Just a little short of cluck

Sometimes we all just need a little reminder that it's ok to be who we are. Even if you're ugly or you're skanky or you're small, it's ok! If you believe in yourself, you can be whoever you want to be. Right? Well, maybe it's not that easy, but next time you start feeling down about yourself, remember Chuck, the courageous chicken who learned to accept himself, even if he was just a little short of cluck.

Chuck the Courageous Chicken

Chuck was always a little odd
He had a really puny bod

He had been a runt, you see
The other chickens had to be

Really mean to poor old Chuck
Who was just a little short of cluck

They went for a walk to see the barn
They tried to follow a trail of yarn

They saw some paint and it was green
And the other chickens, who were really mean

Dared poor Chuck to jump right in
And so he did, with a big ol' grin

He landed in with a mighty plop
And splashed the paint to the very last drop

He saw himself while walking back
And decided the other chickens were really wack

So Chuck accepted himself the way he was
Even through he had green fuzz

Soo, I guess the morale of the story is, if you're feeling like a loser and the other kids are making fun of you, just find a bucket of paint to jump in, and then you'll probably decide to accept yourself for who you are. Wish someone had told me that in 7th grade!

Buff Boy...I guess?

Turns out that the poem "Buff Boy" isn't so much a poem about a muscular guy as it is a poem about some things that rhyme with "hat." By far the best part is the picture I drew around the title:

So, like, what's up with his arms? Where are his joints? Is he so buff that his elbows became obsolete, leaving nothing but his wrists capable of bending or turning? If only I knew. What I do know is that this poem is pretty sub par. Too bad there aren't more illustrations to go along with it.

Buff Boy

Buff Boy has a really cool hat
He has a cat
His name is Matt
His girlfriend's fat
And her name is Pat
He hit her with a baseball bat
The ball hit a rat
Who didn't know where he was at
So he want to see a therapist named Kat
And so the rat sat
And told Kat
About the bat
Kat said it was the fault of Pat
Cause she was fat
And knew a cat
Whose name was Matt
It was all the fault of Buff Boy's really cool hat.

Ok. So this poem sucks a lot. It's also a little disturbing how emotionally and physically abusive Buff Boy is to his girlfriend, Pat. And the therapist Kat doesn't really offer much to help the situation, blaming it on Pat just because she is fat? Whatever. I guess back in the day I'd do anything for a good rhyme.

Confessions of a former NMR fanatic

Today was a special day. Today I saw, for the first time in many years, live naked mole rats. This might not sound very special, but if you knew me in 7th grade, you would understand. When I was 12, I had a very intense, very strange obsession with naked mole rats (NMRs). I shared this obsession with G, who would spend many hours a week on the phone with me, discussing all aspects of these small, squirmy, eusocial rodents. I guess we just thought they were funny, but honestly, the whole thing got a little out of control. I'm pretty sure our parents thought we were totally insane, but I imagine they were glad that the craziest thing their teenage daughters were doing was talking about naked mole rats.
Naturally, NMRs were often the subject of my poetry. There are many examples of this, all of which will be revealed here in due time. This one here pretty accurately represents my feelings.

NMR Groove

NMRs, they've got the groove
They know every single move
They can squiggle, they can squirm
It's a dance you've got to learn
N is for naked, veiny and pink
M is for mole, blind not a blink
R is for rat, the rodent comes out
Maybe that's what makes their coolness no doubt
NMR you blow my mind
A better animal I could not find
I've said it before, I'll say it again
NMR, you are my friend.

Well, my secret is out. For at least a year of my life, I was obsessed with naked mole rats. And when I saw the pile of writhing, buck-toothed, fleshy things at the Pacific Science Center this morning, I can't deny that I felt a special connection to the little guys. NMR, you will always have a special place in my heart.

The BSC: Staple of my childhood

If this blog was called "Books I Read When I Was 8," most of the entries would be about Babysitters Club (BSC) books. Further, most of those entries would be about how formulaic those books were and how I always skipped Chapter Two (in which some surrogate Ann M. Martin described the origins of the BSC) except for the parts that discussed what the babysitters were all wearing (but there's already a blog about that, so I won't go there).

But while that is a blog for another day, the Books I Read When I Was 8 apparently influenced at least one of the Poems I Wrote When I Was 12 (side note: my mom claims to this day that my poem-writing obsession replaced my BSC-reading obsession, which is a false accusation because everyone knows that just like Seventeen magazine, the only people who read the BSC series were about 4-5 years younger than the characters featured in it). So if you weren't lucky enough to cultivate an obsession with the gals from Stoneybrook, Connecticut like I did, take this opportunity to brush up on the ABCs of the BSC.

