Diary of a Day in The Cell

It’s Monday morning and I am full of life! The weekend is over, I am rested, and ready to jump right into the pile of work I left at my cubicle on Friday. “Rejuvenated” is my middle name as I take a deep breath of exhaust-filled air in the parking lot, heave my stained Discovery Channel book bag over shoulder, and head down the ramp whistling in the morning air. That’s right! I’m the best looking gal in the world!

I flip my ID badge with confidence at the Nazi security guard, as if to say, “Hey, Nazi Security guard! You don’t have to worry about me. I’m one of the good guys!” Life is good as I skip past the line of people hesitating at the full elevator, afraid that they might be the one to take it over its weight limit, but I fear not! If we crash, we crash happy! My goliath bag nearly knocks over an accountant, but fortunately he only suffers until the fourth floor where I depart with a spring in a step and a twinkle in my eye. Life is good and I am walkin’ on sunshine! As I near my aisle, I pass the boss’s boss. I say to him “Hi, Tom, how are you?” and he answers back “Faaaan-tastic!’ And you know what, Mr. Bossman? Today I’m feeling it too!

Then something happens and darkness falls as I turn the corner and catch site of that most evil of places where I sit for 8 hours a day. Suddenly time slows down as if I am caught in a White Rabbit hallucination from 1969. Somewhere in the distance all noise fades into a tin tunnel except for the haunting, faraway call of Jefferson Airplane telling me that the dormouse said to feed your head. Feed your head. That might be difficult because my head is growing heavy and full as I approach that gut-wrenching place…that dungeon of duty…that prison of project management…the cubicle of daily horror which I call….The Cell.

There is a reason Mondays have such a bad reputation.

With a panic attack brewing I slump into the supposedly ergonomic chair and hear my back cracking. As my eyes begin to roll back into my head I drop my stained Discovery bag and stifle a sob. The red devil eye is staring up at me from the phone. I briefly pray to Hecate, Greek goddess of the Underworld in which I am working, asking her to please let it be a message from Ed McMahon, or better yet, the Jury Duty people. But being that I am on-call this week (and generally cursed), I know it will be someone with a big problem, so I ignore its desperate plea for now.

Before diving into the pile of notes and papers heaped on my desk - which I keep there, by the way, because Bob Markiewicz says that a messy desk says to the outside world “I’m busy” even if I’m not, so I can always keep up the illusion - as I was saying, before diving into the pile of notes and papers on my desk, I pause to inhale an odor, and no my friends, this is not a good odor. No, it is a very bad odor. It isn’t foul like passing gas or raw sewage, but more sour like my dad’s feet. But I am unable to find the source so I rub a little Vicks on my upper lip like cops do when they find a dead person and move on.

I login to my workstation and find to my horror that my password has expired. Silently, I curse the Sarbanes-Oxley gods and pull out a page-long checklist from my file cabinet. All of my passwords are synchronized to expire on the same day each month, so this might take all morning. I check off “Windows” and find my way to the desktop. Before all my applications have finished loading, I open Internet Explorer and minimize to a five-millimeter window at the bottom of the screen. Yes, it’s the Yahoo home page! Okay, sure, one might argue that “My Yahoo” is not a necessary element to either A) Small Project Management or B) Software Development. But I would say to “one” that I am on the distribution list for “Future Project Managers of America” AND “Software Developers News.” Email. Newsletter thingy. So there.

Mere minutes into the morning I down my first bottle of water because I know the excess fluid will help me kill at least 5 minutes of time on the grump stump later in the afternoon. That’s the thing about life in The Cell. It’s feast or famine, sometimes all in one day, and you just never know. Right now though, I sense a feast approaching as I remember the list I left myself last Friday when I fled the building like a bat out of hell. I finally succumb to the evil red phone eye and dial my voice mail. I soon discover that Marty Moe in Bad Axe is experiencing slow printing and Barbie Blow from Pontiac can’t login to her Work Management system. I ponder the decisions: Should I tell Marty that his printing delays are normal for a Monday, and that perhaps if he hadn’t re-submitted the request 1432 times, the print queue would be just a SKOSHE less jammed? Or should I tell him this is a very serious ID.10-T error caused by termites eating through the LAN circuit, but if he could hold on for an hour or so, I will drop everything, rewire the circuit, and get him his critical Materials Report ASAP?

Should I tell Barbie to reboot, or should I contact Workstation Support and have her computer completely reloaded? That’s why they pay me the big bucks. It’s system-critical decisions like this that equal Job Security.

I decide to tell Marty and Barbie the truth, and also send Marty a note telling him to check here for YES and here for NO to indicate “do you like Barbie? She likes you.”

Nine o’clock, time for my first taste of coffee. I grab my cup and discover the source of the funky odor. Apparently, hot cocoa plus cheap coffee plus 48 hours equals my dad’s feet. Mental note to wash cup before leaving this evening. Just as the coffee is down to a mere caffeine skidmark on bottom of my cup, I start my next descent into hell trying to concentrate as my neighbor converses loudly with one of our clients. Will they fire me if I scream, “USE THE INDOOR VOICE!!!” But I am too nice and besides, it’s time for my second bottle of water.

After an hour or so of I.T. Anorexia, the tasks begin piling up again for the binge. I am suddenly overwhelmingly busy for the rest of the morning, during which time of COURSE everyone and their sister has a question about the project I am working on. Does anyone not care that I have 23 documents that need to be updated and two pages of emails unanswered? Though I thrive on multi-tasking, if the caffeine hits at just the right moment, I turn into a rat. A snarly, gnarly rat with big sharp fangs and beady eyes. I look like an innocent analyst from the back, but on the umpteenth time that I hear the patented metal TAP TAP TAP on the file cabinet is about the time it takes all of the years of Mother/Daughter discipline to keep myself in check. TAP TAP TAP and I take a deep breath, grit my teeth firmly and turn around in my Cell.

