Thursday, July 8, 2010

Ann M. Martin: Killer of Dreams

Hello, interwebs! Long time no blog and all that. . . (The last 5 or so times I tried to start a blog post like that I just abandoned it halfway through. . . I haven't said anything of reasonable note in two weeks, coming back from this little hiatus is going to be awkward regardless of if anyone reading this cares. My skills in expressing coherent/complete/relevant ideas have vanished. I try to be witty/interesting/thoughtful on the Internet if for no other reason than that I frequently lack those abilities in reality, so whenever I write a blog like this that's completely awful and then made worse by the fact that I'm lengthening it only by pointing out its flaws, I see it as a personal failure. . .and dear god that was a run-on. Okay, actual topic commence! Rid this horrible, almost-entirely-in-parentheses paragraph of its awkwardness and self pity! This would be better if you read it in your head with the voice of someone who works at a Renaissance fair with an affected English accent! Huzzah!)

I LOVED The Baby Sitters Club books as a kid--"kid" in this instance meaning "absurdly younger than the target demographic"; they were pure wish-fulfilment for a 9 year old. Here's the lesson I saw in them: "By the time you're 13--i.e in THE DISTANT FUTURE--, small naive child, you will be independent, responsible, and organized. Enough that adults will trust with the lives of their small, naive children! And you will have a super awesome, very large group of friends! And loads of free time in which to supervise children! By choice! There will also be guys! Whom you will use even MORE of your endless free time to date! And it's gonna be TOTALLY AWESOME!

. . .

None of this happened.

At least, not to the extent or in the time period I was expecting. Independent? Responsible? Organized? PAH! The care of other children? I didn't care about them, nor was I particularly capable. Friends? Some. Free time (choosing for it to be spent babysitting, no less)? Hellz naw. Seventh grade is the freaking hardest thing ever when you're still in it. Dating? What are you even talking about? The only girls who dated in middle school were kind of slutty. Or maybe I was just bitter.

In conclusion, I realize most of the books I read were written circa 1989, different times and such, but come ON, Ann M. Martin. You cannot make adolescence sound this cool.

Why in the world is this entertaining?

Anyway, enjoy!

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