ASHLEY:
They will so never be cool.
BRITTANY:
Ever.
ASHLEY:
The only thing that will ever help them is a 9-1-1 massive cool transfusion.
BRITTANY:
Massive.
Venus and Zoey sit down across from Alex Shemtob at Table Ten and do their best to keep down the now cold and gray meat loaf and slumgullion as Alex exhales.
It isn’t pretty. ‖
They are not wearing art smocks.
The End.
Just so you know—if Anyone wants to know—getting slimed by a frog is unequivocally (mucho dollar word) incredible—even if The Bashleys don’t think it is.
(More on slime later if I have time.) z.z.
Three
Wait a secondo. This is only Chapter Three? (Agree. That number two was a long one. If you want, you can make this four.)
Or five. Whatever.
Mom: Zoey? What are you doing?
Me: Uh … nothing?
Me: Uh … nothing?
WRONG AnsweR, Zoey!
Mom: Nothing?
Me: (Uh-oh.)
Mom: How about cleaning your room?
I knew I should have gone with (b).
I was thinking for one second to go with (d)
if there was a (d)—which would have been:
“I’m in my room
working on my extra-credit
history report about
William Howard Taft.”
Who, incidentally, was president from 1909 to 1913, which was slash is a whole other century ago.
(Googled him too. He is not even close to being as popular as any princess, real or pretend, which is sort of sad. After all, he was a president of the United States, and he was at the dedication of the New York Public Library—the one with the cool lions—which is a pretty big deal.)
In actual poundage, WHT was 332 lbs, which is how he got stuck in his bathtub. No, not even making that up! One most serious wedgie. Can your brain even digital a naked president of the United States having to get dewedged from a bathtub? In the White House! I will probably get extra extra extra credit for this.
(Venus and I have discussed. EEEC is not nerdy.)
So, absolutely, (d) would have saved me from cleaning up my room for sure, except my mom knows the report isn’t due for two weeks, and even I wouldn’t be working on it that far in advance.
On a Saturday Morning?
When I usually stay in bed and peruse (a two-dollar word choice) my Scrabble dictionary?
Twelve days—maybe. But two weeks?
REALLY, that is just way too I’m-holding-my-stomach-from-laughing-so-hard unbelievable.
Only Simon Malachek and maybe Alex Shemtob, who The Bashleys think are both totaLLY un-you-know-what, do stuff like that—and they are much more-more-more than I am. Much.
(Maybe delete-cross-out-erase the ditto “Much.”)
Venus and I are still below fish food, chum bait, and frog scum in The World of Bashley Coolability. I stopped wearing green so they wouldn’t ribbit every time they see me. Whenever my fairy godmother gets here, I’m thinking she is going to have to immediately bippity me over to the pink side. Which, truthfully, I’m sort of worrying about because … pink is not my color. Especially when it’s pants. Then I look like a skinny stick of bubble gum.
Question:
Can a person be considered in any way cool if they look like gum?
Mom: Zoey? Are you straightening up your room?
Me: Yeesh.
Who can think about neatness when you’re concentrating on extremely important stuff like finding a fairy godmother, William Howard Taft, or where-the-what you put your favorite shirt that has been mysteriously missing for almost three weeks and you can’t find AnYWHeRE?
Stuff piles up when you are in deep thought.
I’m more naturally a piler slash multiheaper slash dumper than a folder-hanger-upper.
Hangers are way overrated anyway.
And btw, totally NOT environmental.
Interesting Factoid:
A person collects almost one thousand wire hangers in his or her life, which is enough to reach the top of the Empire State Building two times.
I’m just trying to do my part and live a green life. I keep telling Mom, “Piling may not be neat, but it is the absolute PC-EC way to go.”
That, and using sticky notes.
Do you know how many trees I’m saving by using little pieces of paper instead of entire sheets? Practically an entire forest. Truly.
I wonder if I should do my entire President Taft report just on stickies?
Mom: Zoey?
Me: (Double yeesh.)
The Official Zoey Zinevich Guide to Cleaning Up Your Room
Step 1: Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.
Step 2: Open any drawer.
Step 3: Shove. Shove. Shove.
(Trust me. It ready works. Try if.)
Actually, all this cleaning—well, sort of cleaning (I’m only almost eleven. I don’t do bathroom swishing. Please!)—has me feeling very Cinderella-ish. Which I’m thinking might be very good, because so far I haven’t hit the right century trying to contact my FG.
The only logical explanation I can think of is that there must be a whole lot of other people looking for a fairy godmother too. Since last Tuesday I’ve wished on twenty-seven stars, and still …
nothing.
I’m going to have to come up with some other ways of contacting her, because those grains of sand are zipping along. There are only 184 days before sixth grade, when you have to be you know-what.
If only she could just send me a sign. You know, point me in the right direction.
Hold the toilet brush!
(or maybe #2, 3, and 4 combined.)
Lightbulb Momento!
What is peeking out from under PILE #3?
