Kiki: Do I look more in shape?
Kiki’s Mom: Sure. Why do you ask?
Kiki: Because I just won an eBay auction for a kickboxing workout DVD!
Kiki’s Mom: Then you definitely look more in shape.

Kiki pokes around in the kitchen and finds two cookies.

Kiki: Are you planning on eating these?

“Hey, I want you to take a look at this bill,” my mom called over to me.

I felt a pang of fear. Last time she said that, we had gotten charged $60 for a 20-minute phone call I had made to my Swiss grandmother. Back before that, when I was 13, I had been playing adventure games through an online subscription service, and had racked up 100 hours online. My account covered 10 hours online per month, and they charged $3 for each additional hour.

“Is it me? Did I ruin our lives?” I asked tentatively.

“No, no, it’s not that. This bill has nothing to do with you,” she assured me. “It’s a funny bill.”

I’m digging this list of Evil Overlord resolutions, so much so that I’m going to post it, along with my current favorites, before even reading half-way through:

From The Evil Overlord Devises a Plot
2. My ventilation ducts will be too small to crawl through.
5. The artifact which is the source of my power will not be kept on the Mountain of Despair beyond the River of Fire guarded by the Dragons of Eternity. It will be in my safe-deposit box. The same applies to the object which is my one weakness.
8. After I kidnap the beautiful princess, we will be married immediately in a quiet civil ceremony, not a lavish spectacle in three weeks’ time during which the final phase of my plan will be carried out.
35. I will not grow a goatee. In the old days they made you look diabolic. Now they just make you look like a disaffected member of Generation X.

This just in: So I go to check out Fighting Sail and hand it to the librarian bookkeep. He examines the spine, then scans the barcode. “I thought this was a reference book,” he comments, handing it to me. “Now that I know it isn’t, I might check it out myself sometime.”

Update Number the Second: So you know how I made a big deal out of selling my textbooks online instead of at the student bookstore, all so I could make $26 instead of $17? So I get a confirmation email from Textbooks’R'Us, and they inform me that I’ll be getting $22. It turns out that I had accidentally indicated that I had two copies of one of the books, so my preliminary quote of $26 was based on crazy talk. So all this hooplah for $5. I guess it just paid for my grilled cheese sandwich.

Now that I’ve found occasion to use steamloller.gif and lollerskates.gif on my website, I can officially say my life is complete.

Today I will be checking out a library book entitled The Seafarers: Fighting Sail, by A.B.C. Whipple. It was published in 1978, and a cursory web search will summarize it thusly:

Horatio Nelson was 12 years old when he became a midshipman and turned out to be Britain’s chief protector, indeed, its saviour. This book tells of his initial enlistment into the navy and uses his naval career to examine the British Navy and its ships in the 18th century.

Why my sudden interest in all things nautical? Granted, the cover’s a little dusty, but the only thing that interests me about this book is that it measures 285mm x 240mm.

You see, I was a bit tired when I was packing my backpack last night, and I completely forgot to pack my notebook, my class readings, or even the paper that’s due today. I’d like to blame my forgetfulness on fatigue, but I wouldn’t be totally surprised if it’s a manifestation of spring fever. No more pencils, no more books/No more teacher’s dirty looks, apparently.

Anyway, I realized my mistake when I was reprinting my paper on the school’s laser printers, because I knew my inkjet copy looked ghettofabulous… the inkjet copy that I didn’t even bring! At least I now had a copy in my hot little hands. But without a notebook, what’s to prevent it from getting wrinkled and squished in the cavernous recesses of my backpack?

I could go buy a notebook, but it seems like a stupid reason to own a school-logo-branded piece of cardboard. I generally go out of my way to avoid emblazoning myself with faux school spirit. But wait! I’m in a library! There are shelves and shelves of lovely hard cover books I could house my paper in!

I began scanning the shelves. Never was there a better time to judge a book by its cover! Fighting Sail beat out all the rest with its thick cover and generous proportions. Harvard Business Review: Boards of Directors (1976) was just too narrow.

So Fighting Sail it is! Thank you, A.B.C. Whipple, for your literary accomplishment. It’s helping me out in a serious pinch.

