I took this weekend at the cabin.

Looks like a coral reef, doesn't it? Very neat. If you appreciate spongy, parasitic fungi.
In a couple more months, I'm going to pick these blackberries and make a cobbler. Then I will lock myself in the bathroom and eat the entire thing myself. With ice cream.

Apparently there has been a lot of wild frog sex going on recently. These tiny baby frogs were everywhere.
Rob noticed something hanging down from a tree. It was the tail end of thisssssss.

Cabin Fever

We're going to build a new cabin! So far it looks like this....Can't you just see it? Stay tuned.

UPDATE, 06/23/07: When we went to the mountains and actually walked around this big hole, we realized that the location was not going to work. The edge of the cabin would be about 10 feet from the road. Uhhhh, no. This realization was accompanied by a seriously sick feeling in the stomach, caused by thinking about the money spent to dig this hole, and the trees that are now gone. Big trees. Old trees.

We picked a new spot, and now The spouse is going to get his garage. yippee.

Valium, Please

The spouse had back surgery this week. As far as being a patient goes, he is NOT patient.

Here is a prime example of how the spouse appreciates limitations being placed on his activity level. We get home from the hospital and pull into the garage. I am in the yard talking to my sister on the cell. Hear a noise behind me. The spouse is taking off down the driveway in the golf cart, still in his hospital gown and booties. OK, fine, he was in regular clothes, but is that as good a visual? No, it isn't.

Did he not get the part about no driving for two weeks? There was not a footnote that said, "Except golf carts." You've had surgery on your spine, dear. That might affect your ability to sit upright comfortably. Or to apply the brake. Both of which are important in operating a motor vehicle, I believe. Yes, a golf cart is considered a motor vehicle.

I finally get him inside and head to the pharmacy to pick up sixty percocet and sixty valium. Are you kidding me? SIXTY of EACH? (I think the valium is for me, actually.) As I walk out the door, the spouse asks me to stop at the grocery and get some beer. Sure, when I go to pick up your percocet and valium I will stop at the grocery and get you some BEER. Mixing heavy narcotics and alcohol is highly recommended within five hours of surgery. By the way, where is the life insurance policy?

One of us may die soon. Place your bets. And please pass the valium.

Turbo Puberty

The spouse had to go to a meeting today that happened to be in the town where my alma mater is located, so Rob and I rode along. Figured I'd start indoctrinating him early. Will you just LOOK what happened when we visited the student store?* Day-um, boy, I'm looking forward to you going to college, but could you ease off on the facial hair?

On the way to pick up the spouse, Rob made up this complicated story that he was sure would convince his dad that this was his real moustache. (clears throat, stares incredulously from under eyebrows and prepares to tell the story...)

We were walking on campus and there were these mad scientists students who had invented a moustache gun. This is, after all, a research university so of course there are people working on weapons of mass hirsute-osity. These brilliant students were looking for people upon which to test their invention. Carefully designed clinical trials can be so tedious, dontchaknow. Much better to hang around outside the library and approach children.

Rob naturally wished to participate in this test, because what eight year old wouldn't? His mother, who is not at all protective of her youngest, instantly agreed. Wholehearted approval. YES! And so the students shot Rob with the moustache gun. Instant facial hair! Not only that, but as a bonus, every moustache included a wire in each side so it can be contorted into various nose and chin tickling shapes. Now Rob can try out for a barbershop quartet! Get a job on a remake of the Magnum P.I. series for Nickelodeon! Make info-mercials for hair growth simulators! This one encounter has changed his life and led to a whole new career!

This was the story he told his dad. Minus the barbershop quartet and Magnum P.I. stuff. He's too young to know what either of those are. The story would be totally believable but for ONE tiny detail. Anyone? Anyone? Yeah, the kid is blond. His moustache should sooooo be red.


*WHY does the student store stock fake moustaches? And the googly eyes on springs. We got those too. Together they make for a fabulous look. I'm sure the frat boys buy this stuff.

You Suck (A book review...really!)

OK, I know this is going to some as a MAJOR SHOCK, but I love to read. I remember learning to read in Mrs. Robinson's first grade class. (Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson...) It was nearly a religious conversion. As a kid, I would read anything. At breakfast I read the cereal box. At school I hid library books behind my textbooks, which caused embarrassment more than once (screw you, fifth grade teacher whose name I have blotted from my memory). In the car, I read a book, then barfed in the floorboard, then read some more. Rinse and repeat. I spent more time reading than old people spend talking about their bowel movements.