… Sock, jeans, sock, sock, hoodie, tank, Millard (my stuffed rabbit. What? You don’t have a stuffed something? … Yes, you do), sock, PBJ sandwich (jelly still looks okay), sock, sock, striped tights, not-striped tights, plaid pants, sock, checked pants, seven dust bunny clumps (which make very interesting sculptures), sock, one dried-up paintbrush, flannels, notebook divider, a penny, blue sock, green sock, argyle sock, tee, overalls, violin case (I did Suzuki; now I play the piccolo), stale rice cake (not really sure how you tell if it’s stale or not), broken tennis racket, underwear, more underwear (clean), two jigsaw puzzle pieces, Clue card (Mr. Green), four nickels, one dime, two tissues, soccer socks (eeuw, not clean), DayGlo marker, one crumpled crossword puzzle, five wicked chartreuse stickies, seven yellow LEGOs, sweatpants, retainer (so that’s where that went), sock, sock (totally too many socks that don’t even match), a roll of orange duct tape, and—
Ta da!
My bowling shirt!
The Shirt.
In the Bedroom.
Under the Clothes.
Well, it’s not exactly my bowling shirt, since I don’t really bowl. (Except for that one time at Eugenia Vandopoulos’s birthday party when I got nine gutter balls in a row. It was a record. For Eugenia’s party and the bowling alley.)
This shirt belonged to my great grandpop. Aunt Rootie calls it “retro and very vintage.” (I think that’s good. At least it sounded good the way Aunt Rootie said it.)
Translated, I’m pretty positive it must mean “chic.” I mean, what else could it possibly mean?
The shirt is turquoise with yellow trim and with monograms front and back.
Yes, well, of course my name isn’t Ray, and I don’t know who, what, or where is
Grabowski’s Tool & Die Company.
But …
I think it works.
Sort of.
Kind of.
Maybe.
Don’t know.
WANTED: Fairy godmother with wand-waving experience in hair, accessories, and chic bowling shirts. Start immediately. Look for Zoey.
Four
181 d
ays to you-know-what no sign of you-know-who
Was it really this hard for Cinderella?
Z.Z. Interesting Info Bite:
Did you know the first clothes dryer was invented in France in 1799? I think that is really stunning information, because who knew they even washed clothes in France in 1799?
Clothes dryers, while not exactly environmentally correct, because people should be hanging clothes on clotheslines but nobody knows what those are anymore, are still quite truly fabulous.
Especially when it comes to wrinkles.
And in spite of what happened to Fluffy. She was our kindergarten pet hamster, who one day ended up way too fluffed and very dead.
Billy Sherman took her home one weekend, and somehow she ended up in the Shermans’ clothes dryer. It was all molto tragico, or tristissimo as Mrs. Temlock-Fields would say. Very sad. Venus and I cried for two weeks.
(Yes. That story might have to be a whole other chapter.)
Anyway,
it is because a clothes dryer is exactly such an incredible invention that hanging up clothes is so not necessary. Just a few spins on wrinkle-free and who needs hangers?
I keep telling Mom, “Heaping is good.”
(A clothesline is way more EC, but it’s a toss-up with using nine hundred hangers. btw: The bowling shirt looks molto excellent with no wrinkles, and definitely chic.)
The coolability meter is going to be rocked.
I think.
Uh-oh.
Here’s a story
of a girl named Zoey
who was having
one bad-hair day
of her own …
Forgot the hair factor.
It’s official.
My hair has been canceled.
Not even a fancy-schmancy barrette could save me. If I had a fancy-schmancy barrette.
If I was up to speed on accessorization, I might have a scrunchie. Or a headband. Or yarn. (Wait. Even I can’t believe I just said yarn. My brain cells have been fried from that hair dryer—which, believe me, does not work as well as a clothes dryer when you’re trying to get wrinkles out of your hair.)
Of course, I can’t find any of my hats because—that’s correct—I had to CLEAN my room!
I should have inventoried.
Or made a map.
Or sticky-noted.
Or made a map out of sticky notes.
Where is my
bucket hat?
(No. It’s not stuffed in my dresser drawers.)
But what is stuffed in the third drawer, right-hand side, is my great-grandpop’s fedora!
(which is one excellent name for headwear)
My great-grandma told me it’s spiffy—which Merriam-W says is a word for “cool,” which means “chic.”
So—I think it might just WORK!
Or
maybe not.
BAD NEWS:
It only covers the top part of my head.
GOOD NEWS: It does go superbly with the bowling shirt. Especially the hatband with the yellow feather.
And (the best reason) it’s the only hat I can find.
It may be even spiffy enough to stop anybody from connecting the dots to my …
“What’s that weird thing on your head?”
Except for Maddie.
Stay tuned for an episode of
“Breakfast with Zoey”
Cornflakes
Bananas
1 Percent Milk (I’m a little lactose intolerant.)
a Cold Egg Roll
and a four-year-old sister.
“Zoey? Zoey? Zoey? … Zoey?”
“Yes … Maddie?”
“What’s that weird thing on your head?”
“It’s not weird.”
