Dear Dumb Diary #3: Am I the Princess or the Frog?
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THINK YOU CAN HANDLE
JAMIE KELLY’S FIRST YEAR OF DIARIES?
#1 LET'S PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED
#2 MY PANTS ARE HAUNTED!
#3 AM I THE PRINCESS OR THE FROG?
#4 NEVER DO ANYTHING, EVER
#5 CAN ADULTS BECOME HUMAN?
#6 THE PROBLEM WITH HERE IS THAT IT'S WHERE I'M FROm
#7 NEVER UNDERESTIMATE YOUR DUMBNESS
#8 IT’S NOT MY FAULT I KNOW EVERYTHING
#9 THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS AREN'T FOR
#10 THE WORST THINGS IN LIFE ARE ALSO FREE
#11 OKAY, SO MAYBE I DO HAVE SUPERPOWERS
#12 ME! (JUST LIKE YOU, ONLY BETTER)
AND DON’T MISS YEAR TWO!
YEAR TWO #1: SCHOOL. HASN’T THIS GONE ON LONG ENOUGH?
YEAR TWO #2: THE SUPER-NICE ARE SUPER-ANNOYING
YEAR TWO #3: NOBODY'S PERFECT. I'M AS CLOSE AS iT GETS.
YEAR TWO #4: WHAT I DON’T KnOW MiGHT HURT mE
SCHOLASTIC INC.
Dear Whoever Is Reading My Dumb Diary,
Are you sure you’re supposed to be
reading somebody else’s diary? Have you
done this before? If I did NOTgive you
permission, you had better stop right NOW.
If you are my parents, then YES, I know
that I am not allowed to call people idiots
and fools and turds and trolls and all that,
but this is a diary, and I didn’t actually
“call” them anything. I wrote it. And, if
you punish me for it, then I will know that
you read my diary, which you do not have
perMission to do.
Now, by the power vested in me, I do
promise that everything in this diary is true,
or at least as true as I think it needs to be.
Signed,
PS: Although if it’s You-know-who that’s
reading my diary, well, then, it’s totally okay. But if
it’s You-know-who, then you had better close
this book right now, or else You-know-who is
going to get a you-know-what in the you-
know-where. You know?
PPS: I know that you don’t believe in fairies or
anything, so you probably wouldn’t believe a fairy
could turn you into a frog if you kept reading. But
I’ll bet you believe in hammers and I’ll bet you
believe that I have one and I’ll bet you believe that
I know where your head is. Let’s just say that fair-
ies are not your biggest worry if you decide to keep
reading.
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Saturday 31
Isabella was over for most of the day today
and we worked out our entire future together. We’re
going to marry identical twins and live next door to
each other and have exactly the same number of
kids (nine girls, eight boys) and we’ll time it so that
they’re all the same ages as each other’s kids.
We’ll have our own clothing store but we
won’t sell anything good to people we hate. Our
husbands will be firemen or doctors or something,
but they have to be the same thing so that neither
one of us is richer than the other. And if one of our
husbands gets in an accident and loses a foot or
something, the other husband will have to cut his
off just to be fair.
I really didn’t think this was a reasonable
thing to expect from a husband, especially if
instead of getting a foot cut off it’s something like
falling out of an airplane. But Isabella says that she
is much more of an expert on guys than I am, and
that our husbands will be so totally into us that
they will probably come up with this idea by
themselves, anyway.
Sunday 01
Dear Dumb Diary,
Once again, Mom committed Dinner
against the entire family tonight. As usual, I’m up
here in my room clutching my guts wondering what
the police would call this particular food crime.
Maybe Assault with a Breaded Weapon?
Or Hamicide?
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I really don’t know what kind of meat was in
the Meat Thing,but I’m sure that Mom has a
cookbook somewhere called 101 Recipes
Using Ingredients That Shun the
Daylight.
Dad and I have been trying not to complain
about the food because a few weeks ago, Mom had
one of her Nobody - Appreciates-How-Hard -It -Is-
to- Make -Dinner-and -One-Day-You’ll-Appreciate -
My-Cooking episodes. In retrospect, Dad and I
probably should not have held our noses all the way
through dinner.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to make a
candy necklace out of Rolaids, so I can kind of
medicate myself throughout the meals. Dad’s not
so lucky.