On a Saturday I was allowed to ride my bike about three miles each way to the public library, where I would spend many happy hours, breaking for lunch at the McDonald's next door. Did I mention three miles on busy two-lane roads with no bike lanes? And crossing a six-lane road? When I was about ten? Anyway, let's not get started on criticisms of my upbringing, because behind that door there be dragons. And this isn't about dragons, it is about vampires.

When summer rolls around I can only read light stuff. Chick lit, mostly. Recently I picked up a book just for the title: You Suck. I don't really do sci fi, but I used to read a lot of horror. Then I grew up, had two kids and two husbands (one at a time, thank you very much), and realized the real world is scary enough. Even so, the cover and the title tickled me, and I checked it out. I didn't realize until later that You Suck is the sequel to Bloodsucking Fiends, but no worries, it reads fine by itself.

Can I just say PEE IN MY PANTS funny? I was reading this while waiting for my son Mac at the orthodontist's office and people were staring at me because I was laughing so hard. One of those staring was a student at my school. She probably thinks I drink during the day. And I do: iced tea.

What made this book so funny for me were the bits "written" by the vampires' 16yo minion, a goth girl named Abby Normal. I know this kid. She goes to my high school. A half-dozen of her. Not all are goth, but the attitude? Spot-on.

So next time you're at the public library, give it a try. If you like it, send me a dollar. Just kidding. Kind of. If you don't like it, then...you suck! HA! Just kidding again. Kinda. Christopher Moore has a bunch of other books and I'm in the process of reading them all. So far they are fun, but none have made me laugh like You Suck did.

Yoga Cat

Is he kidding? What pose is this? Pussycat Pretzel? Shorthair Sun Salute? Do his vertebrae have a 360 degree swivel? And why is he doing this on my treadmill?

Frankendog

You think you've had a bad day? Look at my dog's butt. That's it there, shaved and sporting more stitches than I care to count. (OK, after I typed that I had to stop and count. Looks like 17 stitches, but each one consists of four punctures in an X shape. So is each one actually two stitches?) This sweet dog had a ginormous growth on his back at the base of his tail. We had taken to calling him The Camel. The growth was removed yesterday.

Tyke's nails were trimmed while he was unconscious, since he isn't fond of the procedure. Would this not be a great add-on for human surgeries? You have some medical problem that is worrisome. You go under the knife and wake up with a painful incision BUT you've had a nice pedicure and your feet look great. It might take your mind off the catheter. I should shop this idea around.

See on the very edge of that picture? That is my other dog, Pepper, sniffing Tyke's butt. Because everyone needs that kind of attention after surgery.

For the very curious, Tyke is a Boykin spaniel, which is the state dog of South Carolina.

Makes Me Laugh

My sister refers to an Aerobed as a "crack sack." She said sleeping on one gives her bad dreams.

Tramps and Pimps in Training

Seen at the local fast food joint... (that I won't name here since they probably have bots searching the Internet for idiots like me who use the corporate name in vain because I hate this place and only go there to let the kids run wild in the air-conditioned play area after paying the admission price of a kid's meal)

...a family of two adults and four children. First of all, neither of the "adults" looks old enough to have four children. Unless they started their reproductive lives during middle school. Actually... (tapping finger against chin and looking upwards, deep in thought) hmmmm...this may be the case.

Dad sports at least six tattoos that I can see. I have nothing against tattoos. Been thinking about getting one myself since I turned 40. A turtle, I think, right here (taps front of right hip). That way I can hide it if I want. Or I can flash cute guys in the juice aisle at Kroger.

Dad is whip thin in that chic, meth addict way. Closely shaved head, goatee, several earrings in each ear. T-shirt with the sleeves cut out to display those wiry arms and tasty pit hair dontchaknow. Denim shorts. Wallet on a chain. Couldn't he have used some of that tattoo money on clothes? Or a rehab program?

As soon as Mom covers the table with fat and grease healthy foods for their clan, she slumps into a chair and doesn't move anything except her arm and her mouth. I have to give dad props for being interactive with the kids in the play area.

There is a girl child who looks to be maybe 2. She has curly brown hair and big eyes. Her natural beauty is enhanced by fake tattoos wrapping around both ankles. Whaaa? My children have had temp tattoos: a pirate or heart on the bicep, a spider on the cheek at Halloween. Wash off after a couple of days since they become flaky quickly, right? This little girl's tattoos were so realistic that I openly stared for a long time before deciding that they had to be fake. Because who would tattoo a toddler?

I don't know, maybe the same people who pierced the ears of her two brothers? Of the three boy children, one is a cousin (I know this because eavesdropping is a hobby of mine). The other two are boys aged around nine and five. Both sport earrings. Nice, tasteful, giant fake CZ studs. I'm bedazzled.

