And safety comes first.

Wednesday, August 22

Recent Exchanges with Two Friends I Made in Minneapolis

My friend Susan decided to have a birthday last week. I told her to have a happy birthday, but she knew I was lying because I'm the jealous type. It's not fair that she gets to have a birthday and I don't. To celebrate the lovely occasion, I went to the mall and got a really stylish dress and sent Susan digital pictures of me looking fabulous, hoping she would be jealous. She wrote back, complimenting me on the new threads. Of course, this incited even more animosity, so I went out and bought a new Corvette and sent her digital pictures of me in my dress inside my new Corvette. She wrote back asking me if I was okay. I said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Did you get the Chris Daughtry CD I sent you for your BIRTHDAY?" She said, "Not yet. Who's Chris Daughtry?" I said, "I don't know...some American Idol contestant! Happy birthday, you bitch!"

My friend Jonathan and his hot wife (whose name I won't say) had a baby last month. Normally, babies don't increase my life enjoyment levels, but this one is very Cabbage Patch Kid-like. I knew what had to be done, so I FedEx'ed some papers to Jonathan and the missus. He e-mailed me back almost immediately. Truly, my heart was beating with anticipation as I waited for my $5.95 dial-up ISP to take me to the next page in my e-mail box! Jonathan said, "I got your adoption papers! What is this? A joke?" I had resourcefully dug up the Cabbage Patch Kid adoption papers for my 1982 acquisition of Timothy Alastair and made a photocopy of it, whiting out Mr. Alastair's name and inserting the name of my friends' new child. I e-mailed Jonathan back saying that yes, it was indeed a joke, but it wasn't a funny one, no.

Tuesday, August 21

Latin Lover

Mediocria Firma!

(Thanks for contributing to Mediocrity, SSR!)

What Would Ramona Do?

Wedged between volumes of Ramona books was the very first diary I ever kept, and I found it this weekend while digging through my old closet. Paging through those early days, I noted what weird and wobbly handwriting I had a penchant for, but I was only 7 or 8 years old, trying, with limited skill, to detail my life before details eventually became too mundane to record. For instance, I wrote about the day I nearly succumbed to a powerful flash of capitalist desire, rescued only by my fortunate undiagnosed bi-polarism: "Mom went to the shopping mall to buy the coat. I went with her. I saw a Cabbage Patch Kid that I wanted to buy. But we didn't buy it because I said I didn't want it."

What's in your closet?

Cleaning Lady

Knock, knock!

Who's there?



Sylvia, your daughter!

What do you want?

Didn't you ask me to come home and clean out the closet in my old bedroom?

Oh, yeah, come in. But make it quick. Did the neighbors notice you? Where did you park? You still driving that thing? You're not staying for dinner, are you?

Tuesday, August 7

Free Verse

Before my high school graduation, my classmate Angie, who had purchased a half-page "look at me and my friends so cute and loyal" ad in the yearbook, said to me, "You write poems, right, Sylvia? Would you write a poem about friendship and graduation for our ad?" I'd never before been commissioned to write a piece, and I was not going to let this opportunity slip through my prematurely writing-cramped hand. After about six or seven sleepless nights, I realized I knew nothing about friendship, nor graduation (because it hadn't happened yet), and that I was no one's friend--just a lot of people's poet. I was the People's Friendless Poet. And I said to dear, sweet Angie, "Wha? You weren't going to pay me?"