Schooled 4.0

by Deena Bright

  Smiling, Char nods, and says, “Happy tears.”

  I nod, my eyes pooling as well, “Happy tears.”

  Dear the Ritz Carlton in Cleveland, Ohio:

  My husband sprung for a room in your “ritzy” establishment the night we got engaged. He brought me to Cleveland for a fancy-schmancy dinner and proposed. We went back to our hotel room and had champagne and strawberries. Want to know what I remember the most? The next morning, he was still asleep. I went down to the hot tub and bawled my eyes out—for over an hour. I had been DYING to get engaged. I fantasized how he’d ask me, what he’d say, and what the ring would look like. When I woke up the next morning, I was so depressed. I felt like everything that I’d been dreaming about and fantasizing about was over and there was nothing to look forward to. I was devastated. He found me crying in the hot tub and told him everything. He laughed and said, “I think you might have fun planning and fantasizing about your dream wedding.” Guess what? He was right. However, the day after our wedding, the same thing happened!

  Dear Stephen King (author of Firestarter):

  I received a ton of backlash for being a teacher and writing an erotic book. I wonder, did anyone ever think you were a murderer because you wrote scary books? Was anyone ever afraid of your car, because Christine was a murderous vehicle? Did people think you could start fires with your mind and bring you up on arson charges? I mean if you thought it and wrote it, you must be doing it, right? It’s amazing how closed-minded a “supposed” educated nation is. No wonder, I hide in my house behind a keyboard. The general public is scary—scarier than your fiction.

  Dear Drew Barrymore (from the movie Firestarter):

  That was a scary-ass movie. I think my parents took me to see it. (See earlier Accolades if you didn’t get that!) Man Drew, you had some pretty creepy roles as a kid, but God, do I love you now. You’re really fun and down-to-Earth. I think! What the Hell do I know? I feel like you and I could be friends. Wanna go out?? My favorite movie that you’ve ever been in is… drumroll… Boys on the Side. Damn, I love that movie. I bet that was a fun movie to make. Also, are you and Adam Sandler pretty tight? You seem like guy/girl best friends in all your movies. In Blended, there were some scenes when I thought you were trying to hold back your laughter. (Ya know, because I know you so well and all.) Readers, if you have never seen Boys on the Side, then you really need to “Net-flick” that bitch.

  Dear Sam Walton (the founder/owner of Wal*Mart):

  I’m going to start by being 100% honest. I don’t hate you. We always stop in and get candy before we go to the movies. I much prefer paying the $1.00 for a box of Goobers at your store than paying the $3.50 at our movie theater. We actually keep a large, empty Coach purse in my husband’s Jeep to smuggle in our Wal*Mart-purchased contraband into the movie theater. Readers, Goobers are my favorite candy. Now that I’m going to go to signings, make sure you don’t come chocolate-covered peanut empty-handed. They’re my crack.

  Truthfully, one year I gave up Target for Lent. (I have a Target shopping problem.) Anyway, I had to do all the kids’ Easter baskets with stuff I bought from Wal*Mart. They were just as nice and probably a little cheaper. Just sayin’…

  Dear Brown-Forman Corporation, owners of Jack Daniels:

  I don’t drink you. Sorry. People do, so my characters do. However, I will say this: I love the Jack Daniels chicken and shrimp from T.G.I.Friday’s. That is some damn good sauce—whatever it is. So, since you’re in that sauce, I dig you real good!

  Dear Beyonce:

  You’re pretty damn hot. I’d do you… if I were in to girls… and not married. My husband would for sure. I like your fun, dance-y songs. I wish you could teach me how to move like you. You’ve got made sexy dance moves.

  Dear Put-In-Bay:

  I have not been to your drunken-party island since I was like five-years-old. My parents took us to PIB when I was a kid for a long weekend. All that I really remember is that there was a place to rent/ride bikes and my parents wouldn’t let us. That’s all I remember. Well, I guess I also remember wondering why in the mother-fuck we were there when we could’ve been at Cedar Point all weekend. My parents were whack. I recently told my husband that he and I should go for a weekend of alcoholic frolicking. Do you know what he said? He said that we were too old. So therefore, I was too young when I went and now I’m too old. What the Hell is that about? My husband said that it’s a 20-something island. I don’t even know what that means.