“Yeeesss?” I inquire (breathe deeply, in, out)

When the caffeine wears off, I mentally apologize to Abbie and continue with my work. I take heart in knowing that soon my daily trip to the Porcelain Altar will give me just enough time to decompress while I read about how to best organize my small spaces for $100 or less, and get the latest on Brad and Angelina.

At noon, after waiting in line for eons for the microwave, I devour my frozen dinner in record time and get back to my pile. Though I have JUST eaten lunch, I find it increasingly difficult to resist yet another Hershey’s Kiss from my neighbor’s built-in candy store. So I don’t, and for a while the sugar gives me the energy level of a three-year old, diving into my documents as if they were…well, Hershey’s kisses. But then the crash. As quickly as I peak, I plummet and crawl to the coffee machine to see if anyone might have made a fresh pot within the last four hours. The black murk seems not entirely lethal, so I pour a second cup and return to the Cell. Unfortunately, the java has about as much effect on my energy level as a nice, soft couch and I willingly succumb to the afternoon sleepies. I attempt to position myself so that it appears from behind that I am concentrating intensely on a document. Granted, the same page of a document for 40 minutes, but still. After years of practice, I have been able to arrange myself perfectly so as to avoid the embarrassing head-bobbing that occurs when one’s elbows buckle out from beneath one’s chin. Strictly amateur.

Mid-afternoon, with the sugar wearing off and the coffee finally kicking in, I open up a document and attempt to align several graphical boxes precisely, a function of Power Point which apparently the Microsoft billionaires have not yet perfected. So I continue to struggle with the document zoomed in at 400%, leaning into the monitor like Mr. Magoo reading the directions on a bottle of Bayer.

The day wears on and I continue to drink, because water is good for you. One hour before quitting time I put a packet of Crystal Lite Sugar-Free Low-Cal flavoring in my bottle of water and begin to shake, forgetting to secure the top. No problem, I tell coworkers it is “Grandma Hazel” week and I am engaging in the ancient art of spillage in her honor. The important thing to note here is that I kill a record 8.2 minutes ridding my body of the excess fluid.

Five minutes to freedom and I get the dreaded “last-minute” on-call dilemma. It’s Gracie Grow who apparently didn’t heed the four warning messages imploring that she not do what she ultimately did and now her Work Management application is frozen. I bite my tongue so hard it begins to bleed. Gracie Grow is the lead actress in our On-Call Theater. Last week she contacted us because her screen saver “broke.” High priority stuff. At least this week her problem involves an application we actually support. I call Gracie and quickly begin to feel a growing tension as the seconds pass, knowing that by all rights I should conduct a detailed interview, observe the steps she took to get to her computer bog, log the events, and instruct her in the proper way to process her request. But it’s almost quitting time! I listen to the deafening chomping of gum coming through the phone as Gracie tries again and again to shut down her application. My eyes flip back and forth from my computer screen clock to the phone, to the computer, the phone, and back again until finally the pressure builds, the second round of caffeine hits, and the digital clock flips to “5-OH-OH” like a bolt of lightening. In desperation I yell “REBOOOOOOT” into the phone and blink twice. Thank the gods. It worked.

My computer gets turned off, the drawers get locked, and I make a conscious decision to delay washing my coffee cup until tomorrow even if it does smell like my dad’s toe jam. The oily Discovery bag goes up to my shoulder, ID badge in my purse, and I’m headed toward the elevator by 5:05. Life is GREAT! Rejuvenated is my middle name as I enter the elevator whistling. Once outside I breathe in the ozone-action air and skip through the summer haze with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye. That’s right! I’m the best looking gal in the world!

The Barbecue

Twenty monsters were coming to dinner.

My shoulders ached miserably as I lumbered out of my bird-poop covered Volkswagen and onto the pebbled driveway. It was no wonder, considering how I had driven hunched over and tensed up for two hours, inching down the sardine-packed Garden State Parkway on my way to Beige Heaven. There were no other colors here at our summer home along the New Jersey shore. It was only a sea of beige: beige sand, beige sidewalks, beige houses…beige state of mind. I suppose I should have been grateful. I suppose I should have been kissing the feet of the couple who had so graciously employed me as their nanny (chauffeur, tailor, VCR programmer, maid, tutor, cook, and occasional psychologist, nurse, veterinarian and lawns keeper). But I was not grateful. I was unapologetically tired and cranky. I had dreamed of a quiet, peaceful evening, nestled on the sofa with a lengthy novel while the kids watched television after they (my gracious employers) blessed me with their absence and drove back to our full-time home up north. Ever faithful in my position, I of course would remain with the children.

But it was not to be so.

As I trudged up the narrow deck stairs, bumping grumpily into the white plastic chairs that sometimes flew down the steps and into my car, I had a feeling that tonight would be different than all the other Sundays. Phyllis (my gracious employer) greeted me frantically from the tiny (beige) kitchen, swarming amid a forest of feasted delights. She informed me that she had invited a “few” people over for dinner - a mere handful she had met at the beach. I sighed wearily, seeing the futility of expressing my disappointment, and retired to the couch. Apparently, all I had to look forward to was a household of people I didn’t care to see and an abundance of children running hither and thither and screaming and stomping and fighting over the television. I wanted to cry.

They arrived not in droves, but marching single file or two-by-two like the animals on Noah’s ark. And wasn’t it a coincidence that it looked like rain there as well? Cheryl came first. I knew her quite well since her daughter and one of “my” boys were practically Siamese twins joined at the hip. Her husband Joe came next with his gold crucifix gleaming in all its Catholicism around his tanned, hairy neck. He must have had a martini or two before he arrived because he actually struck up a lengthy conversation with me, and he never, ever did that before - because I was just the lowly nanny (chauffeur, tailor, maid, tutor, etc).

