And all I got was a lousy candy cane...

When I was a kid, I knew another kid who peeled dried glue off his fingers and kept the scraps in a stolen interoffice envelope that said "Property of Robert Elementary School".

I also knew a girl who didn't know what Single File Line meant.

I knew a kid who stole caterpillars from the classroom science station and tried to grow 'em in his own room. When they died, he returned them to the classroom and none of us kids were ever able to believe that butterflies could emerge miraculously from a pile of dead worms.

I knew a bunch of undeserving brats who got a boatload of cool shit during the holidays, and it sucked. All I ever got from Santa was a boot in the face and a ride down a red slide at the mall. Oh, and a freakin' candy cane if my parents bought 5" x 7"s from the pimply elves!

The Tender Lives of Shrimp

This morning a new feeling woke with me. It was Inspiration, for it stung my heart and raced through my veins (leaving, oddly, my brain completely unaffected).

Inspiration told me to start writing: Hell, Sylvia, start with children, the bottom of the totem pole, if you need to. Just start writing! For a moment I disagreed with its suggestion that chidren were easy to write for, but I urged myself to be prudent, to follow instructions from this supreme being, however out of touch with reality it is, what with its own laurel-laced lifestyle.

With Inspiration behind me, nagging me toward creative expression, I will write a medium-length book for attentive and well-behaved children. The book will be called The Tender Lives of Shrimp. Countless and nameless shrimp will be featured in colorful illustrations throughout the book, following my narrative about the brave disinterest which the shrimp possess, especially in the know-it-all face of Inspiration. They have eyes, but they refuse to see much.

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?

Teach them well and let them lead the way.

Hear the children clanging their china and silverware. In five minutes I will have to tell them to keep quiet. The naughty ones won't obey because, of course, I am not their parent, and, also, because I failed to tell them about the Noise Control Unicorn waiting to be released from the pantry to stab naughty kids in one eye (right or left, your pick) with, what else, its uni horn. I have to work on more effective means to deal with youth.

I'm a big kid now! (That is, I wear underwear-like diapers.)

Thanks to the Write Source, my creative juices flow like mad rhymes! I am now writing at the Grades 4-5 level:

A special secret place: Last year when I was still in the 3^rd grade, none of the kids believed that trolls lived down by the creek behind my house. The kids came over to prove me wrong. On the way home, I showed them the scratches on my arm, proving to them that the nasty trolls were indeed alive and living in proximity to my bedroom. A few kids, like Joanne the pony-cat killer, got scared and headed straight home with tears in their eyes. The curious and the brave stayed with me. We got to my house, dropped down our knapsacks and entered the gate to my backyard. A few kids hushed the noisy ones. I said, “Eh, trolls don’t care about noise,” and led them to the creek. When we got to the creek, the kids bunched together, their eyes darting every which way, fearing that a troll would attack from behind. We stood out there for a long time, and no one saw any trolls. The kids left and I felt like such a sham. That evening, I sulked at the dinner table. My mom said, “What’s wrong, Sylvia? Don’t you like your elk steak?” I said, “It’s fine. The kids came over. They didn’t believe that trolls live in the back.” My mom put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, Sylvia, the trolls hurt a baby and were forced to move out of the neighborhood. It’s good for all of us, Sylvia. You’ll learn to accept this in time.”

Doing homework: When I’m supposed to be doing homework, I start to think about what outfit I’ll wear the next day. What can I wear without people saying I’m a skank? What can I wear without people saying look stupid? What can I wear without people teasing me, saying I still listen to Michael Jackson? Definitely not my Beat It t-shirt with an iron-on Michael Jackson and his pelvis-to-the-camera pose.

When I was upside down: When I was upside down, I wasn’t on the monkey bars. I was in the zoo, in the monkey exhibit, participating in a human-monkey integration program. I walked out when the monkeys started to sling their poop at each other. I’d rather play Crossfire…THE BOARDGAME.

A song that means a lot to me: Nothing gets me going more than that song that starts, “Blinded by the light. Revved up like a deuce. Another runner in the night.” What is the song about? Anyone know?

My most embarrassing moment: I was sick and tired of the mean kids making fun of me for being so quiet in school. One day, to win over these asswipes and gain their friendship, I targeted another quiet kid in my class. I announced to the rest of the students that this girl fell on her ass playing hopscotch during recess. If only I’d noticed who she was playing hopscotch with while I was sitting by myself on the other side of the yard. Turns out she was the leader of the mean kids, so I got my sewn-on jean pockets ripped off after school.

Talk about being scared!: For Halloween, I went out as Strawberry Shortcake, the girl with the cute red hair and freckles. When I turned the corner on 5^th Street, the leader of the mean kids thought I was publicly mocking her, so I got my Strawberry Shortcake mask dented—a lot.

A terrible storm: A terrible storm brewed in the eyes of my teacher after I told her I wasn’t following her math lesson…for the ninth time. Even though I was sincere, she felt I was disruptive and formed a storm in her eyes. Then she cried like torrential rain.