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WARNING TO MY FUTURE CHILDREN:
If I ever
have children and they are reading my diary right
now, I want you to know, kids, that you must never
ever ever eat Grandma’s cooking. Also, My Little
Darlings, you are grounded for reading my diary, so
go find Mommy right now and tell her what you’ve
done, because you’re in for a HUGE punishment.
And I’m telling Santa.
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Since it’s Sunday, Dumb Diary, I have to work
on the homework that’s due tomorrow instead of
sitting on the couch watching reruns of reality TV
shows, which is what I’d really like to be doing. As
Dad helpfully pointed out, if I had finished my h.w.
on Friday, I could be relaxing right now. Dads are
really good at pointing out Things Everybody
Already Knew.
Anyway, we’re finishing up our poetry unit in
English class right now, and I have to write a poem
about feelings. Here’s what I have so far:
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Monday 02
Dear Dumb Diary,
Angeline rears her ugly head! Which of course
isn’t ugly, and I’m not even going to talk about her
rears. You get the idea.
You remember last week how I told you that
Isabella told me that Anika Martin, who is friends
with Amy Feinstein (who we talk to sometimes even
though she was born with the handicap of being a
year younger than us), who is friends with a girl
named Vanessa Something, who knows Angeline’s
cousin, told her that she had heard that Angeline
had come up with a new top secret shampooing
technique.
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Supposedly, Angeline has invented something
called ZONE SHAMPOOING. The idea is that
you shampoo each zone of your head with its own
distinct fragrance of shampoo. Anytime Angeline
wants to, she can flip her hair in one direction or
the other and shoot a delicious waft of fragrance
right at your unsuspecting nose. More diabolical
yet, she can sequence her hair flips and combine
apple pie with vanilla cinnamon ice cream, or
maybe a kiwi- strawberry smoothie with a touch of
key lime.
Why would somebody want to do this evil
thing?
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-
Well, Dumb Diary, I can tell you why
somebody might NOTwant to do this thing. Today I
gave Zone Shampooing a try, and when I attempted
to shoot Hudson Rivers (eighth - cutest boy in my
grade ) a snootful of Raspberry Delight (right side of
head ) combined with Coconut Madness (left lower
quadrant of head), my English teacher, Mr. Evans—
who was walking by at that exact moment—saw my
attempt and thought I was having a seizure. He
took me to the office, and the school nurse made
me lie down on the cot for a while.
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Then, at lunch, Isabella admitted that maybe
she didn’t have the story straight and might have
made some of it up. I don’t really blame her,
though — it sounds so much like something Angeline
might do that if I had made it up myself, I probably
would have believed it, too.
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Tuesday 03
Dear Dumb Diary,
I was the first person who had to read my
poem out loud in Mr. Evans’s class today. He liked
it, I think, and he said something about something
and then something else about something else, and
I think he might have continued on about something
else after that for a while, finishing up with
something about something. I know that I am
supposed to be paying better attention to Mr.
Evans, but I was trying to watch Angeline out of the
corner of my eye and didn’t hear everything Mr.
Evans said.
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I was trying to watch Hudson at the same
time out of the corner of my other eye, which, in
fairness to Mr. Evans, probably DIDlook a little bit
like I was having another seizure —kind of like the
one I didn’t have yesterday— and I was sent down
to the office again for a little lie -down time on the
cot.
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Even though Mr. Evans was pretty sure I was
going mental, he still made sure that I caught the
next big assignment on the way out the door. Now
that we’re done with poetry, we have to select a
popular fairy tale and write a report about it.
See, some teachers don’t care if you’re sick—
they still make you do your work. I heard that one
time this kid had one of his legs chopped off by a
snow blower on the way to school, but since he had
Mr.Evans, the kid dragged himself to school
anyway, and Mr.Evans is so strict that he marked
the kid partially absent.
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Wednesday 04
Dear Dumb Diary,
As you know, Dumb Diary (since I like to doodle
on your face every day), art is one of my favorite
subjects. But today in art class, Miss Anderson (the
teacher who is pretty enough to be a waitress) said
we’re going to be doing a project involving
photography, which, according to her, is art.
I think that’s kind of like saying that
recording a song is the same as singing one, but
Miss Anderson is one of the few teachers I really
really like, so I only performed a mild dirty look
when she said it.
