Paperwork

When I was younger I changed schools often. During one particular switch I was asked to fill out several forms related to my person. To this day I am not sure why you would hand a 4th grader such a complicated task…but in any case…
I specifically remember two questions in particular, mostly because of the outcome of my answers.
I was first asked for my name, as forms often do. First let me say that Margaret, while not only a silly name, is incredible hard to spell at a young age. What did I write?

M A G R E T

Another question, further down the form, asked for my race or ethnicity. I examined my options and decided that none seemed to fit me adequately. My response?

X Other: White

Expectedly, my answers were cause for concern among my new educators. I was called after class to discuss my forms with my teacher.
“Why did you spell your name like that?”
“Like what?”
“Magret.”
“Oh whoops.”
“Well then, why did you check the 'other' box and write 'white' instead of simply checking 'Caucasian?'"
“Haha. I’m not from Caucasia.”

Bad Habits

When I was in the 4th grade, I still sucked my thumb...regularly. I sucked it all the time. I became extraordinarily good at completing tasks using only my right hand. I could tie shoelaces, make sandwiches and play Nintendo.

My 4th grade class had an individual restroom. I can only assume this was meant to counteract the overly misused "I have to go to the bathroom" excuses to avoid pop quizzes. One day in particular I excused myself to the restroom, dropped the toilet lid and sat down to have a good suck.

After nearly 10 minutes had passed, there was a loud rapping at the bathroom door. "Maggie Cameron!" the frog-like voice of my teacher, Mrs. Reubentisch, boomed through the door. Aghast, I dropped my thumb in to my lap, which now appeared as though it had been in the bathtub for over an hour.

I fumbled around for something to pretend was occupying my time. Bathrooms have little by way of interesting artifacts.

Again, Mrs. Reubentisch's voice carried through the 2-inch thick door, "I know you're in there! You better not be in there sucking your thumb!"

Needless to say, I quickly opened the door and returned to my seat. This is the only reason I am thankful I didn't attend upper school with anyone from Belle View Elementary.

Merry Christmas, Jack Cameron

Maggie, age 8.

A Letter to Santa Claus :

Dear Santa Claus,
I have been as good as I can be.

I would like for you to hang this picture in your house.

Don’t be mad if I do bad.

<----- I’m Santa’s BRID.

From Maggie Cameron
p.s. writ back [editor's note: this typo is intentional]
[address redacted]

<----- I am Maggie’s cat Bpersy. [editor's note: this typo is also intentional. the cat's name was Percy.]

<----- And this is me, Maggie Cameron.

Dear Maggie,

I just received a letter from Santa and he said he had a letter from you with a picture of a big bird. He wanted to know if this is what you looked like. I wrote back and said that you were a bird alright but looked like a nice little girl and not a “big bird.”
He wasn’t sure, but thought he might by-pass Louisville this year because of his heavy workload. I imagine this would be okay if it’s okay with you. I think his real problem is that his reindeer are getting lazy and don’t cover as many cities as they should. Maybe old Santa himself is drinking too much cranberry sauce.
However I will be looking forward to your visit. This time I plan to beat you at “Old Maid” blindfolded.

Love,

Grandfather

A Harmless Prank

When I was 8 years old I still believed in Santa Claus. However, at this old age, the art of retrieving presents from this unknown benefactor became a battle of wits, a game of strategy, the ultimate chess game. I had a “when the ref isn’t looking” approach to my youthful mischief and would often find myself checking around for any watchful eyes before engaging in shenanigans.

In the days leading up to Christmas Eve, I became a complete nightmare to endure. I shouted at my Grandmother concerning the dwindling milk supply. I shooed my cousins from the kitchen as I attempted to get double chip cookies "just right." I tenderly peeled carrots for the reindeer.

Morning finally arrived and I threw off my covers and hit the ground running in my red footie pajamas.
I halted to a dead stop upon entering the living room.

A small, single square of red felt was wedged into the closed fireplace screen.

I filled the house with a glass-shattering shriek.

It took every member of my family to talk me out of my room. Convinced that Santa Claus had been maimed on our property and would therefore not be returning any subsequent years, I had begun shouting denouncements of my family to anyone that would listen.

My Grandfather Jack Cameron, being unable to ascend the stairs personally, had eventually called to me from the lower landing. “Maggie! Stop that racket and get down here!”

Tears and tantrums had little affect on Grandfather. I wiped the moisture from my eyes, straightened myself up and calmly opened my door.

“Yes, Grandfather?” I said, in the most innocent voice I could muster.

“Will you stop shouting and get back down here. I put the damn felt in the fireplace.” He said in a huff. “Damn kids, can’t joke a joke, Why I….” I heard him muttering as he wandered back into the living room in search of his trusty armchair.

why is everything comically large in my non-sexual dreams?

The fact that I awake to find myself living in a cookie cutter house in a plain suburban neighborhood would normally have been alarming, were it not for the humongous steamrollers steadily making their way down the street leaving destruction and devastation in their wake. It is important to note that these steamrollers were not humongous by normal standards; they were of an amusingly obscene size. I would liken their size in comparison to the houses as that of a foot to an ant. In any case, these ridiculously large steamrollers are steadily crushing whole blocks as they quickly approach my very own house.
As if a wealth of knowledge has suddenly been downloaded into my brain, I recall the recent threats the Chinese have made to “destroy the United States” unless certain outlandish terms are met. Apparently, the Chinese have been building more than faux purses and tiny cell phones, as these gargantuan machines prove.
By some stroke of unknown genius, our house is immediately lifted by an enormous crane. My view of the lifting of the house and the crane itself is from a near cartoonish standpoint, looking directly at the earth from space with the crane perched ludicrously on top of the globe.
The crane itself appears to be nearly ¼ the size of the earth.
Were this the only unrealistic element thus far, it probably would have struck me as odd. It did not.
Moving on…The abnormally large crane lifts my house straight off the face of the earth, swings it ‘round and plops it down onto the lunar surface.
At this point I should also mention that not only do ratios of proportional size cease to exist, but also all known laws of nature regarding probability and physics are of little concern.Once safely positioned on the moon, the inhabitants of the house rejoice. This consists of me, my stepmother, and two unknown male persons that I can only assume are close acquaintances.
However, the celebration is cut short when a steamroller is seen making it’s way across the horizon approaching the house.
Panic ensues.
My stepmother fetches what appears to be a Ziploc bag half filled with blackened cheerios. She explains that it is poison, and we must all eat it…or be flattened alive by the Asian invasion.
As we prepare to swallow the “poison” the steamrollers lurch to a sudden halt. Before anyone can say “beat a hasty retreat in fear of the white devil,” the steamrollers are gone.
We rejoice.
This celebration also does not last long.
My stepmother explains that we now face certain suffocation. Apparently the astrophysics associated with humans being on the moon sans space suits is suddenly a relevant issue.
I chew my discolored breakfast cerealesque “poison” tablets.
As I choke on my last breath….I wake up.