As you know, we recently moved, and though there are few things that I can think of right now that are not hellish about the whole process, there is one redeeming factor. You have to go through tons of old stuff. OK, before I completely lose you, that is not the fun part. The fun part is that, while going through said old stuff, you occasionally stop and look at what you're going through and you find little gems. Now usually, I stand in my basement chuckling to myself, but I thought, why not share my secret mirth with others? Also, it is becoming apparent to me that the "precious" stuff in boxes that I am constantly moving and restoring serves only one purpose: to be looked at and chuckled at every two years like some sad old clown. So I thought I might give some of these poor box-doomed items fifteen minutes of blog glory.
The first item I offer you is entitled The Ramona Quimby Diary, a little book that serves as a diary for little girls and also has the bonus of featuring little excerpts here and there from Beverly Cleary's Ramona series. Now while I'm sure it would be amusing to share some of those excerpts from those books here, this blog is about me so I'm more interested in the little girl's diary part, namely, my diary. There are lots of blank spaces in the diary to write your feelings. I guess I wasn't interested in those, as they remain blank. My favorite parts were seemingly the questionnaires, and those are what I'd like to share with you. The following are sample questions from the diary, along with my answers: (my 28-year old comments are in parentheses)
This is what I like about myself: how I can read and spell and draw, and that way I'm almost the smartest kid in my class. And also make-up the best stories.
(Almost the smartest? Dang. I wonder who was smartest. I also find it amusing that I did not "make up" the best stories, I just put "make-up" on them.)
I don't like these things about myself: my length and my face. And how I'm the oldest in my family because I have to set an example for my little brother and sister.
(My length? Er... Easy there, Smith boys, you know what I meant...)
This year I hope this wish comes true: that my cat will follow me wherever I go.
(All my cats have run away, so fairy godmother, you are so fired!)
These are the foods I really hate: Hash, onions, meatloaf, floats, peppers, squash, and spices.
(I have to explain the "floats." I used to have to take penicillin for my heart murmur. For whatever reason, I couldn't swallow it as a pill, so my mom chopped it up and put it in a root beer float once. I have only recently been able to drink a root beer float without gagging.)
Sometimes I would like to write an angry letter to David Sheldon and complain about how stupid and dumb he is!
(David Sheldon lived two houses down from me. In truth, he's the one who should have the complaint with me. In fifth grade, we "went out" for a while, and then I abruptly dumped him in the middle of social studies class. Across the room. Twice. I mean, I actually mouthed the words "You're dumped," then "J/K" then again for reals. I think he may have started crying. Not one of my proudest moments. You guys, please still be my friends. I will never dump you, I swear.)
The nickname I hate most is: Bun-Buns
(My mom gave me this nickname as an infant. How she had the foresight to know about my future "junk in the trunk," I will never know.)
All in all, the conclusion I draw from my responses above is that I was vain, insecure about my butt, shirked responsiblilty, and thought boys were dumb. Oh, and vain. Hmm. Some things never change.