This school really needs . . .to stop using beige paint. The color is so unappetizing that I end up skipping lunch most days. Then I get sent to the nurse’s office because they think I’m sick. More beige. I get so depressed in the nurse’s office that the nurse brings in this woman to talk to me. I cheer up and tell her about caterpillars turning into butterflies. She thinks she has cured me, but it was really her uplifting chartreuse dress that made me excited about school and learning and participating with teacher-types. Was she a teacher? I don’t know, but she should be.

Grade 2: More Writing Topics to Test

Thanks to the Write Source website, my creative juices flow like spilled milk over which I will not cry because I am stoic! Allow me to test some of their Grade 2 topics:

My new friend: I met my new friend Patty while we were washing our hands in the classroom sink with that hard grainy pink and white soap. I remarked at how disgusting her fingernails were and asked if she was accustomed to eating with those fingernails. Patty told me to mind my own fucking business and asked if I was done with the sink yet, because my fat ass was taking up a lot of space. She’s not really my friend. I don’t ask bitches to be my friends.

How to make new friends: I’ve found that to successfully make new friends, you have to keep your opinions to yourself, wash your hands at the speed of light, and have a small ass. Patty, you’re a bitch.

Something funny that happened to me: Long ago, and oh so far away…

What I like about math: I don’t like a goddamn thing about math. This writing topic sucks! What do I like about math? What do I like about math?! What do I like about having a nervous breakdown and being sent to the nurse's office before a math final? Not a goddamn thing, my friend!

Testing Writing Topics

Thanks to the Write Source website, my creative juices flow like blood from a serious head injury! Allow me to test some of their Grade 1 topics:

A special birthday: When I was seven I told my parents I wanted a pony for my birthday, but I'd never seen a pony in my life. I was a little girl with no originality: my classmates all wanted ponies, so I thought, What the hell, give me a pony. On the day of my birthday, my parents got me a grey cat and called it a pony. I believed it to be a pony and told all my classmates that I did in fact get a pony for my birthday. All the little girls in my class wanted to come see my pony, so one Saturday I had a pony party. I put a saddle on my grey cat and Classmate Joanne crushed my cat to death with her sorry ass. I regretted making such a big deal about my pony-cat.

Friendly places: The Gap is a friendly place. The workers always greet me even though I rush past them to the clearance section. No one seems to judge me for shopping in the bargain section. No one.

I'd like to see...: Yes, after seeing a lot of things in life, I'd really like to keep seeing. Going blind now wouldn't be easy.

The biggest thing I ever saw: *sigh*

Picnic fun I like to make . . .: I like to crack open a huge watermelon and watch the scout ants come. Then I take three or four of them hostage and see what I can negotiate with the queen ant. An hour later, the entire colony will band together and haul out an entire sheet cake in tiny crumbs and lumps from within their intricate lair in order to get their scout ants back. Ant picnics are fun for me.

What if toys could talk? If toys could talk, Pixar would make a hell of a lot of money.

I rode on a . . .: I rode on a wild reindeer and crashed into a tree. I don't celebrate the story of Santa anymore.

Story: Climbing my way to knowledge.

Today I fancied apple trees and pearl necklaces. I wore three pearl necklaces, while carving my lover's name into an apple tree. The tree began to cry, begging me to stop. It said, "Stop! Please stop and eat an apple." I climbed up the tree to search for the prettiest, shiniest apple in the giant green crown, and the tree swallowed me in its enormity. Just kidding. Trees don't have digestive systems. But the apple monkey does, and it swallowed me as I reached for the prettiest, shiniest apple near the top. The apple monkey thinks it's hot shit with my pearls around its neck. Meanwhile, the apple tree is scarred with my lover's name, yet the monkey can't read. I hope you never forget this important lesson, my dear children.

Children and the Books I'll Sell 'Em

I think all children should read books--my books. I don't claim to have any on the market now, but when I do and if you are currently nice to me, I might remember your face and let you and your kid cut to the front of the autograph line at the Mall of America's Barnes and Noble.

I advocate literacy. If your kid can't read by age 4, please get him checked out. I don't claim to be an expert on child development, but c'mon, whether your kid may or may not be able to read doesn't change the fact that I've got to peddle books for a freakin' living.

Sure, there might be one or two percent of these junior consumers (yes, even children can be consumers too!) who get violent nightmares as a result of my fun-filled stories, but rejoice, for these are the future insightful adults of America!

A Heart O' Happiness

Age five was when I found happiness in my heart. I named it Barbara and wouldn't share it with anyone. With such happiness, I ran around the house a lot, laughed, and smiled all the time. But whenever someone noticed my happiness, I quickly went to a neutral face. I didn't want anyone to steal Barbara from me, so I had to pretend I was neither happy nor sad. Within a year I was seeing a psychologist who thought I was afraid of people, but I corrected her and informed her of Barbara. I was asked to draw a picture of Barbara, but I couldn't because Barbara didn't have a face. I said Barbara was just an abstraction--I just gave it a name the way powerful hurricanes get names too.