Karen came next, a lofty German woman who had once worked as a nanny, so we had quite a lot in common although we never talked about it, not even once. She came with her three lofty daughters and a husband who was not so tall, but his eyes were the most vivid emerald I had ever seen. And for the life of me, I could never remember his name. The remainder of guests were a blur of Tinas and Trudys and Stephens and Kates, all crowding into the tiny kitchen with an onslaught of questions: “Hi! How are you? Where’s the bathroom? Do I have time to change before we eat?” In no time at all they were smushed together on the miniature deck, huddled around the ugly plastic furniture that often scratched my car, scrambling for the few good seats that would place them under the giant umbrella and sheltered from the inevitable rain.

I opted for the counter instead and filled up my plate, eating amid the hollering children who were being fed first so they could promptly be banned to the bedroom while the adults conversed outside. I felt no need to join the chat, so I moved to the rocking chair next to the window instead, where I could enjoy the almost insignificant breeze. A barrage of hammering pounded through the screen. Workers next door were cutting and pounding and drilling in sync as they molded the frame of a brand new deck. The neighbors were anxious, no doubt, to begin the shorely ritual of regular barbecues with twenty-odd strangers they might meet on the beach. My mind throbbed in time with the sawing, and suddenly I wanted to shout across the alley, “DON’T DO IT! DON’T BUILD THE DECK! You’ll think it quite nice at first, but then, just as you are beginning to enjoy the peace and quiet, someone will unexpectedly invite twenty monsters over for dinner, and before you know it , you’ll be ready to pump thirty rounds into the next person who says ‘Pass the barbecue sauce!’”

But I yawned and said nothing, nothing at all. Instead I turned my hazy concentration to the mumble and jumble of twenty voices mingled with the disco music pouring out of the ancient radio by the stove. Donna Summer was singing about the letter someone found when it fell out of an old brown overcoat, and I suddenly had the urge to awaken my long-dead dancing ability. Where was John Travolta when I needed him, I mused.

At last I decided to join the conversation outside and forced my weary behind from the chair in which it had suctioned itself. I dragged my feet to the deck where I sank down into the one empty chair and pulled out a smoke. Joe Catholic thrust a neon-pink Bic in my face as the tall German woman went on and on and on about gambling and showboats and how much better it was to go to the Indian Reservation in Connecticut than to venture down south to Atlantic City. And just last week Trudy had won a whopping thirty-five dollars!

I took a long drag from the cigarette and sat there in silence, sipping now and then from my umpteenth cup of coffee, which probably wasn’t a good idea since I was having a problem with heartburn and found myself popping about a gazillion Tums a day. I’m sure it was more due to tension and the fact that I was living the ultimate horror than because of the acid coffee, although the coffee didn’t help much, I will admit that. I took another swallow in spite of myself and caught the middle of a conversation to my left. One of the husbands was recalling the time someone had whistled at his wife while they were riding in their convertible together. He had told her on that day, he the ever-loving husband, “He wouldn’t be whistling if he could see your huge thunder thighs.” His wife, who was sitting right next to him as he retold this pitiful tale, started giggling. I wasn’t sure why, since I (an unrelated observer) had the sudden urge to drive a six-inch stiletto heel into his groin.

Then the tall German woman started boasting about her three daughters, making sure we all knew how wonderfully fit and beautiful they were in all their skinny tallness. Imagine if you will, that Sophie can eat nearly anything! She’s got such great metabolism. I put down my coffee and looked down, sensing my own cottage cheese buns stuffed into the tiny plastic chair that often flew into my car. I felt my own Jell-O legs and thought to myself, is this what life is all about? Sitting in Beige Heaven on a damp deck with the grill still smoking an hour after all the ribs are gone? The putrid odor of stale beer wafting through the humidity as I listen to twenty dinner guests marvel about how wonderful their children were by mere virtue of the fact that they had small waists and ample chests? They didn’t once mention brains or talents or aspirations. What kind of snobby, appearance-fixated world was I caught in, where a woman’s thighs are more importance than what’s inside her head, where metabolism defines worth, and if we dress in the most stylish blouses and have the thickest, most luscious hair, then we can be accepted in society? But if we have a few pimples or big hips or wear thick glasses over our big noses, then we are nothing, we are dirt - even if we discovered the cure for cancer or worked with mentally handicapped kids - it doesn’t matter because we are ugly? What kind of world is that, I wondered.

So I sat there, becoming enraged at all the shallowness I was witnessing, crying inside because I wanted to fix all the injustices in the world and bash these twenty monsters, bash some sense into their thick heads and get them to talk about something more important than strapless black evening gowns or the gorgeous women who supposedly seduced all the husbands when they lunched at the Surf Club down the road. Something more meaningful than who has the longest, shapeliest legs. But I couldn’t even speak, I was so miffed. They were all talking around me, the kings and queens ignoring the peasant as if they knew what I was thinking, as if they were well aware of the radical feminist anger raging through my head. They knew that if they dared include me in the discussion that I’d blast their artificial words with a mind-shattering, humbling speech about the ignorance I heard in their voices. The monsters just kept going and going and going like the Energizer Bunny, chatting right around me (and I knew well why!) until someone - the husband with the emerald eyes I think - someone found the courage to challenge me.