Now I just need to dig around in the recycling bins until I find enough blank paper to take notes. You can call me Kiki MacGuyver.

I don’t know when it happened, when those halcyon days of my youth faded like the petals of a rose that’s just about to rot. All I know is that I’m suddenly ancient. Witness the evidence:

• When telemarketers call (damn you, ineffectual Do Not Call Registry!), I used to be able to weasel my way out of conversations with the old standby, “I’m sorry but my mom and dad aren’t home right now. Can I take a message?” Now, seeing through my feeble ploy, they ignore me and continue their soliloquies.
• Most of the students in my graduate program are in their 40s and 50s, so I like to fancy myself one of the whippersnappers. A few weeks ago, a middle-aged student was comparing generational differences in technology usage, and he asked, “Hey, you younger students. Have you ever listened to an iPod or watched T.V. while writing a paper?” I figured he was partially addressing me, but he was looking at the girl next to me, who’s 2 years younger. APPARENTLY I’M TOO ANCIENT TO ASK.

I’ve also been looking very official lately.

• Last weekend I was crashing around through Ikea, trying to stuff my cart with as much merchandise as possible before the store closed in fifteen minutes. As I paused to finger the fabric of a cute, red, pink, and green duvet cover, a man addressed me. “Excuse me, do you work here?” “Am I wearing a bright yellow shirt that says Ikea?” I wondered to myself.
• Today I was in PetSmart, minding my own business, when a lady walked up and impatiently asked, “Do you work here?” Do employees typically walk around with a 40*, shopping for cat toys?

* 40 oz SLURPEE, that is.

As a substitute teacher, some days I feel like I’ve seen it all. Fist fights, asthma attacks, clique wars, spitwads… There have been a lot of spitwads. Despite it all, I still find amusing surprises in my study of the preteen animal.

• In social studies, the kids were learning about world religions. A smattering of kids were volunteering to read sections out loud to the class, but when we came to the paragraph about Shi’ites and Sunnis, every hand was waving. Every single hour! It finally dawned on me that kids weren’t as interested in Islam as they were in reading what looked kind of like a bad word. They got pretty revved up about the word kibbutz, too. “Kih-BUTTS,” they giggled. Few things, apparently, are more hilarious than your classmate reading the words “Shi’ite” and “kibbutz.”

• I was subbing for a math class one afternoon, and when the kids got back from lunch, they were tittering about 1:00. “1:00!” they hissed at each other. “Don’t forget 1:00!”

  “What happens at 1:00?” I asked a boy in the front row. Their class wouldn’t end until 1:15, so I figured they had hatched an exciting and deviant plan during lunch to try to trick the sub into letting them leave early.

  The boy seemed taken aback that I had overheard him reminding his friends about 1:00. “I’ve already said too much,” he replied mysteriously.

  Normally a secret doesn’t last too long, because when you’ve got thirty 12 year olds milling about, someone’s bound to spill the beans. There’s usually a kid who feels so smug about his cleverness that he has to confess, like a movie villain who has the hero at gunpoint. There are usually a good share of tattlers, too!

  Nonetheless, the kids kept their lips sealed. At 12:45, they began to get restless. “1:00!” they mouthed to each other.

  At 12:50 they were wriggling in their seats.

  By 12:55, all eyes were glued to the clock.

  At 12:59, the room became dead silent. (This NEVER ever EVER ever happens.)

  By 12:59:30, the tension was palpable. “30 seconds!” a girl announced, as if someone could get by without noticing.

  12:59:45. Amused, I join the clock watch. “15 seconds!” I call.

  12:59:55.

  12:59:59.

  1:00:00. Thirty wooden thuds, as every kid drops a pencil at once.

  Sheer comic gold. The kids are clutching their stomachs, laughing at their DEVIOUS, DEVIOUS plan. I laugh too. Then they suddenly sober up. A nervous-looking girl approaches me. “Are you going to leave a really bad report for our class?”

  All eyes fix on me. I chuckle. “For what?”

  Visibly relieved that I wasn’t going to tattle on them for their cute staging of the most old school prank ever, the kids begin planning an event for 1:05.

  “1:04!” I announce.

  When the hand hits the twelve, every kid begins coughing. Then they laugh.

  At 1:10, everyone drops the math book.