  Dear Robert Frost (“Fire and Ice” poet):

  I like your poems, because they’re easy to understand and easy to teach. You’re about the only poet I don’t think was strung out on acid-soaked crack. Thanks for writing in a coherent manner.

  Side story: I was the high school’s prom advisor for four years. I always came up with HOW I wanted to decorate and then picked a theme for the prom. The students on my committee never fought me on it, because they knew I was the shit and could rock a kickass prom.

  One year, I chose a Fire & Ice theme, wanting a ice sculptures and burning torches and crap like that. We went hard-core decorating on it. It was by far the most visually-pleasing and coolest prom I planned. However someone should have told the middle-aged, mother of four about the “Fire and Ice” condoms. (Apparently, they burn and cool at the same time???) Parents went apeshit, because they thought I was going to pass condoms out as favors. (I was never planning to do that; I never even knew they existed until after the fact.) People have a tendency to jump to conclusions without getting all the facts first. I did however give my assistant principals a box of them as gag.

  Dear Shonda Rhimes (writer of Grey’s Anatomy):

  Well, here’s the problem: I never really watched your show. When you first started, you were on Sunday nights at 10:00 p.m. Sundays were always my “go to bed early night” since I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. every Monday morning. So, I watched Desperate Housewives and went to bed. However, I would always say to my husband that this was going to be a show I regretted not watching—and I did.

  Now, a couple of years ago, I was home during the day on maternity leave. I caught a marathon or something on Lifetime maybe. Anyway, I watched like four episodes in row, not knowing any characters or anything. There was a shooter in the hospital. Does that episode ring a bell? Well, there was this girl who was about to be shot in the face, and she seemed young and immature (I don’t know any of their names). She started telling the shooter her name, her address, and her parents’ names. Then she said, “I’m somebody’s daughter” over and over again. Well, for those of you who don’t know my “real” story, both of my parents died before I was 21-years-old. Remember when I said I was on maternity leave? Couple that chick’s comments with the fact that I had a bit of post-partum and fast forward to 5:00 p.m. when my husband got home and I was crying in the middle of my living room in fetal position, repeating the words: “I’m nobody’s daughter.” It was not pretty.

  Dude, you’ve got quite the following, so you’re doing something right. I hear this is your last year? That’s sad, I wish you all well. May you spend this last season making more people sob into their carpet.

  Dear Ernest Hemingway:

  I just love your writing style. I love your short sentences that say so much. There is so much depth in your tiny, concise sentences. I like that. I don’t write like that, but I still appreciate it.

  Dear Leo Tolstoy:

  I’ve never read any of your work. I think it’s mainly for smart people. I’m not that smart—I just play a smart person on Facebook. Plus, I’ve got a pinched nerve in my neck, so I’m pretty sure War and Peace is too heavy for me to carry. For those of you who have never “Googled” Tolstoy, please do so right now. He looks exactly like Rumpelstiltskin. How do I know? I just “Googled” him—duh!

  Ps. Guess how many times I had to type Rumpelstiltskin before I got it right? Once! Yeah baby, I got it on the first try. However, it still has that red underline-y thing, so I “Googled” it to make sure. I was
right. Boom! (God, I love Google.)

  Dear Denise Holly Ulinskas (writer and Illustrator of Holly Hobbie):

  I reference Holly Hobbie a lot in my daily life—probably more than anyone on this entire planet. If you don’t know who Holly Hobbie is, then guess what you should do? Damn straight, Google her. Here’s the situation: my husband love love loves prim and proper. (I’m definitely closer to Char on the spectrum than I am to prim and proper.) Anyway, he is in love with the wholesome-looking girl type. He’d totally lift Holly’s krinolin and bend her over a butter churn if he could. I’m pretty sure he’s got visions of Laura Ingalls archived in his spank bank.

  Shit, guess what I found out (from Google)? Holly Hobby is based on the author and illustrator’s life. My husband is totally going to leave me for her. I don’t care that she was born in 1944. She’s his ultimate turn-on.