“So what do YOU think of our first lady?” he asked, and my mouth began to water as I tasted justice, sweet as honey. AHA! They had awakened the Beast! Finally I’d have my chance to put these upper-class, superficial snobs in their place with some poignant yet angry words about the crap they were slinging. So I took a deep breath and chose my words carefully. Twenty-odd faces gazed silently with skeptical anticipation, unaware of the wisdom that would soon pour from my lips and dash their warped sense of morality into a pile of rubbled guilt.

“Well,” I began with a smug grin on my face. “She’s okay, but her new haircut has GOT to go. And that wardrobe is way beyond hideous, unless, of course, you LIKE the 70’s.”

They laughed in agreement and the murmur returned as though it had never ceased. I lit up another cigarette, took two sips of cold coffee, and leaned back in the ugly plastic chair that marred my car. Everyone else returned to their mundane conversations about Surf Clubs, convertibles, and beautiful children.

Twenty monsters came over for dinner.

I cannot deny, I am one of them.

Sweet Bliss

I’m giving up on love.

Well, love of men anyway. You would too if you were me. Another holiday has come and gone without roses or candy or a weekend getaway to the tropics. Another year has passed without a man to remark, “Honey, your butt looks fine in that dress.” No cuddles, no kisses, no double-takes when I walk into the room with my breasts covered in chocolate. Love. HA! I scoff at romantic love.

I vow to give up live personal ads during weekly status meetings at work. No more desperate pleas for the affections of my co-workers’ brothers, uncles, and sons. Dating is a thing of the past. I’m giving up on all men for a deeper, more profound emotional experience, one that transcends romance and infatuation and lust. Today I remain true only to my love….of cookies.

That’s right, I said cookies. It’s true that cookies are not big and hairy with hearts of gold, and they don’t drive a Harley like the man of my dreams. They can’t rotate tires or shovel 18 inches of packed snow like it was air. They won’t ever buy me a ring….platinum….with five or six small diamonds flanking a huge three-carat shiner in the center, size 8 ½. No, cookies cannot put their furry arms around me or plunge my toilet. But they can be satisfying in sooooo many other ways. In some respects, they are far superior to male humans.

Let me reminisce. Have I ever walked past a mere man and drooled like a delirious St. Bernard? Have my eyes ever glazed over and my legs turned to lime Jello at the sight of his delicious exterior? No, in fact, it has never happened. Not even once. But just last week I happened across the following sale at the supermarket:

Oreos. Double-Stuff. Buy one, get one free.

I went weak at the knees and could scarcely breathe. No man has had this effect on me before! But a bag of creamy, dreamy sugary lard packed between two chocolate wafers….oh me, oh my! THAT is the stuff of Romeo and Juliet. Sampson and Delilah.

My love for cookies is so deep, so strong, that I am in danger of becoming a co-dependent cookie-holic. Girl Scout cookies are the most seductive. I know for a fact that they put something inside that forces me to want them, some secret ingredient that grabs at my taste buds and reels me in like a hooked marlin. Caffeine, nicotine, heroin, something highly addictive that I cannot resist! Mel Gibson could be walking toward me, winking seductively (as many men do). He might smell of expensive cologne or clean, cottony clothes. He might even whisper his affections as he walks past, but I pay no attention! I shove Mel aside without hesitation because straight ahead, as sure as the horizon, are the little green leprechauns selling Peanut Butter Patties in front of the mall.

Last spring I came to realize just how powerful my love for cookies was. I spotted them from across the parking lot, the evil elves waving their Thin Mints around like witless cheerleaders with oversized pom poms. Before I could stop myself, I made a beeline for the table and found myself thrusting money into their faces in a drug-like frenzy, as I cried and begged them, “PLEASE! I MUST….HAVE….THE COOKIES!!!” And I realized in pathetic desperation that this was the fourth time I had visited this particular table in one week. They might as well just crumble them up and hand them to me in a crack pipe. Like the deepest love of Anthony and Cleopatra, I cannot resist cookies.

And who could blame me? You have been in love, yes? You have had your heart shattered into a million pieces. I too have had my heart broken, by a man no less. His cruelty was not infidelity, he did not cheat on me or call me bad names or harm me physically. He didn’t even leave the toilet seat up. But he betrayed me once and for that I can never forgive him.

It was a rainy afternoon. I was returning home cold, drenched, exhausted from a hard day’s work, comforted only by the thought of a bag of Chips Ahoy sitting on the counter…and a cold gallon of milk in the refrigerator. Imagine the horror, the GUT-WRENCHING heartbreak and agony I felt when I SAW THE EMPTY BAG IN THE TRASH CAN!!! And to this day, he cannot admit his wrongdoing. It was for the best, I see that now. Like many doomed lovers of the classic era, like Sonny and Cher, we were better parted, a lesson learned the hard way.

Since then I have searched high and low for Mr. Right but sadly, he is nowhere to be found. So for now I will appease myself with something greater, something that won’t watch football all weekend long or pass gas under the covers. Something that won’t forsake me for a poker game.

For now, and perhaps forever, it’s me and the Vanilla Wafer. And may your love be equally as sweet.

The Bus Ride

The school bus was sweltering that afternoon, even hotter than Great Grandma Minnie’s breath after a swig of Jack Daniels. And it smelled as bad too, like an old bologna sandwich left too long in the sun. But I almost didn't care as I dragged my sweaty behind to the very back of the bus and plopped down in the last seat, the one we called "The Survival Bucket" because it was so close to the emergency exit.

I was wearing a pair of hideous polyester hand-me-down shorts, wishing I could hand them down to someone else and get some real clothes for a change, but in truth they really didn’t show much under the knee-length t-shirt I wore to hide my chubby thighs. The vinyl cushion singed my legs, searing the sweat like oil sizzling in a frying pan. I could almost hear the hiss. I knew it would be murder when I finally had to pry myself up after the 45-minute drive, but I figured the third degree burns were only secondary to the stitches I'd likely get after the coils that were poking through the seat sliced into my bone.