  At 1:15, I was sad to see them go, but word spread like wildfire through the hallways. As the next batch of kids strolled in, I overheard kids saying, “Pencil drop at 1:30! Tell everyone!” One boy even made a sign to hold up to the class. At 1:30, a handful of pencils clattered to the floor. They tried, but they just didn’t have the same pizzazz or subtlety. It was a truly lackluster performance.

I wouldn’t recommend subbing to anyone. It’s a pretty stressful, thankless job. But I have to admit, some days, the kids are pretty damn cute.

Today I decided to make my millions by selling back textbooks from last semester that I don’t anticipate reading again. I piled them into a Target bag and lugged them to campus. At the student bookstore, the clerk shopkeep was very helpful and informed me that I was better off burning them for kindling than returning them today.

“You’ll only get $2 for this one. You paid $23,” she told me sadly. “Maybe you should hold onto these until next fall, because if there’s a class that will be using them, we’ll pay you about 50% back.”

50%! Golly gee willickers! It was even more than I could have hoped for. If I sold them now, they’d only be worth $17, but if I waited, I could stand to earn 52 smackaroonies. I thanked the lady for her candor and left with my Sisyphean burden.

I walked to the library and began plugging my ISBNs into bigwords.com, which conveniently compares online textbook buyback prices. TextbooksRUs, despite its unfortunate name, offered me $26. Since I knew the class won’t be offered again for at least a year, and since new editions have a habit of making older versions obsolete, I figured I’d better cut my losses and run.

The post office was only half a mile away, so I decided to get rid of these blasted books once and for all. I printed off the receipt and a handy pre-paid Media Mail label, and set off on foot. I had the label, but what was I going to tape it on? I weighed my choices. I could pay $3 for a box, or I could MacGyver it and try stuffing my books into a free Priority Mail box.

Naturally I went the ghettotastic route. I figured if I scribbled out the “Priority Mail” logo emblazoning all 6 sides of the box, maybe they’d let me get away with it. Whenever I’ve sent anything Priority Mail, they’ve been pretty nice about taping up the sides, so I figured taping on a label wouldn’t be too big of a deal.

I crammed the books into my repurposed Priority Mail box and stuffed some newspaper inside for padding. (The newspaper came courtesy of the student union, thank you very much. Is it bad that the only time I’ve ever picked up the student paper, it was to use it for packing materials?) I carried my box up to the counter.

The clerk peered down at me through his Benjamin Franklin spectacles. “There’s a problem,” he informed me. “You’ve got a Media Mail label, and that’s a Priority Mail box.”

DUN DUN DUN!

“Could I maybe just scribble out where it says Priority Mail?” I asked hopefully.

“We’d still know it was a Priority Mail box,” he replied, with the kind of weary patience one reserves for idiots who try this kind of thing every day. Apparently I’m not the first genius to notice the “buy a regular box for $3 or get a Priority Mail box for free” loophole. “Your cheapest option would probably be to buy a padded envelope. Then you wouldn’t have to buy tape,” he added kindly.

I thanked him and went to the back of the P.O. where they sell the mailing supplies. I grabbed a $2 envelope and repacked my books. Ben Franklin was busy, so I sheepishly handed my envelope to a different clerk.

“If I buy this envelope, would you mind taping this label on it?” I asked her.

She looked at the label in my hand. “That’s a Media Mail label you’ve got there,” she winced. “You really should tape it on yourself. You can go buy tape back there.”

At this point I’d be spending $2 for an envelope and $3 for 24″ of packing tape. $5 would kind of cut into my amazing windfall of textbook money. “I guess I’ll wait until another time,” I blushed.

I piled my books back into the sagging Target bag and began the half mile trek back to campus, dejected and defeated, and not a little embarrassed. I learned an important lesson today. When you send something Priority, the Post Office treats you like a prince. They give you free boxes, free tape, free champagne and caviar, and possibly free lap dances. When you try to send something at the Media Mail rate, however, you might as well have the plague. Not only will you be buying the boxes and the tape, but you know darn well that there won’t be any lifeboats left for second-class citizens like you down in the steerage.

I also learned that I probably would have been better off just taking the $17 the bookstore had offered in the first place.