Those Wonderful School Years

So my dad cleaned out his basement and found a bunch of shit that he thought a few of us in the family might enjoy having at our own homes.  My treasure?

That's right.  A book chock-full of my elementary school day memories!  YAY!  I have to admit - when I saw it, I was filled with emotion and wanted to sit and look at it right that instant.  I recalled how I used to look at it as a little girl and how the flood of memories of years gone by would overcome me.  I just KNEW I would have that exact same experience going through this little gem at this stage of my life.  But since it was the prodigal son's graduation day, I decided to put it aside and look at it another time.  I know.  Pretty selfless of me, but sometimes I have those moments.  A few days passed and I got the book out and opened it with great anticipation.  Here are a few of the awesomely rich memories I found inside this book:

Yep!  That is totally a letter from THE WHITE HOUSE!!  Check it OUT!!!  It was a response to a letter I wrote to President Nixon in 1974.  Don't judge. To prove it - here's a picture of the letter (because the fucker sent it back to me along with his well-crafted response by an aide):

Notice my Emily Post etiquetteness in the letter - Dear Nixon.  Not President Nixon.  Not Mr. Nixon.  Just Nixon.  We were close like that and so it was okay for me to just address him as Nixon.  Also, to prove to Nixon just how up on current events I was - notice my last line:  "Rusha Nixon".  It took me a few hours to figure this one out as I was going through this book of scraps memories.  Don't judge.  I was not a bright child.  As a matter of fact, my report card that same year proves it.  Which is a nice segue into THAT year.  The year from HELL.  Second grade.  It all started with that wretched teacher of mine - Bitch From Hell.  Her name was Margaret Riddick.  I don't have a picture of her but she looked something like this:

Shut up.  She had bright orange hair and big giant red lips and looked just like that.  And also, my little memory book thingie says RIGHT HERE that I wanted to be an Artist when I grew up.  Clearly I'm living my dream.  Don't be a hater.

Anyway.  I remember I hated her so much and later in elementary school, I recall she fell down during recess and got a bloody face and I kind of felt bad for her (after I got done laughing my ass off at her) and as I grew older, over the years, I forgave her and got over my ill-feelings toward her.  Now that I see my report card from her again - I'm sorry I ever wasted any part of my life on coming to terms and forgiving her for a couple of reasons.

#1:

Needs Improvement in practicing self-control in halls, classroom and playgrounds?  Seriously?  And also in showing good sportsmanship?  You fucking fell down on the sidewalk while walking.  What.the.fuck do you even know about how to act on a playground? 

#2

A C+ in Writing?  Fuck you.  You stamped your name on my report card with a rubber stamper - so you tell me who the fuck up in Writing is?  And an "S-" in music?  I don't even know what an "S-" is because it's not on the "Explanation of Marks" section so clearly you don't fucking follow direction well either, now do you?  I assume it means you thought I sucked at Music?  Whatever.  I'm good at it - ask ALL my friends and family.  GOOD AT IT.  And what's this "S" bullshit in Art?  Did you not see my stated wish to be an Artist when I grow up?  My artistic skills were awesome back then and they still are. 

Okay.  I'm not over it. And I'm not going to forgive her a second time.  She was a horrible, horrible woman.  Hopefully she was fired.  And I'm pretty certain she's dead by now - likely in hell telling everyone else how horrible they are and how much they all suck ass and giving them a lecture. 

There are lots of other little treats in this book, some of which, even while holding and perusing, jog absolutely no memories whatsoever.  Likely they're not even my things - just random shit my parents stuffed in the book to make it look like they were attentive and sentimental to my formative years.  There is, however, what appears to be a letter from my cousin that I cannot recall if I ever responded to or not:

I hate it when I write someone and they don't respond, so I'm sorry Reg.  I will respond now to this sweet letter you wrote me in 1974:

Dear Reggie,

My arm does feel better, thank you, however it was my wrist that I broke.  And although it appears to have healed from the initial break, age and abuse of my body has resulted in a weakened joint and general aches and pains have taken over.  It WAS horrible.  Thank you for your obvious  concern over my accident, however it was not the last time I fell down the stairs and actually this misstep only taught me how to be more graceful in what would soon become a life-long weekly occurrence.  Regarding school.  Yes, I did return.  I even went on to graduate High School and several years later I also graduated from College.  Since I'm still paying off my student loans from that last little stint at college because I chose to drink away my free ride wasn't properly focused, I won't be returning anytime in the near future to obtain my Masters or PhD though.  As it's now been nearly 36 years since I was in the hospital with this broken wrist, I really don't recall what it was like there.  Although back then they likely allowed people to smoke and drink in the hospital so I'm guessing it was much more pleasurable less sanitary than a similar stay in today's world might be.  I hope to see you soon also!

Love, The Bleach Blonde

And thank you, Dad.  For bringing this book to me.  I'm sure everyone reading also thanks you.