Mark Lanting entered the bus, followed by a sorry group of first-graders. Why the school board had decided to combine the elementary and junior high students into one building was beyond me, but I guess I didn't care much as long as the brats stayed up front. Mark made his way toward the back and I could have sensed him coming even with my eyes shut. Apparently no one had bothered to introduce him to the adolescent art of hygiene, and his pits almost glowed with B.O. Funny thing was, he thought he was really cool and tough. He once tried to threaten me, a poor defenseless female, into vacating my permanent residence in the back of the bus, but I stuck like glue to that seat and eventually he gave up. Called me a turd. Ouch, that sure hurt.

Mark took a spot about halfway down the aisle, avoiding my half-eyed stare as he proceeded directly to the window and tried to pry it open. It only proved he was a moron. Everyone knew that in the heat of June, any window that wasn't already down was permanently stuck shut. Besides, when it was this near to the end of the school year, it wasn't very wise to position yourself next to an opening. When the bus got rolling good - about 60 mph if Ruby "The Booby" Maniac Killer Driver was at the wheel - it wasn't long before little Charlie Spinks hawked a wad of thick, green snot out one of the front windows and watched gleefully as the whooshing air forced it to re-enter the bus through one of the portholes in the rear. Pity the poor soul who happened to be sitting near the landing site and got a face full of phlegm. A few years before, when I was a mere elementary baby, it happened to me. Poor Charlie. I hope he was able to pull his underwear out of his crack without too much damage.

I prayed vehemently for Mark Lanting to be the next snot-rocket recipient as I leaned my head to the side and watched the tired parade of students line up to enter the great yellow limo. My wicked, wicked brother was roughhousing with some friends, anticipating no doubt yet another week of being kicked off the bus. I mumbled his God-given name - "Dickhead" - under my breath, wondering if the bus driver would make me sit with him again if he misbehaved. It was a cruel punishment, especially since I wasn't the one being bad. But apparently, if you don't prevent your older brother from acting like an idiot, then you are guilty of contributing to the delinquency of a stupid-ass and receive a sentence just as severe. Fortunately for me, Dickhead didn't seem to be in too nasty of a mood. And, after all, he did have one redeeming value: his best friend Barry Smith.

Barry was a god, an 8th-grade Adonis in spite of his long, greasy hair and chipped front tooth. To me, a year younger and budding with hormones, he was exquisite. I'd fantasized about him for the past few months, scribbling my married name - Willhemina Smith, Willy Smith, Willhemina Sue Lapinski Smith - over every vacant space on my notebooks, textbooks, homework papers, shoes, even the bathroom walls. Barry lived around the corner from us, so he was a frequent vision-of-perfection at my house during the after-school hours. I even made him toast once, at his request - then re-made it because the first two slices weren't quite golden brown enough for him. I would have licked the dog poop off the bottom of his shoes if he had asked. Of course, somewhere in the deep crevices of my pubescent mind I knew that he didn't really like me and he just used the crush to enslave me. But I didn't really mind.

He was grinning wildly as he bounced onto the bus, looking especially manly in his sweat-covered muscle shirt. Ironically, he wasn't particularly muscular at all. In fact, I'm not even certain that those were actually arms hanging out the sleeve holes in the sides. Could have been a couple of strings that came loose. But he was cute. It was like a slow motion love scene as he made his way toward the back. His big blue eyes blinked slowly as "Unchained Melody" played in the background of my vision. Then Dickhead shoved him from behind and for one surreal second Barry catapulted over his own feet and almost landed in my lap. Come to me, my darling, my eyes said. Embrace me and accept my love...

A blast of gas broke me out of the trance. Not gasoline gas, but the human kind, a mingle of every pungent odor I'd ever experienced all rolled into one. Barry ended up in the seat just in front of me, wheezing happily as I struggled not to puke from the combination of flatulence and lust. They really should have supplied free Lysol during the warmer months. None of the 7th or 8th graders said a word. We just smiled or gagged but didn't utter a peep because we knew the harsh reality: skunk smells his own smell first. I wasn't going to be labeled today, not with the love of my life sitting so close. I could almost feel his energy.

Geoffrey Green, the missing link and current record holder for the most grades ever held back, climbed over several bodies on the opposite side of the bus and squatted down across the aisle from me. He glanced around furtively, then pulled down his shorts and smashed his pimpled behind up to the rear window. I started giggling although it didn't really surprise me. Last year in social studies he colored a tampon with red marker and hung it on the blackboard as a gift for the substitute teacher, then flashed his teeny weenie daringly under the desk whenever she looked away. Manners were not his forte, a revelation that was quite obvious as his rear end flattened against the glass. Everyone else burst out laughing, including Barry, who accidentally sprayed saliva in my direction.

Spit... his spit. It touched me and I thought I might die right there.

Casually, as Geoffrey pulled up his shorts, I glanced around at the bus behind us to see who was driving and therefore get a better idea of what kind of punishment he would receive for his prank. Luckily for him it was Nancy Wilkins, a Janis Joplin look-alike with long straight hair and horn-rimmed glasses. I could almost picture Nancy sitting cross-legged around a campfire, passing a bottle of gin to the next hippie who exchanged it for a joint. Nancy was usually pretty laid back except on rare occasions when she let loose a lot of pent up aggression in a barrage of obscenities. We figured it was simply a case of her drug supply running out, either that or a wicked hangover. In any case, Geoff had caught her on a good day. She was shaking her head and smiling with a look in her eye that said it's a good thing for you that I'm the only one who saw that.