OK, I am very much a live-and-let-live kind of person. I try not to be judgmental and all that. But sometimes I just want to grab parents and ask, "WHAT do you want for your children? Life in a trailer park? A career making minimum wage? Bad teeth? An '82 Trans Am with cracked vinyl seats?"

Channeling Alice Cooper

Everybody, sing along with me...

(makes rock 'n roll hand sign)

...schooooool's out for summer...

Rob started his vacation by hurling a quart of chunky barf into the bathroom sink at 4:00am. Guess I should be glad it wasn't on the floor so that when I run in to see if he's OK, I step in it. Yep, that has happened. He made it to the toilet for the second geyser at 8:30am.

He still managed to spend a good part of the day swimming and hanging out with his buddy in the treehouse. We like to share our viruses.

Truth or Dare

This is about that great high school tradition, the yearbook. Or the annual. Whatever. Anybody know where yours are? All of mine are in a box in the attic. After I received my senior yearbook I collected autographs as if it was a judgment on my popularity. What a coup it was to get the cutest guy in my class to sign. Despite the fact that the alopecia fairy visited him sometime between then and now, I think most women in the 35 and up range would still find him hot.

So now the kids at my school are experiencing this sacred rite of passage. They have received their yearbooks and some have asked me to sign them. Do I DARE tell the TRUTH? Let's see...

Student 1, what I write:

Dear Nice Girl,

It has been so nice getting to know you these past three years. Your great sense of style and gentle nature are endearing. As you move forward, beyond high school, you will achieve great things. Keep reading!

Sincerely,
Librarian to the Stars

Student 1, what I want to write:

Dear Emo Limp Dishrag,

For three years I've watched you slither around like an earthworm, as if the world is just too much for you. Good god, child, can you not get your medications balanced so that you can actually attend an entire week of school? Have you noticed that your classmates are all high on energy drinks? Try one. It might boost your energy level, which is about equal to the sofa cushions you lie on every time you're in the library.

And as for the very strange outfits you wear, I applaud you. You can carry it off right now, but when you're my age everyone will cross the street to avoid you and that rusty shopping cart full of castoffs you call a closet. Get your shit together now. I have one word for you: Garanimals.

Sincerely,
The Queen of Helpful Advice

Student 2, what I write:

Dear Pretty Girl,

I have enjoyed having you visit the library every day. Your determination and independent spirit will serve you well as you move beyond high school and take on the "real" world. I wish you all the best.

Sincerely,
Nice Librarian

Student 2, what I want to write:

Dear Conceited, Don't-Talk-To-Me Girl,

I can't believe you're letting me write in here in PEN. So often our encounters have been negative. I have to tell you to stop eating, to get off e-mail, and to put on a jacket since you're violating the dress code as usual. And when I remind you again of the very few, very basic rules in the library, you pull that angry princess bitch face on me, huffing like you're having an asthma attack. Let me tell you what the future holds for you, my dear.

Keep eating all that junk food. When you hit 30 and your metabolism starts slowing down, you're going to puff up like a toad frog. And have bad teeth. Yep, I hate the fact that you subsist on chips and soda and are still like a size two with no hips at all. Get back to me after you've birthed a couple of ten pound babies. I earned these hips.

Those guys you're e-mailing are probably retired fartheads sitting in their single-wides in Florida, yanking their crank while they look at those pictures you are posting. But you are smart and you'd be able to tell if they weren't the hot guys you think they are. I'll see you on the evening news.

The dress code? Yeah, it's the same one for grades K through 12. You're a senior but you haven't realized yet that shirts with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline are verbotten? OK, fine, you win this round. Go ahead and display those grapefruits while they are still round and wedged up under your chin. In no time at all you'll be sporting a couple of overly ripe bananas, tucking them into the top of your size 16 underpants every morning when you get dressed and waddle to the bathroom to brush your one tooth.

Love Always,
The Mean One

By the way, a yearbook now costs $60 or more. Oy!

Disclaimer: Just in case by some miracle a student or students wander onto this blog (as IF - since I'm ancient and clueless and couldn't have a blog, right?) I want to say that neither of these "students" is a specific individual, but represents a composite of the traits several students. Because I'm really not quite that mean, and I do in fact genuinely like most of the kids at my school. The vast majority are, if not respectful and nice, at least capable of holding their teen disdain and superiority in check.

Or maaaaaybe each is one of these entries is really a student. Me to know and you to find out! Pffffttt!!!