  Dear LeBron James:

  First of all, I truly hated you—even before you left Cleveland. I’d heard some disparaging things about you and thought you were an arrogant ass. Then when you decided to leave the Buckeye State, I wasn’t phased at all. It didn’t matter to me one way or another. I was like “good riddance.”

  When all that chatter started about you coming back, I dismissed it and rolled my eyes, thinking “that S.O.B’s never coming back here. He’s a glory-hound and doesn’t care about anyone other than himself.” However, all of your actions since the announcement have proven me wrong. You’re really growing up and turning into a pretty upstanding man—as far as I can see. As a former teacher, I should’ve known better than to judge you and begrudge you for the things you did and said as a child. Psychologists say that the human brain isn’t fully developed until someone is 25-years-old. I jumped the gun on my judgment. I should’ve given you more time to grow and mature before writing you off. LeBron, I apologize. Welcome back to the Buckeye State.

  Dear Ashton Kutcher and Punk’d:

  Punk’d is hysterical. I love when people play pranks on people. My babysitter and I want to do funny shit all the time when we’re driving. (I consider my babysitters “friends” and not really “employees.” I actually hang out with them.) Anyway, every time someone pulls up beside me at a stoplight with his/her window rolled down, I want to throw shit in his/her window and drive off while my babysitter tapes it. I think it would by hysterical. So far, we’ve come up with: shoes, chicken nuggets, bouncy balls, tampons, etc. We have never done it, but damn do we want to.

  Ashton, your speech last year at the Teen Choice Awards was phenomenal. I made my students write a paper on it last September. What a message! Did you write that speech or did someone write it for you? It was superb. Readers, if you have not seen it, then you should YouTube it! (I didn’t say “Google.”) It is pretty short and so inspirational and perfect for young ears.

  Dear Tom Whitlock (writer of the song “Danger Zone”):

  Your song is the perfect song for the flight scenes in Top Gun. It really gets you revved up for the movie and ready to watch some hot guys in action. I’m a Kenny Loggins fan, so I like that he sang the song, too.

  Dear Jim Cash and Jack Epps, Jr. (writers of Top Gun):

  When you wrote Top Gun did you plan on writing a movie that women were going to swoon over for years? Did you write that volleyball scene for all the horny, unsatisfied middle-aged women of America? God, even when I was in seventh grade, I liked that scene. As an pre-pubescent teenager, I recognized perfection when I saw it, and there were some fine specimens of male perfection on that sand volleyball court.

  Let me tell you about my experience at the movie theater. I’d asked all my good-good friends to go to the movie with me one Sunday afternoon. Nobody was allowed. Finally, one of my “eh” friends was allowed to go. However, she’d already seen the movie on Friday with her parents. Just as the plane started throttling, she said, loud enough for rows and rows of people to hear, “This is where Goose dies.” I knew that I didn’t really like her, but after that, there was no need to continue the façade. Our friendship was over. Can you imagine ruining a scene like that for someone? What a bitch! Good riddance!

  Dear Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey (writers of Grease):

  You two, just wow! You really wrote a timeless piece of culture. My boys are 11 and 9 years old, we just recently introduced them to the movie, Grease. My 9-year-old has been singing “Grease Lightning” for three weeks now. My husband and I have two songs that we sing whenever there is a Karaoke machine somewhere, and “Summer Loving” is one of them. (I sing the BOY parts; he sings the GIRL parts!) It’s amazing all the underlying “dirty” parts that I never knew about as a kid. I like that. They are subtle, little drops of smut—ya know, kind of like how I write! Ha!

  Dear Curt Cobain and Courtney Love:

  I’m so sorry, but I don’t really know anything about either one of you. Curt, I’m terribly sorry about your early, too-soon demise. I feel for your family and friends. Any life lost is a life to mourn. Courtney, one time when you were on Howard Stern, you had me rolling. You’re a pretty fun and badass chick. I’m sorry you had to endure such horrific obstacles. My heart is with you.