Ruby "The Booby" took her spot at the front of our own transport and started the engine. With her at the wheel, I'd make it home quickly, though not necessarily alive. It’s funny how one doesn't normally consider the extremely high risk in riding the school bus. Another Jeff - this one with the last name Robards - had taken a spot next to Barry (apparently it was the law in the late sixties: male babies had to be named Jeff or Steve, females were Kathy or Michelle). I knew from the moment he turned around that there would be trouble. Not fighting trouble. Jeff Robards was too stupid and too much of a wuss to hold his own there. But he was one of those kids who wasn't afraid to say anything, no matter how personal or hurtful. The week before he had asked me, in front of my little sister, what it felt like to wash "down there." Like I was going to describe some sordid scene. As if cleansing was enough to propel me into the throes of ecstasy. Duh.

"Look at those meaty legs," he mocked, looking over the back of his seat to where my calves rested, ankles hanging into the aisle. Uh oh. Here it comes. Please God, I prayed. Let Ruby hit a bump and wrap the bus around a tree. Tornado, lightening, anything to prevent this impending embarrassment. I didn't think I could take it, not with my sweetheart looking on. Oh, the humanity!

"Aren't those the meatiest legs you ever seen?" Jeff repeated, this time looking directly at Barry.

Barry snickered and my heart went PANG! Thank God my brother was preoccupied with somebody's pocketknife several rows up. If he had gotten into the discussion, it would have been all over. He knew every cut-down known to man, had a veritable encyclopedia of insults crammed into his four brain cells, all of which he had perfected on me over the years. But Jeff was on his own today, so I stood a fighting chance. As long as I didn't look like a complete fool in front of Barry.

"I am rubber and you are glue," I chanted dryly, grasping for a comeback. "Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you."

Jeff came right back, "You're not rubber, you're blubber!" He burst into laughter and doubled over as several people around us chuckled, including (gasp) my soul mate! How could it be?

I gave Jeff one of those you-are-obviously-inferior looks and rolled my eyes. If I had only known then what horrible acne he'd develop in a couple of years, I could have given him a vivid, pock-marked premonition of the hell he'd go through because of HIS looks. But I didn't know, couldn't have known, and could only sit there sideways, sweltering in the stinky heat and wishing I'd suddenly go deaf.

"You know she has a crush on you Barry," Jeff continued between guffaws.

You die, I thought as my face turned from beet red to snow white and my pressure began to rise. My teeth clenched, my fists tightened, but I held my ground. Wouldn't be very ladylike to punch a boy in front of my future husband, after all. Barry was still snickering in the corner, his greasy hair matted to his cheek in a makeshift sideburn. Slowly, my beloved recovered, leaned in, and looked deeply into my eyes.

"I'd go out with a GUY before I'd go out with YOU!"

My existence was over.

His taunt was vile and cruel, like life. If I didn't barf now it would be a true miracle, more incredible than the parting of the Red Sea, greater than Jesus walking on water. Somehow I managed to keep the soy burger and pineapple lunch down for a few more minutes. I was crushed, defeated, all love lost. My heart sank to a place beneath the molten rock of earth, deep in my soul where it would seek refuge and try to recover.

(I'd go out with a GUY before I'd go out with YOU)

This was the boy I was going to marry, the one I had dreamed about kissing. I had made him toast, for Pete's sake! And then I started to get mad. It was one thing for him to laugh at someone else's joke. But did he have to put his two cents worth in? My fists remained tight as my anger grew. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the old bologna stench, maybe it was nothing else other than hormones. But my love for Barry died in that one second when he squeezed my heart with his words. I reminded myself who I really was: the girl who had swung Sam Farnsworth around and hit his shins against the monkey bars because he made fun of her little sister; the girl who had gracefully held her head high when Amy Harris called her a fat cow and with utter dignity, deftly removed Amy's protective towel after shower in gym class. No, I wasn't going to sit there and take it any more.

Barry's words echoed through my head. I'd go out with a GUY before I'd go out with YOU!

Slowly, I lowered my feet to the floor and sat up, leaning forward until I was inches from Barry's face.

"So would I! I'd go out with a GUY before I'd go out with YOU!" I hissed back. Jeff, the instigator, began giggling madly. His laughter turned to insanity at just about the same time my knuckles made a surprise rendezvous with his nose in a great, loud THWACK! I stood up, pushed him into my now ex-crush and moved toward the front of the bus, chin up. Howling mingled with pain and blood but I didn't care. No doubt Ruby "The Booby" would make me sit with Dickhead for the rest of the ride but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It was too darned hot, and Barry and Jeff could die for all I cared.

I sat in an empty seat near the front, safe from the snot-rockets, protected from the junior high mentality that was synonymous with cruelty. I looked down at my knuckles, bruised and swollen and smeared with the blood of a moron. I didn't even have to turn around to know how badly I had injured Jeff, Son-of-Dickhead. It wasn't half as badly as he - they - had hurt me, but at least my schnoz wouldn't look like an eggplant for the next two weeks. I leaned my head against the window and waited for my punishment but Ruby didn't bat an eye. She was aware, perhaps, of how necessary the violence was, of how aptly justice had been served. I looked outside and grew dizzy watching the cows whiz by at astronomical speeds. Tears welled in my eyes but they never surfaced. In spite of my pain, I wasn't down for the count. To cry was to be defeated, so I held back the sniffles and after a while I began to laugh.

Pretty soon I couldn't stop.

Red Riding Hood's Diary

Friday, October 15
Chocolate: 3 pieces
Exercise: twenty minutes of high-impact cardio running from troll under the bridge
Mood: Frustrated

Dear Diary,
What a dreary day. Well, I suppose it wasn’t ALL bad. I did go to Rapunzel’s 40th over at the castle this evening. Mother of PEARL is she overdue for a trim! And I DON’T mean her hair! She’s got toenails like a sloth – I’d hate to be sleeping next to those feet !– and I’m surprised her husband hasn’t needed stitches after a night with that Cryptkeeper! She really needs to see a professional about that. I don’t think there’s a clippers in all the kingdom that would cut through that chitin.