“It looks weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“Looks weird.”
“It’s not weird. It’s a hat.”
“It’s a weird hat.”
“It is not a weird hat.”
“Looks like a weird hat.”
“It is not a weird hat. It’s called a fedora.”
“It’s a weird hat with a weird name.”
“It is not a weird hat, and it’s not a weird name.”
“It’s an ugly hat with a weird name.”
“You are only four years old, Maddie. You do
not know what is weird or ugly.”
“Yes I do.”
“No you don’t.”
“Do.”
“Don’t.”
“Do.”
“Don’t.”
“Do.”
“Don’t.”
“Do.”
“Don’t.”
“MOM!”
“Girls. Eat your breakfast.”
“Do.”
“Maddie, stop squishing the banana in your fingers.”
“Don’t.”
“Zoey, finish your cereal or you’ll be late for school.”
“Do.”
“Maddie, stop picking your nose.”
“Don’t.”
“Zoey, you don’t really need to wear that hat. Your hair looks fine.”
Doesn’t.
“And please wear your heavy coat today.”
uh-oh
“… The poofy coat?”
“Zoey? You know what? That’s even weirder than the hat.”
Note to fairy godmother: Are you watching any of this?
…BREKING NEWS … BREAKING NEWS … BREAKING NEWS
Almost-eleven-year-old now spotted outside elementary school looking
…KING NEWS … BREAKING NEWS … BREAKING NEWS
like a poofy pumpkin. No fairy godmother in sight. Story at six …
Five
Is this really only five?
Harry S. Truman Rule #5
ABSOLUTELY NO HATS ALLOWED.
It’s THE LAW.
(Pretty sure this includes fedoras.)
Technically… girls are allowed to wear hats at Harry S. because it’s considered fashion and not plain old headwear. And while a fedora is incredibly fashionable, no disputing that,
technically it was my great-grandpop’s
who technically was a boy,
which technically might mean I am
technically not allowed to wear it,
technically speaking.
Especially if Mrs. Pappazian sees me, because if there is one thing our principal is, it’s technical.
Something tells me this isn’t going to
technically meet with her approval either.
Which means technically this could be an even worse day than I thought it would be since I am more than technically having a bad-hair day and looking like a huge, poofy pumpkin.
All of that, and because Mrs. Pappazian and I had a … sort of debate last Tuesday.
Spilling: You are never ever allowed to wear a hat during Assembly. (Assembly is when the All-Purpose Room is not being the Gym or the Lunchroom.)
But when the All-Purpose Room is being used for a gym and not an assembly, then it’s okay to wear a baseball cap. However, it’s also never okay to wear a baseball cap in the All-Purpose Room when it is the Lunchroom.
(Mrs. Helferich must have written Rule #5.)
So, last Tuesday during Assembly, Mrs. Pappazian, who has extremely excellent eagle eyes, immediately zeroed in like a dart on a bull’s-eye to Walter—who was wearing a baseball cap. Walter not only loves baseball like I do (we had a long discussion one day when Venus and I were sitting at Table Ten), but he also has porcupiney hair.
From personal experience, I could tell that it was one of those very bad you-know-what days for Walter. He had to do something.
Yes! Even if rules were broken!
Therefore, dot-dot-dot, Baseball Cap.
It was all very logical.
And besides, we were in the All-Purpose Room slash Lunchroom slash Gym. Walter could have easily gotten all those slashes mixed up.
But Mrs. Pappazian didn’t want to hear any l
ogical explanations. She made Walter take off his hat in front of the whole entire school. And then kids started to laugh because his hair was sticking out all over the place. His face got all pink and splotchy, and his neck and arms started to polkadot. Walter was changing colors right before our eyes! Nobody should have to get all pink and polka-dotted over bad hair.
Somebody had to say something.
So I did!
I stood up in Assembly and shouted,
“I Object!”
(That’s lawyer talk from my favorite TV show that used to be on past my 9:30 bedtime but now is on almost every channel all day long. You can’t miss it.)
I told Mrs. Pappazian that Harry S. Truman School should have an “open hat” policy for everyone.
“Fair and equal!
Bedhead equality!
Justice for all!”
(I think President Truman would have wanted that from a school named after him.)
DUN DUND
(sound effect)
Mrs. Pappazian didn’t agree.
Not about Walter.
The hat.
Or the objection.
DUN DUND
(Yup. She definitely doesn’t watch Law & Order.)
So now besides looking like a poofy, orange pumpkin and having my own extremely bad, porcupiney-hair day, Mrs. Pappazian is probably waiting for the moment when she sees me wearing this hat.
Even if technically the hat is called a
fedora.
The thing is … Mrs. Pappazian just has no idea what a look at one of my bad-hair days could do to her.
DUN DUND
… BREAKING NEWS … BREAKING NEWS … BREAKI
NG NEWS … BREAKING NEWS … BREAKING NEWS …
Six
I give the arms-stretched safety patrol signal to the last first graders, then wave them across the sidewalk. “Always remember, safety first.”
Geek Chic Page 2