The BSC

The Babysitters Club
Are the best friends I ever had
They live in a town called Stoneybrook
Where nothing's ever bad

Stacey's from the city
She's very cool, it's true
And every day she goes out
And must buy something new

Claudia's an artist
Her clothes are very weird
She'll wear some shoes like Hercules
Or even a fake red beard [author's note: this is weird, but I also wouldn't put it past ol' Claud]

Kristy is their leader
She's bossy and she's loud
She coaches a little softball team
When they win it makes her proud!

MaryAnne's the shy one
She's caring and she cries
Once a stupid cat food ad
Made her wet her eyes

Dawn is from the coast
California to be exact
She cares about our planet
Believe me, that's a fact

Abby is Dawn's replacement
She sniffles and she snorts
She tells a lot of dumb jokes
And she's really into sports

Mallory is eleven
She's quiet and she reads
She has a lot of siblings
Seven of them indeed

Jessi is a dancer
She has lessons every week
She's Mallory's best friend
They both are total geeks

Next is Logan Bruno
He's MaryAnne's boyfriend
He's an associate member
(We're almost to the end)

Shannon is the smart one
She goes to private school
She's in a lot of clubs and things
She isn't very cool

This is the BSC
They meet 3 times a week
They are pretty stupid
But that's just what I think

Hmmm. I'm sensing just a teensy bit of animosity at the end of that poem towards my once-beloved babysitters. Maybe because I regretted wasting so many hours of my life caring about them, or maybe because when I wrote this, my own emerging babysitting career was neither as lucrative nor as fun as it seemed to be for those Stoneybrook girls (and token boy, Logan). But I have to say, if memory serves me, I think I summed up their character traits pretty well. If only I'd found a way to incorporate Claudia's fake stack of books for hiding candy (I actually have one of these-- thanks Lauren!)

Oh, limericks

Let me just say it now: I love a good limerick. Always have. In fact, I'm still pretty good at crafting quality limericks, while the same can not be said for my other poetry writing skills, which peaked when I was in 8th grade. My friend L even lets me guest post awesome presidential history limericks on her blog, here.

Anyway, here's one of a few limericks that filled the pages of my two middle school poem books.

The Misfortune of Frank

There once was a hippo named Frank
He tried to hold up a bank

But so large was his rear

That in the door he'd appear

To be stuck until his size shrank.

Ha ha, hippos are fat. And probably shouldn't try to rob banks. Especially banks with narrow doorways.

Why couldn't my poems ever have happy endings?

In a similar vein to Billy Fuzz, this next poem begins as a delightful tale about a lovable protagonist out on a mission to achieve greatness, but suddenly takes a dark, twisted turn at the end. Read on to find out what happened to poor Slappy the Salamander.

Slappy the Salamander and the Stir-Fry Crusade

Slappy was a salamander
Who was very keen indeed
She loved to eat Chinese food
And on stir-fry she would feed

One day she was walking by
In downtown New Orleans
When she came across a newstand
And bought a magazine

She opened up the magazine
to page one-oh-two
And there across the page
A headline read in blue:

"Stir-fry shortage sweeps the nation!"
It read, and with a gasp
Slappy sat down, for she was in shock
And needed something to grasp

"Stir-fry is my favorite food!
What will I do without it?
If I don't get some stir-fry soon,
I think I'll throw a fit!"

Slappy went for days
And soon the days turned into weeks
Not a single bit of stir-fry
Did Slappy have to eat!

Then one glorious day
Slappy went to the store
And what did she see before her eyes
But stir-fry, and stir-fry galore!

Slappy was so excited
She bought the whole display
She took it home in a semi-truck
And ate it by the very next day

Slappy gained 200 pounds
And soon became obese
She had to join a weight-loss program
And filled for bankruptcy the very next week.

Awww, poor Slappy the Salamander! She just loved stir-fry so much. Too much. My favorite part is when she buys a magazine, flips to the 102nd page (that's pretty way in the back, with the advertisments and whatnot) and discovers this huge headline about the shortage of stir-fry crisis.

In which I fail to emulate Shakespeare

In what I can only assume was an exhaustion-induced attempt at emulating the poetic style of Shakespeare, my 12-year old brain produced this bizarre piece. First, the original, then a translation of what I must have been trying to say.

The Wrath of Thy Sleep [original]
Thus forth thy fingers curl
I prosper in my glory
For hath the monsters do I call
In the wrath of thy sleep
For art thou here at all
Or do I whisper words of death
For thy loving self in all thy wisdom
Must proceed in the wrath of thy sleep

The Wrath of Thy Sleep [translation]
And so onward the digits of your hands bend
I succeed in my great splendor
But I have to call on the monsters
In the midst of your angry sleep
For are you even here?
Or do I whisper words of death
To you, self-loving as you are of all your knowledge
I must continue on despite this angry sleep of yours

Well, either way, it’s totally messed up.