Ate too much birthday cake, no shocker there. I swear, the diet starts tomorrow for sure! Aunt Gretel keeps hounding me to do that lo-carb thing, “It’s the best diet in the world!” she claims. Easy for her to say! After that little incident at the Gingerbread house, I’d surely be traumatized into avoiding sweets forever myself! Frankly, Aunt Gretel has an eating disorder whether she wants to admit it or not. When she turns sideways she all but disappears! I had half a mind to toss her a cheeseburger or two last week at the Woodland Potluck. Pretentious witch just sat there and sipped her tea, didn’t so much as nibble on an hors d’oeuvre! No “20 trips to the chip dip” like the rest of us. She really needs to see a doctor about that.

No, no, no, Diary…no trendy diets for me, I think I’ll just try to eat more sensibly. Maybe I’ll go for a walk tomorrow. I haven’t been to visit Nana since her last episode and the fresh air will do me good.

Must go. Hear the evil sMother ranting about something again. It’s well past time I ventured out on my own. Might take a look at that nice brick house for rent over on Wolf Lane.

Saturday, October 16
Chocolate: 4 pieces plus ice cream
Exercise: Leisurely walk
Mood: Indifferent

Dear Diary,

I decided to put off my visit to Nana until tomorrow. Completely forgot that she gets her hair done with Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty over at Goldilocks Locks on Saturday afternoons. Now THERE’S a joke. “Goldi”-locks my eye! More like “Goldi #452 Preference by Loreal.” Her roots are as dark as the bags under her eyes. I know I’m being catty, but I’m just calling them like they are! She gives great perms, I’ll give her that…not like Nana who once gave me her special “home” version and I was pulling out tufts of curl for months afterward. Took a week for the chemical burns to heal. Nana is a sweetheart but not the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to grooming. Hence, the weekly hair club for women.

Went off for a walk in the woods anyway, headed out around 10:00 this morning. I really wanted to leave earlier but sMother had just completed her morning fiber purge and I had to let the loo clear out for a good half hour before I could stomach the 30-second trip inside to empty my own bladder. She really needs to see a doctor about that. Mom spends more time on the thunder bucket than she does at the spinning wheel, and she’s a weaver, for Pete’s sake! I kid you not, Diary…Last winter she fell asleep on the throne in the middle of the night! I actually had to wake her. I knew I was in trouble this morning because she took the Woodland Free Press in there with her. Pretty sure she finished it too.

Weather was nice, not too hot. Even in October it can get rather cloying here in the forest. The cool weather today was a blessing for me because you KNOW how I tend to get that inner-thigh rash when the humidity is high. Talk about feeling the BURN! Ouch! Anyway, the walk started off nice, but then just as I had passed Dwarf Mansion, who should I meet but Mortimer Wolf!

I’ve heard things about him. Oh, yes, I have.

Snow White told me that he was the one who blew down Sammy Hogg’s straw house. Now, I don’t know Morty Wolf well, but I wouldn’t put him past it. You know how those Wolfs are, and Snow White isn’t one to go around spreading rumors. Really, she’s just not the gossiping kind. However, she was two sheets to the wind after those 4 shots of Jaegermeister the Prince bought her at the Stiltskin Tavern, so who’s to say if it was her talking or the booze. I mean, once she claimed to have seen a pumpkin turn into a coach at her Aunt Cinderella’s house. It’s a fact. Snow White is a big lush. She’s got more Lounge Lizard in her than a gecko sipping martinis at Studio 54.

So, back to the Wolfmeister. I’ve never been one to go for the Bad Boys, or Bad Canines in this case. Plus, Morty Wolf smokes Camel Unfilters. Camels! I mean…yuck! Nothing like a little tar and nicotine to take Dragon Breath to the next level. I think he needs to see a doctor about that.

Anyhoo, I don’t normally flirt with dirtbags…but there was Mr. Studwolf was standing all coy and macho against a tree, trying to act cool by blowing smoke rings into the air. He looked at me kind of cockeyed and said, “Hey, where you going Sweet Cheeks Riding Hood. “ And I said, “To Hell if I don’t change my ways. “ I don’t know what I was doing flirting like that but Morty must have thought that was pretty funny because he started laughing.

But then I almost puked when he showed his nasty brown teeth. Well, “Teeth” is a stretch. Maybe he was rabid, heck I don’t know. But there was something foul coming out of that wolf’s snout. I actually dry heaved (which I don’t usually do unless I’m around smoked oysters) but I don’t think he noticed because just then he inhaled a little to hard on his Camel and the lung torque threw him into a coughing spasm. I almost busted a nut laughing. What a bonehead! If he hadn’t looked so mean and mad I might have said something, but I could barely breathe from laughing anyway. I think I made him pretty mad though, because the LOSER flicked his lit butt right at me and ran off down the lane.

Hello? It’s a good thing I went easy on the Aqua Net this morning or we could have had a Fire Marshall Bill situation on our hands. Needless to say, my peaceful, meditative walk was ruined.

Sunday, October 17
Chocolate: 8 pieces plus an entire cake
Exercise: Too much. Ran home from Nana’s after traumatic experience (more later)
Mood: Excited and Nervous

Dear Diary,

What a day! I can’t believe I made it through in one piece!