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Had I known that she was going to buddy me
up with Angeline on the project, I would have used a
much stronger dirty look. Possibly even Dirty
Look Number Eleven.
(Note: It’s important to practice your dirty
looks and keep them numbered. Never try to mix
them. Once I detonated numbers 8 and 4 at the
same time, and it came out looking like a smile. It’s
a long story, but that accidental smile is why I
unintentionally went with my aunt one time when
she needed to shop for her big old bras.)
14
Our photo projects are going to go up in the
lunchroom at the end of the month for the whole
school to see. Angeline already had an idea for ours
and, before talking it over with me, she just blurted
it out in front of the entire class. That’s right, Dumb
Diary, She just “cuts the idea” the way some people
cut farts.
Angeline suggested that she and I collect
pictures of all the teachers when they were kids and
make a big collage out of them so that everybody
can see for themselves, I guess, just how punishing
time is on the human body. Miss Anderson loved the
idea, of course. As anybody can plainly see, she is
beautiful now so she was for sure even more
beautiful before she became a teacher (since there
is no way that working with kids can improve your
appearance).
So she told us to get started.
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I know what you’re thinking, Dumb Diary.
You’re thinking, “Wow, Jamie. You’re
totally pretty and a really good
dancer.” I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong,
Dumb Diary, but please, try to stay on the subject.
There is more to this whole art class tragedy.
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My so -called best friend, Isabella— who may
be missing that part of the body where you keep
your soul (It might be called the Soul Hole. I’m not
a doctor.) — announces that her photography
project is to put up pictures of everyone in the class
with their pet, to show how people and their pets
look alike.
“PEOPLE AND THEIR PETS LOOK
ALIKE, ” she says.
First off, my pet is a dog, which is the
international symbol for Ugly Girl, and my dog is
the dog that other dogs are grateful that they at
least don’t look as bad as.
I don’t want to say that Stinker is ugly, but
the only reason other dogs sniff him is to see which
end is his face.
So, thanks a lot, Isabella.
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PS: I tried to secretly sniff Angeline from two sides
today to see if she really is Zone Shampooing. I
couldn’t tell the difference. I don’t think there is
such a thing.
PPS: There is, however, a way to creep somebody
out by trying to smell both sides of their head.
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Thursday 05
Dear Dumb Diary,
That’s right. It’s Thursday. And Thursday, at
Mackerel Middle School and other penitentiaries, is
traditionally Meat Loaf Day. That means it’s
also the day we traditionally get all sorts of grief
from Miss Bruntford, the cafeteria monitor, for not
finishing our meat loaf.
Today, I quietly mentioned that the people on
Fear Factor wouldn’t finish our meat loaf, either.
Evidently, I said it loud enough for Miss Bruntford’s
houndlike ears to pick it up, because she came right
over and said to me, “What? What is so terrible
about this meat
loaf?”
And then, Dumb Diary, she took a bite.
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Okay, here’s the thing: I don’t hate teachers.
I actually like some of them. (One time, I even saw
one at the mall and she was buying underwear such
as actual people wear.)
But when Miss Bruntford took a bite of the
meat loaf, and her mouth was filled with the flavor
that many have described as a combination of a
petting zoo in July and a burning bag of hair, well, I
have to tell you, it was a beautiful, beautiful
moment.
I’m not even sure how to describe it exactly. I
think Miss Bruntford herself summed it up best when
she said . . .
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Friday 06
Dear Dumb Diary,
I’m not sure what happened to Miss
Bruntford. She wasn’t in school today, and there
was something so pleasant about it all that I
temporarily forgave Isabella for her stupid people-
pet lookalike idea and we ate together at lunch.
Isabella says she heard that Miss Bruntford is in the
hospital with Spontaneous Diverticulosis
or something. It’s one of those old -people diseases
that makes them talk about their bowels to others.
She says we’re getting a new cafeteria monitor
nextweek.
I never wished for Miss B. to get sick. At least,
I never actually threw more than three bucks in
quarters into a fountain when I wished I for it. But if
she had to get sick, it really is sort of like an Act
of Justice that it was the meat loaf that did
herin.
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It almost makes me believe that, in addition
to fairies like the Tooth Fairy, there’s a Fairy of Food