  Megan Fox:

  I apologize, but I’ve never seen a movie you have been in. However, when I used to teach high school English (used to—that’s strange to say), you were always number one on my male students’ “favorite actress” list. We did this scavenger hunt at the beginning of the year. They had to find other people in the classroom with the same interests/likes as them. All the boys always bonded over you. I assume you are a fine actress with an above average acting ability. However, I think that their obsession with you comes more from the fact that you are smoking hot. You could probably play “Janelle” in the movie version of Schooled. That is if Holly Marie Combs is unavailable. I’ve got a girl crush on all the Charmed chicks, so much so that they get first dibs on any characters that I write.

  Dear Hershey Company:

  Thank you for your delectable syrup. I’m sure my friend, Tiffany Kaszmetskie, feels quite similarly. She’s got a mad obsession with chocolate that borders on compulsive. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy your chocolatey goodness as well. You make like just a little bit better. Thank you.

  Dear Frank C. Mars (owner of the Mars company and M&Ms):

  Dude, you own M&Ms; that’s epic really. Through all this Googling to find out who owns what, I have to say, I’m pretty keen on you. M&Ms are the bomb. (Lest not forget though that Goobers are my all-time favorite candy.) When we go to Vegas, we always get our kids souvenirs at either The Rainforest Café or the M&M store. I love the M&M pajamas. My kids get new ones every year—mainly because we go to Vegas every year.

  A couple of Valentine’s Days ago, my husband bought me M&Ms with our pictures on it. How cute is that? I pretty much melted in his hands—and mouth—if you get what I’m saying.

  Dear Joseph Enterprises (owner of Chia Pets):

  Okay, everyone knows what a Chia Pet is, but does anyone will OWN a Chia Pet? I mean, you’ve been around for ages now, so I’m sure something profitable is keeping you afloat. I have just never met anyone who actually grew a real Chia Pet (and not the kind between their legs).

  According to my Google search, you can EAT a Chia Pet (not in the dirty way). You can eat the seeds. They have plenty of nutritional value. They are high in fiber and potassium. I don’t know about any of you, but I don’t want a porcupine grown in my stomach. Imagine the excretion of that Chi Chi Chia!

  Dear Ryan Seacrest:

  I really don’t have much to say to you. You’re pretty good-looking in a pretty-boy way. I enjoy looking at you. Thank you for telling me when it’s midnight on New Year’s Eve. I appreciate that. Usually, I’m hosting a party and passing out champagne and crap, so I need to be told the exact minute and second. Happy New Year to you. May you live a long, ageless life, like Dick Clark himself, the rocking eve, ball-dropping wonder.

  Dear Allstar Products (owner of the Snuggie):

  It’s a bla
nket with sleeves. Why couldn’t I have thought of that? Five hundred million dollars…??? Amazing. It’s the most absurd and asinine thing I’ve ever heard of, next to the Chia Pet, of course.

  I did “invent” something the other day. (Or thought of it.) I think that plungers should have disposable splashguards on them that the user just tosses in the trash after using it. Why did I come up with this fabulous idea? Let’s just say, unfortunately, I saw first hand (and face) the need for such a thing.

  I also “invented” another idea. I think women’s winter gloves should have ring holes cut out of them, so our giant diamonds don’t get caught on the material of our gloves. However, I looked it up. They already exist. Therefore, I cannot “invent” them. They even make women’s golf gloves with ring holes cut out—in case anyone needs any.

  Dear John Hughes (writer of the greatest movies of all time):

  Man, we miss you. Society needs the laughter that you brought to the cinema. Thank you for the chuckles and memories.

  Dear Meatloaf (the musical legend):

  I like your songs—a lot. You’re fun and timeless to me. I really like “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” My husband and I lip-synced that song at our wedding reception with motions/actions to boot. We were awesome. It’s our other Karaoke song that we do.

  I also really like “I’d do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That).” It took me a while to figure out what “that” was. I still might not be too sure. I think it’s cheating. Am I right? I hate that most places only play the shortened version. I’m a huge fan of the long version. Good tunes. My husband likes “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad.” I think that song is sad; I feel badly for the recipient of the words.