Went off to Nana’s early this morning. Decided to bring her a few goodies I thought she might need: some Spearmint gum; her apron, which she left here last weekend (couldn’t get out that chili stain from the front – I think I’m going to buy her a bib one of these days); a bookmark I made for her; that unmarked package that she had delivered to my house because she didn’t want Pappa to know about it, the one that buzzes when I shake it; extra batteries for her new purchase; some strawberries I picked from the garden; four Playgirls I borrowed in August for the yearly “Girl’s Night Out”; Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum.

Loaded everything into a hideous Longaberger basket my sMother got at the church rummage sale which I didn’t want to use, but the parental witch washed my favorite backpack in bleach and burned a big hole in the bottom. Senile. That’s all I can figure.

The walk was very nice indeed. There was a pleasant breeze and the sun shined warmly through the tall trees. Nothing eventful to report along the way except A) that wiener Morty Wolf was stalking me again – couldn’t see him but his gasoline breath is unmistakable and I’m sure I saw smoke behind a rock about ½ mile from Nana’s, and B) the Three Bears have GOT to take a few of those old rusted trucks to the dump. Trashy. Just trashy.

Anyhoo, I got to Nana and Pappa’s and something just didn’t seem right. First of all, their door was ajar. Nana and Pappa aren’t the paranoid type, but I know how Nana gets about flies in her kitchen. She’s got that house sealed up like a German sausage. But, I figured maybe Pappa forgot to shut it when he went out to cut his morning wood, so I went inside.

Nana was nowhere to be seen, which concerned me a little. She has that “grandchild” radar that goes off whenever I’m in the area and usually meets me at the door with a cookie, if not halfway down the lane (Nana sometimes forgets that I’m not five anymore). But today there was no Nana to be found. After scanning the kitchen and parlor, I called out to her and heard a faint, hoarse response from the bedroom.

Oh no. Dear God, let it not be true. Nana was sick. I thought to myself, “Run and hide now, Red Riding Hood. Flee while you still can.”

When Nana has one of her “spells” she’s worse than any mental patient in town. But, if there’s one thing my mother instilled in me, it was a sense of guilt, and maybe Nana was really sick, right? So I peered into the bedroom, hoping that this wasn’t one of those “episodes” where Nana was dancing around the bedroom wearing nothing but a pink turban and bunny slippers. Can’t deal with that again, Diary. Too horrible.

Thankfully, no pink. The covers were pulled up high and I could see Nana’s nightcap poking from underneath. She sounded HORRID, like she had pneumonia or something. Her breathing was hard and labored and I feared she might really be sick – either that or her afternoon hair appointment with the girls turned into an all-night bender at the “Happily Ever After” saloon. Time to lay off the booze, Nana.

Guilted into assuming the worse, I approached the bed and freaked when I saw Nana’s eyes, all bloodshot and yellow. After her worst binge I had not seen her look so bad.

“Nana, what the he--?? What big, nasty bloodshot eyes you have this morning!”

“The better to see my sweet, succulent young granddaughter with!” she coughed.

Her nightcap twitched and I could see that it fell rather oddly on her head, like she had some sort of weird hydrocephalous or something.

“Nana, do you have a brain tumor? What big ears you seem to have today!”

She replied, wheezing, “All the better to hear your sweet, innocent voice.”

Just then she doubled over in a fit of cough. I considered using my cell phone to call the doctor but I was mesmerized by the horrid condition of my dear granny. Well, plus, I WAS roaming.

“Nana, did you run out of Colgate? What big, sharp, brown, nasty teeth you have!”

“The better to EAT YOU WITH!!!” she screamed!

Nana, chill, I thought. I couldn’t believe what happened next. Suddenly Nana threw off the covers and leapt up, growling with her arms upraised as she stood over me on the bed. At first I thought it was another spell, like the time she thought she was a chimp and tried to swing from the trees and ended up breaking her left hip. But this was no spell, Diary! I kid you not, that wheezing, hacking thing under the covers was NOT my Nana. It was that SKANKY, SMELLY FREAK MORTIMER WOLF POSING AS MY GRANDMOTHER!

Not only that…but I could see that Morty’s normally svelte shape had changed drastically overnight and in fact, his stomach was bulging and twitching like he was bearing the baby from hell and it wanted to get OUT. Then it hit me. Not only was he POSING as Nana – but he ATE HER AS WELL!

Diary, I am not an impulsive woman. But at that moment, I totally lost it. Sure, Nana has some problems with gas and she’s not altogether present in the here and now sometimes. But she’s all Pappa has in this world and after all…she IS my GRANDMOTHER!

Before that Loser Wolf could exhale another toxic breath, I tackled him off the bed and onto the floor. He tried to get up and run out the door but Nana’s obsession with cheesecake in her later years apparently helped to slow him down. I body-slammed him into the wall, then dropkicked him in the chin and followed up with a knee to the family jewels. I could have left him at that, but frankly I found it impossible to resist stomping on his thigh as he lay in the corner. Hitting him over the head with the lamp was just gravy. Unnecessary, yes. But still gravy.

“Nobody,” I told that scumbag, “NOBODY…eats…my…Nana!”

I don’t think Mortimer Wolf was in any position to hear me at that point. I guess those big ears weren’t so useful after all.

Just then Pappa came running in from the woods, axe in hand, wondering what the fracas was. He helped me open up Morty’s belly and we let Nana loose just in time. She had all but run out of air in there and was in dire need of a shower, but otherwise none the worse for wear. I hugged her tightly even though she was covered with Wolf slime and handed her the basket. Pappa tied up the “Big, Bad” Wolf and called Constable Sneezy. I suspect that after his surgery and long stint in the Big House, Morty won’t be bothering any old ladies in the near future.

And so here I am, Diary. Back home safe and sound after a grueling day in the forest. Guilty though I feel, I think I deserved that chocolate cake, don’t you???